I was purchasing three cases of wine at my local liquor store, where they offer a ten percent case discount. On that day, the store’s scanning/pricing system had crashed, so the young clerk had to check me out by using a calculator to add up the cost of each bottle, applying the discount, and then manually typing the total charge into the register that had reverted to a “stone knives and bearskins” backup mode.

She finished totaling up my wine and said, half to me and half to herself:

Clerk: “Three cases at ten percent. That’s thirty percent off.”

I paused for a moment.

Me: “Hang on. I’m going back to grab seven more!”

I thought she’d catch her error and we’d share a laugh.

Instead, she replied, “Okay,” and started moving my cases to the side.

Eventually, we agreed on the proper price, but not until after my first couple of attempts to explain the math. I did earn a belated chuckle from her at the end.

I overhear a lady in the home improvement section of [Big Box Store] talking to two of the workers there.

Customer: “Could I just buy black paint and paint my light bulbs instead of buying a black light?”

This story would be bad enough with just that, but what made it worse is what the two workers said.

Worker #1: “You know, I don’t know.”

Worker #2: “Me, neither. Maybe give it a go and let us know what happens?”

I had to walk away, scared for humanity.

A great restauranteur opened a chain of cafés/relaxed dining restaurants. They were great. They served Italian cuisine — very simple, quality ingredients, shown at their best with simple presentation. It was a favourite of ours.

At some point, the chain was taken over by a ginormous global food conglomerate. This story takes place sometime after that, but we had many good meals there after the takeover.

This time, I order beef carpaccio as a starter: a simple dish of thinly-sliced raw beef with parmesan, olive oil, and some salad leaves. The dish arrives, and the beef is brown. It’s raw beef, and it’s brown. It is clear to me that it has been exposed to the air for hours and oxidised.

Me: “This shouldn’t be brown. Something is wrong.”

Waitress: *Picking up my plate* “I will ask the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, a manager comes to our table

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Me: “The beef carpaccio had oxidised; it was brown.”

A few minutes later, he comes out, triumphant!

Manager: “Yes, you are right. It shouldn’t be brown!” 

I was a little stunned. He definitely seemed to think I should be pleased that he had validated my complaint. Was I the only person on the premises who knew that beef carpaccio was raw and that raw beef was red?

It was obvious to me that the dish had been prepared hours before and (presumably) inadequately covered in cling film. The waitress didn’t know the dish, which she should have; the menu wasn’t that long. But more worryingly, either there was no one in charge of the kitchen, or that person wasn’t watching the dishes leave, or they didn’t know what beef carpaccio looked like, or they didn’t care. None of the options filled us with confidence. We paid for our drinks and found somewhere else to eat.

The restaurant has been purchased by yet another corporation and is still trading ten years later. I haven’t bothered going back.

I’m working in an office, and a man walks in. [Man #1] says he’s expected at a meeting and gives me the name of the contact. I call [Man #2], but he doesn’t pick up.

Me: “I’ll send him a message and will try again in a few moments. Please, be seated.”

I try again in a few minutes, but there’s no response.

Man #1: “Could you try [Woman] or [Man #3]? They should be at the meeting, as well.”

I get no response.

Me: “I see where the meeting is; I’ll go there real quick and see if they are there. One moment, please.”

The meeting room is right around the corner, so I go there and knock. I see some people and a screen with other people dialed in.

Me: “Excuse me, but I have a gentleman from [Company] who says he’s supposed to be here, as well? [Man #1]?”

Woman: “Wait, he’s live?!”

Man #2: “I thought he’d dial in!”

Man #3: “Oh, my gosh, why didn’t you call— Wait, my phone is on silent. Huh, you did call me. I’m coming right up!”

Afterward, I heard that [Man #1] was the CEO of a large company. Whoops!

CONTENT WARNING: Illegal Sexual Misconduct

The owner of the coffee cart outside our office building used to always have someone helping him out. It was always beautiful young women — a new one every month or so. We never figured out why he needed an extra pair of hands at such a small cart, or why they wouldn’t last, but he was always very pleasant, and the coffee was great so it never really bothered us.

A couple of years later, I got relocated to the main office. After trying out the coffee at the cafe at the new location, I was pleasantly surprised that it was exactly the same blend and made exactly the same way as at the coffee cart I was used to. I commented to the owner about it.

Owner: “Sure. That’s because I own that cart, too.”

Me: “Wait, what? I thought the barista there was the owner?”

Owner: “No, he just works for us there. He’s really good — very reliable. He just runs it on his own; he never asks for any help.”

Me: “Oh. What about the girls?”

Owner: “What girls?”

I explained about the young women working with the barista. The owner got very quiet for a moment.

Owner: “Thanks for telling me.”

And that’s how I inadvertently helped bust a human trafficking ring. It turned out the barista used his position as a manager to organise work visas for women who were then “sold” into a different kind of work.

The barista got twelve years in prison. The cafe owner sold up and retired. The cafe is under new management but the coffee is still really good.