We have this lady who comes in and orders a “create your own” salad.

Customer: “I want a quarter romaine, half spinach, and a quarter iceberg for the greens.”

Literally every time, she sends it back.

Customer: “These portions are not correct!”

She and her husband come in frequently, so we know her as “crazy salad lady”. It eventually gets to the point that my managers hand-make her salads and do the greens by weight to make sure it’s 100% correct portions.

My manager is bringing out her salad.

Customer: “Again? These portions are not correct!

Manager: “Nope. I measured these by weight; it cannot be any more correct than that.”

Customer: “…fine.” 

She immediately shut the f*** up. After that, we never had her send a salad back, and she stopped being the absolute g**d*** worst.

I work at a Mexican-themed fast-food chain. A customer comes in and walks up to me.

Customer: “Hey, let me get a crunchwrap, and can the other thing be soft?”

Me: “…I’m sorry? What do you mean by the other thing? Did you want a combo?”

Customer: “No, I didn’t! But you know, the other thing?”

Me: “I still don’t know what you mean. Can you be more specific?”

Customer: “The other thing! That!”

This back-and-forth keeps repeating itself several times until he gets frustrated and makes a motion with his hands. And at that point, my patience is wearing thin, too.

Me: “…Wait, did you mean the taco? Because you told me you wanted the crunchwrap by itself and not the combo.“

Customer: “Yes! How do you not know what a taco is?!”

Me: “Oh, so that only comes with the combo.”

Customer: “Ugh, fine. Give me the combo, then.”

Me: *Internally* “You’re the one who kept calling it ‘the other thing…'” 

The rest of the order went without incident, at least.

This story reminded me of a similar experience. In Australia, fish and chips shops are very similar to the British variety: typically small, independent fast food shops that serve deep-fried battered fish and potato chips (fat fries), amongst other things, cooked to order. Though they are independent, they typically have similar menus with similar prices, so you know what to order even if you have never been to that shop before.

I’m visiting my newish boyfriend, who moved from interstate a short while before we started dating. He and his friends haven’t had dinner, so he and a mate are heading out to get fish and chips for everyone. I’ve eaten, but I love me a deep-fried scallop (shellfish), so I ask for two of them.

They return with a single butcher paper parcel containing all the food the group ordered. It’s tightly wrapped to keep everything warm, and they open it in the middle of the table. I am scanning the spread to find my delicious morsels. Everything is deep-fried, and most of it is battered, so I have to go by size and shape. There are several fillets of fish, a lot of chips, a handful of dim sims (do not ask!) and some “potato cakes”, which are thin slices of potato, battered and deep-fried. I am not a fan. Nothing looks like a scallop.

Me: “Where are my scallops?”

[Boyfriend] points to the potato cakes.

Me: “Um, I wanted scallops, not potato cakes.”

Boyfriend: “Oh! In Queensland, we call them ‘potato scallops’ or just ‘scallops’. Sorry.”

So, I think, “Isn’t language interesting? Every day, I learn something new.” Well, it’s time to put that learning to use.

Me: “Ah! So, in Queensland, what do you ask for if you want the shellfish?”

Boyfriend:  “Scallops.”

I learnt to be very specific with food orders with him. I also refused to call peanut butter “peanut paste”. We must have standards.

Related:
Chipping Away At The Confusion

One Saturday morning, I’m out in the city shopping for a few things from different places. I’m not looking for anything major, just a cable from here, a couple of birthday cards from there — that sort of thing. There’s a fair bit of wandering back and forth involved. Parking’s a nightmare, so rather than drive from store to store, I’ve left the car in a parking lot not too far away.

I’m not in any rush, so I take the time to wander around a couple of vaguely interesting stores I’ve not been in before and a bookshop while I’m there.

Saturday morning becomes lunchtime, and since I didn’t have breakfast, I’m getting quite hungry. I’m passing a fast food chain, so figure I’ll stop in for something quick. I’m not a fan of fast food generally and have never frequented such places, so I’m not familiar with what might be on offer, other than the obvious.

I walk in, and there are only a couple of people queueing in front of me. They’re dealt with pretty quickly while I’m still staring up at the menu board thing across the top of the counter. There are lots of bright primary colours to appeal to seven-year-olds but no clear list of options.

By this time, several more people have entered and are queueing up behind me.

Assistant: “What can I get you?”

Me: “Er…”

I still have no idea, but I’m aware of the presence behind me.

Me: “I dunno… Just a hamburger, please.”

Assistant: *With an exasperated sigh* “We don’t do hamburgers; we only do beefburgers.”

Me: “…”

Many years ago, as a teenager, I worked at a chain Mexican place. Like most fast food places, there are several trash cans conveniently placed with counters attached, so people can clean up their own messes.

There are always those special folks, though, who leave their trash on the table for the employees to clean up. Usually, it’s just trash, but there is this group of four young guys who always aim to outdo themselves. They don’t just eat and leave the trash, like normal jerks. They pour queso on the seats and smear it across the table, crunch chips onto the floor and into the spaces behind the seats, smear beans into the salt shakers, and empty sugar packets all over the place. Their plates and wrappers are stacked in heaps.

After I have just spent a while cleaning up this mess, the manager takes a customer call.

Caller: “Yeah, I left my Oakley sunglasses on the table.”

Manager: “I’ll check. What table was it?”

Caller: “It was the table at the back, left of the checkouts.”

Manager: “Oh, that table was trashed. We had to close that off until we had time to clean it.”

Silence. The caller doesn’t want to admit they’re one of the turds who trashed the table. My manager calls out to me all the same, making sure the caller can hear.

Manager: “Hey, [My Name], did you find a pair of sunglasses on [table]?”

I turn and face the phone and speak loudly so that the caller can hear me.

Me: “Oh, the one that we had to deep-clean? Yeah, we just threw everything in the trash. I sure hope I didn’t accidentally throw them away with all that trash!”

My manager relayed this information to the caller. An hour later, this person was back, and I definitely recognized them as one of the jerks who had trashed the table. The same information was relayed to him, and he stormed out, burned by the Karma.

On a side note, the pleasant homeless guy who came in the early morning every day for a free breakfast suddenly had a very stylish pair of sunglasses this summer… I wonder how that happened?