I went to a restaurant. As I was at the counter ordering, a girl looking to be in her teens appeared from the back and snapped at the cashier.

Girl: “Get off my station, you d****ebag! If you put me in a minus again, I swear, I’m gonna ram that till down your throat!”

The cashier flipped her off and stepped off to the side.

Me: “Excuse me, both of you are acting unprofessionally, and you, madam, owe him an apology for that unnecessary outburst!”

Girl: “An apology for what? He is a d****ebag! Counting money is a skill he can’t seem to master at the age of seventeen despite being taught in, what, second grade?”

The two of them exchanged insults briefly before the girl turned back to me.

Girl: “Your order, please!”

Although I was tempted to turn around and leave, I went ahead and gave her my order. As they put my order together, I couldn’t help but notice the two of them constantly exchanging insults and obscene gestures the entire time.

Upon taking my food to a table and opening it, I discovered an error with the food that had to have been done in the prep kitchen, despite the receipt reflecting exactly what I’d asked for.

I returned to the counter, asked for a manager, and calmly pointed out the mistake to her.

Me: “It’s really not a big deal. I just like two extra slices of cheese on my burger. I’m like a mouse; I love cheese!”

Manager: “No, you don’t have to justify making a legitimate complaint. You asked for it; it’s right here on the ticket, plain as day!” *Screams* “[COOK]!”

The manager then proceeded to ram the swinging doors to the kitchen open and rain an apocalyptic level of Hell on the poor cook in the kitchen. And all I could hear him saying was:

Cook: “Yes, [Manager]… Yeeessss, [Manager]! Are you done yet?”

Again, I was tempted to ask for my money back and leave, but I didn’t want the cook to get yelled at worse for that. I received the meal corrected and ate it in the dining room with no further incident.

I was so appalled by what I’d seen that I looked up the owner of the restaurant and wrote him a letter. I gave an account of the blatant disrespect the two cashiers were showing each other in the workplace and expressed my shock and disgust with how rudely the manager treated the prep cook for a simple mistake. I suggested that some serious training be given on respect in the workplace and that the behavior and language of the cashiers be monitored more closely. I received the following letter in response.

Letter: “Dear [My Name]: Thank you for your concern, and I apologize that your experience was an unpleasant one. However, considering that the ‘poor cook,’ as you put it, just so happened to be me, and I just so happen to be married to the screaming ‘manager’ who berated me over some cheese, and considering that the cashiers you mentioned are my son and my daughter, the most I’m at liberty to do is comp your next meal and ask you to pray along with me that this place burns to the ground someday. Bring in this letter as proof in case I’m not there. Sincerely, [Owner], (An Exhausted And Fed Up) Restaurant Owner.”

Thanks for the kind gesture, but I hope you’ll understand when I ask for that comped meal to go!

When I was in my teens, I used to spend the summer working at my uncle’s pub, partly to help him out, but mostly because it had been my dream to run my own restaurant since I was five. I loved working there because my uncle would show me how to do almost every job in the pub. I worked as a waiter and in the kitchen, and he showed me how to order and take stock, prepare menus, and so on. Best of all, he paid me, so it was a great way to earn money and learn “the biz”.

I’d been working there since I was fourteen, and my uncle taught me a great many things over the years, but one thing he was quite adamant about was how he dealt with customers. He would always tell me it wasn’t worth trying to please customers who had no interest in being pleased.

As with any establishment, we had our fair share of problem customers, and my uncle had zero tolerance for them. If you had a genuine complaint or issue, he bent over backward to make things right. If you were looking to score free stuff or were just complaining for the sake of it, you got asked to leave.

I was sixteen. One swelteringly hot day, a bedraggled-looking family trudged to the bar and asked if they could have some tap water. They looked like they had crossed the Sahara to get here or something.

I gave them each a glass of tap water and they guzzled it down.

Mother: “What is the cheapest food item on your menu?”

I pointed to the snack section on our menu. Because the family looked fit to drop, I found them a seat outside in the shade. When I took their order, the kids kept begging for more than the basket of chips the mother was ordering, telling her how hungry they were, but the mother ordered the chips and nothing else.

I rushed back in to get her order to the kitchen. They were falling a little behind, so I quickly helped out before heading back to my post. On my way back, I saw the mother come out of the ladies’ room. It was obvious she had been crying. I realised it was none of my business, but this woman looked so unhappy, so I stopped to talk to her.

Me: “Are you okay?”

The mother burst into tears, so I took her to a quiet corner. It was hard to understand some of it through her tears, and she was cagey or vague about some details, but from what I gathered, they were having money issues because her husband was getting royally screwed by his employers. They were fighting it, but in the meantime, they were strapped for cash.

The kids still needed to be entertained over the summer holidays, so they decided to have a cheap day out and go on a nature walk along the river. They had a picnic by the river and generally had a great day, but when they tried to walk home, they got lost. This is a rural area with a lot of walks and trails, some of them marked, some of them not.

Mother: “We tried to follow the river to get home, but we’ve been walking all day and still haven’t gotten anywhere familiar.”

This was in the days before mobile phones were commonplace, let alone smartphones.

Me: “Where did you come from?”

Mother: “We live in [Village].”

That village was over ten miles away! My guess is that they followed the river the wrong way — easily done.

Mother: “My kids are exhausted and hungry, but we only have enough for the chips we ordered. We have no money for a taxi, and there’s no one we can call to come and pick us up. My kids are starving and tired and I have no idea how we’re going to get home! Do you have a map so we can figure out our way back?”

Me: “Just leave it with me.”

I immediately went to my uncle, explained the situation, and asked if there was anything we could do. Surely, we could get them more than a basket of chips. They had three children, all under ten, with the youngest being a toddler.

Uncle: “It’s too hot for a family to go without a good meal and a cold drink. Give them whatever they want.”

The mother was hesitant, clearly embarrassed about receiving charity, but eventually, the family ordered a meal each. My uncle made sure to give them extra-large portions. Every bite was eaten.

Once they’d finished, my uncle had a chat with the parents about how they would get home, and after much back and forth, he offered to give them a lift. 

When my uncle came back, he told me:

Uncle: “This is why we don’t try to please people who can’t be pleased. Because if we spent all our time and money trying to appease them, we wouldn’t be able to help customers like that.”

I didn’t see the family again for the rest of the summer, but I hoped they were okay.

A few weeks later, we received a cheque from the family to pay for the meal we had given them, and they attached a thank-you note. My uncle tore up the cheque and wrote back to explain that he wouldn’t cash it. He told them to keep the money and get the kids ice cream, instead.

The following summer, I went to work for my uncle as usual and was delighted to see the family come back. I was relieved to know they were okay.

Mother: “We’ve wanted to come back for a long time, but we haven’t had the money until now.”

They ended up becoming regulars.

As I said, I have so many stories from those summers helping my uncle — some good, some bad, and some just plain funny — but this story and what my uncle told me really struck a chord. I see so many stories on this site where businesses and managers give in to problem customers, so I wanted to share this story.

Over twenty-five years later, my uncle and his pub are still going strong. There have been rough patches here and there like the recession and the current major health crisis, but the pub has pulled through. My uncle even helped me set up my own restaurant, where I take his motto of customer care to heart.

This story is part of our end-of-year Feel Good roundup for 2022!

Read the next Feel Good 2022 story!

Read the Feel Good 2022 roundup!

I am shopping with my baby. She’s a pretty happy baby and is babbling throughout our shopping and gaining attention from other shoppers. One lady stops to talk to us.

Lady: “Oh, my, he’s adorable. What’s his name?”

Me: “Oh, actually, her name is [Daughter].”

Lady: “You gave a boy a girl’s name?”

Me: “She’s a girl.”

The lady immediately recoils from us and glares at me. 

Lady: “You should dress her like a girl, then! Pierce her ears or something so people know she’s a girl!”

She walked off, leaving me very confused. My daughter was wearing a white onesie with tiny blue and pink anchors and navy blue pants, but she also had on a big pink flower headband. Guess she thinks girls can’t wear blue?

When I am fourteen and my sister is ten, our family has a very busy day scheduled. We start at my sister’s soccer tournament, then we go to my orchestra competition, and we leave from there to go to our family reunion, hosted at my grandfather’s house. My grandfather is a former Chief Of Police.

As we are en route to the reunion, everyone is starting to get cranky, including our parents. Mom and Dad start arguing over who was supposed to bring the food for the potluck, as it has been forgotten. Dad, irritated, begins to speed by quite a bit.

When we get pulled over, he is going seventy-five mph in an active construction zone that is also a school zone. That school must be hosting a sporting event, as the light is on. The inside of the car feels like it’s humming with tension as we await the officer with the window down.

Officer: “Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

Dad: “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking.”

At this point, Mom starts to bend over from the passenger’s seat to better see the officer.

Officer: “Well, I clocked you going a bit north of seventy, and that’s—”

Mom: “Wait, is that [First Name]? [First Name] [Surname]?”

Officer: “Um, yes, ma’am, that’s me.”

Mom: “It’s [Mom] [Maiden Name]! [Dad], girls, this is who I used to babysit! The kid who’d always tattle to my daddy if I tried to sneak out! Boy, Daddy always said you’d make a great cop. Guess you went and did it, huh? How’re [Family Members]?”

The officer goes to the other side of the car to talk to my mom. She was his babysitter every day after school and all day during breaks for six years when she was in high school and college, and his brother and my aunt dated seriously for quite some time. As they seem to be running out of small-town gossip to catch up on, my mom continues.

Mom: “Oh, and I can tell my momma and daddy you said hi if you want. Heck, I could stop off at your parents’ place across the street, since they’re still there! See if your mom won’t still make a batch of snickerdoodles, since my doofus husband here left the potato salad at home.”

Officer: “Oh, is this the big [Family Surname] reunion? Too bad I’m on the evening shift and can’t stop by. I better let y’all get going, though. Wouldn’t want to make old Chief [Grandfather] upset!”

He gets back in his patrol car and leaves. He never even took my dad’s license and registration from him.

After we have driven — at the speed limit — in very subdued but tense silence for about five minutes, Mom finally speaks in a low, somewhat strangled voice.

Mom: “If he’d ticketed you to the full extent, in [City]? You’d have your license suspended. And probably about five grand owed. Don’t do that again.”

It has been twenty years, and I have not seen my dad speed once since that evening.

In my family, we have an abundance of men with the same common name; let’s say “John.” My father’s name was John. I had an Uncle John, who had a son, John Henry, who wanted to be called Hank until his father died, and then he wanted to be called John. My sister’s first husband’s name was John. She’s a health aide with a long-term client (eight years now) whose name is John. My first husband’s name was John. My current husband’s name is John.

To put it bluntly, I’m well-conditioned to some pretty automatic reactions to that name. This has happened to me at least twice. I’m on the phone with someone at work whose name happens to be John. We discuss whatever the call is about. When we finish up…

John: “Thanks for the information, [My Name]! Goodbye.”

Me: “Bye, John. I love you… Wait a minute!”