I don’t like tomatoes. Tomato-based products (sauces, soups, etc.) are fine, but I just do not like actual tomatoes for some reason. Because I know that I don’t like them, I’m really good about asking for them to be held or removed.

One day, I go to a fast food place near my work that I haven’t been to before; I’ve been to other ones in this chain but never to this specific location. I am in a hurry, so I rush through the order and the pick-up at the drive-thru. When I get back to work and sit down at my desk to eat, I realize there are tomatoes on my burger. I’m not sure if I remembered to ask for no tomatoes, so I shrug it off as my mistake and just toss them.

The next time I go to that location, I clearly ask for no tomatoes, and when I get back to work, there are tomatoes on my burger again. I call the restaurant and ask to speak to a manager.

Me: “Hi. I was just at the drive-thru about thirty minutes ago, and I asked for no tomatoes, but there are three rather large tomatoes on this burger.”

Manager: “Did you tell them you were allergic?”

Me: “Well, no, because I’m not. I just don’t—”

Manager: “If you’re not allergic, then it’s fine.”

Me: “It’s not a matter of allergies. I just don’t like them, so I figure it’s nicer to ask for them to be removed rather than tossing them.”

Manager: “If you’re allergic, then you need to tell us, and you shouldn’t get ketchup.”

Me: “I’m not allergic! The issue is not that I’m allergic. The issue is that I don’t like them, so I don’t see the point in having you guys waste them when all I’m going to do is throw them out.”

Manager: “You’re not allergic; you’re fine.”

I was barely out of high school, and I was a lot more conflict-averse than I am now, so rather than staying in the never-ending loop of “You didn’t say you were allergic, so it’s not our fault” or asking for someone else, I just ended the call. I didn’t go back to that location again, though, and any time anyone at work suggested it, I loudly said no.

Now, being older and wiser and a lot more willing to stand up for myself, I probably would have gone back in and spoken to someone or possibly gone over their heads to corporate. But I still don’t understand why “I asked for no tomatoes, and you gave me tomatoes” put that manager in a “You’re not allergic, so it doesn’t matter” loop.

A customer has ordered a typical burger-and-fries meal at our fast food place. She’s talking down to the staff, and she has a general air of contempt about the whole place like she’s degrading herself by actually being here.

I hand over the food, and the customer actually snaps her fingers at me.

Customer: “What about the ketchup?”

Me: “The ketchup is in the sachets in the pile next to you.” 

Customer: “You mean you expect me to pick them up myself?”

Me: “Well, they’re self-serve, ma’am.”

Customer: “And you think that’s acceptable, do you?”

Me: “More acceptable than snapping fingers in someone’s face, yes, ma’am.”

Customer: “You don’t get to speak to me that way!”

Me: “And you no longer get to speak to me at all. Bye!”

And off I went! I’m too busy to deal with that level of snobbery, and while I hear she complained to my manager, he also laughed her out of the store.

Early this afternoon, I was at a fast food place getting lunch with my roommate. I don’t, never have, and never will work at this place.

A woman pushed past us as we were trying to order our meal.

Manager: “Ma’am, I am going to ask you, nicely, to please use the register next to this one, so this couple can order their meal.”

The rude woman looked at us and gave a “harumph” before turning to my roommate and me and going off on a tangent.

Woman: “Shouldn’t you two be behind the counter? You two are wasting your coworkers’ time by ordering food.”

Neither I nor my roommate were wearing anything that could be confused with this place’s uniforms. I was wearing an AC/DC T-shirt and a brand new pair of camouflage pajama bottoms, and my roommate was wearing a “Home of the Brave” T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

Roommate: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Do we look like we are wearing [Fast Food Place] uniforms?”

Woman: “I don’t care. Get back there and help your coworkers. You can eat after your shift.”

Manager: “Ma’am, quit harassing my customers, or I will ask you to leave.”

An employee spoke up.

Employee: *To the woman* “Come here and I will take your order.”

Woman: “No. This isn’t about who takes my order. This is about how the manager here is willing to serve his employees before ACTual CUSTomers! This is called FAVoritism. It is BAD BUSiness.”

Manager: “I can assure you that, neither of these two works here. And, even if they did, I would serve them over you any day. I want you gone in the next five seconds, or the cops will be called.”

The woman left without her food, and my roommate and I got our meal for sixty percent off. That was the best meal I had ever eaten.

I am currently the only customer in this particular restaurant. My mom decides to run across the street to pick up a few things we need for the house after she finishes her meal, but I’m working on my novel, so she lets me stay.

Despite the fact that it is, in fact, 2023, I am writing said novel on a manual typewriter. I’m a little self-conscious about this, actually; there are places I normally go to write that I know won’t complain about the sound, but this isn’t one of them, so I’m having trouble sinking into my writing all the way because I’m keeping an eye out for someone coming over to ask me to knock it off. (It’s happened.)

I can hear the staff talking behind the counter. Specifically, I can hear the guy manning the grill. He’s getting louder and louder as he rants about something — I don’t exactly know what it is, but there’s a lot of “f***”s in it, and the only sentence I can clearly make out is “I’ll just f****** put it on top of the f****** thing.” The three ladies working with him are occasionally audible, as well, evidently egging him on. I’m not bothered by the language at all; in fact, since his manager is standing right there with his arms folded listening to the entire rant, I’m glad he’s got a manager as cool as mine (who also doesn’t care if we curse as long as someone in upper management isn’t within earshot).

The rant ends, and there’s about a ten-second pause before the guy suddenly blurts out at full volume:

Grill Worker: “ARE YOU F****** KIDDING ME?! S***! I DIDN’T KNOW ANYONE WAS OUT THERE!”

The ladies behind the counter crack up, and I do, too. I can’t stop myself from calling back.

Me: “It’s okay. I used to work food service. I don’t think you get to say, ‘F***,’ enough!”

I don’t think they heard what I said, but it definitely made me stop worrying about whether the typewriter was bothering anyone.

Customer: “I’d like a rack of ribs and some mashed potatoes. Oh, and some green beans.”

Me: “We don’t have that, sir.”

Customer: “Why not?!”

Me: “Because this is a McDonald’s, sir. We don’t serve that food.”

The customer looks around as if realizing where he is for the first time. He looks like he’s in his mid- to late twenties, and he doesn’t seem drunk or incapacitated.

Customer: “Since when?!”

Me: “Since 1955, sir.”

Customer: “Well… you did before!” 

He stormed out. He looked good for someone who remembers eating ribs and potatoes before 1955!