I’m checking out at the grocery store. I put my items on the belt. Ahead of me, checking out, is a woman in her twenties wearing all Gothic clothing, with piercings everywhere and chains hanging from her belt loops.

I hear the exchange between her and the checker.

Customer: “If I put this back, do I have enough now?”

Checker: *With a disgusted tone* “NO.”

Customer: “If I put this back, also, do I have enough for the rest?”

Checker: *More disgusted* “NO!”

I intervene.

Me: “How much does she need to pay for everything?”

Checker: *To me, somewhat snottily* “You don’t need to help her.”

Me: “That’s not your call. Just tell me how much she needs to pay and I will make up what she lacks.”

Checker: *Very put out* “You shouldn’t be doing that for the likes of her.”

Me: “Since it is my money, what is that to you? Now, run the rest back through and tell me how much she is short.”

I paid for the rest — less than $20. The young woman thanked me in a very sincere way. She was buying fruit, apples, oranges, bananas, and grapes!

I was looking for a snack at a popular theme park. I am very allergic to cocoa butter, which means all chocolate products (both dark and white). One of the snack shops had a peanut butter cupcake that looked wonderful, and as it’s often difficult to find peanut butter treats without chocolate, I was interested.

Me: “Does that cupcake contain chocolate?”

Server: “No.”

Me: “Thank you. I was just checking, as I have an allergy.”

“Allergy” is often a keyword; as soon as they hear “the A word,” they immediately go for the ingredients manual.

Server: “Nope, no chocolate, ma’am.”

Me: “And there’s no white chocolate in the frosting? I know they sometimes do that for texture.”

Server: *In an annoyed tone* “NO, ma’am. As I said, there’s no chocolate.”

Me: “Okay, sorry for bothering you. I just need to make sure.”

Server: *Sighs* “If you would feel better, I’ll get the manual so you can see for yourself. Just yellow cake, eggs, flour, oil, peanut butter, and jelly.”

Me: “Oh, okay, great! I’ll take one, please. Again, sorry to bother you.”

Server: “Oh, and there’s also an Oreo cookie in the center.”

My car has developed engine trouble. I am able to limp into a parking lot. Fortunately, the lot is empty. Since I’m still under warranty, I call the car company’s hotline.

Representative: “[Company].”

Me: “Hi, my car is in limp mode. I have managed to pull into the parking lot of the [Town] Jewish Community Center.”

The representative takes down all my information.

Representative: “Okay, sir, now how will we find the car in the parking lot?”

Me: “I am in the Jewish Community Center parking lot. It’s Saturday. It’s the only car there.”

Representative: *Stifles a chuckle* “Got it!”

I’m Norwegian, and I went on a class trip to Denmark while in university. We stayed at a fairly fancy hotel with a very nice restaurant — the kind of restaurant where a meal is several courses. Luckily for the wallets of my class, both food and lodging were covered by the school. Our class was small — about ten people — and I was the only one with any food allergies.

The restaurant was by reservation only and had two options per course every night: the standard dish and the special diet dish, which was made for everyone who had special dietary needs that night. That meant that if someone dining that night was vegan, I’d get a vegan meal; if someone was allergic to eggs, my food would be egg-free; and so on. It was certainly an interesting experience, and I got to try a lot of things I wouldn’t have chosen on my own.

But over the week, my meals became somewhat of a source of amusement for my class, as they were considered strange compared to the standard meal. The servers would always present our courses, and I would be asked to repeat mine to my curious and often chuckling classmates. Being the one eating those meals, the jokes got old after the first couple of days.

And then came the dessert of our final dinner of the trip. I don’t remember the other courses, but I was very surprised to get the same cheese platter as everyone else. I waited until the waiter had presented the array of cheeses before I spoke up.

Me: “Unfortunately, I’m allergic to milk, so I can’t eat this.”

I could tell by the waiter’s reaction that they’d most likely forgotten about my allergy. He asked me to not start eating quite yet and then disappears into the kitchen. He returned a minute later and picked up my (untouched) cheese platter.

Waiter: “I am so sorry, we had completely forgotten about your allergy. The kitchen is whipping up something for you, but it will be a few minutes.”

Me: “That’s no problem at all. I’m happy to wait.”

A few minutes later, the waiter brought out a new plate. After putting it down, he explained that this was homemade sorbet with a spun sugar decoration, fresh fruit, and milk-free dark chocolate sauce. Judging by the expressions of some of my classmates, their cheese platters were suddenly a bit less appetising. But don’t worry, I had multiple chances to inform anyone who asked that my milk-free dessert was absolutely delicious!

When I was fifteen, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and we found that eating certain foods exacerbated the symptoms, the worst ones being gluten and dairy.

I was at a cafe with my dad and my uncle, who I don’t get to see very often. The menu labeled the gluten-free foods, which was good, but didn’t indicate dairy-free, which meant I had to ask the waitress when she came to take our order.

Me: “Is the orange and almond cake dairy-free?”

Waitress: “I’ll have to go check.”

We waited for a few moments and she came back.

Waitress: “I asked the cook, and they said the orange and almond cake is dairy-free.”

Me: “Awesome, I’ll get a slice of that.”

Waitress: “Would you like ice cream with that?”