I’m one of two concierges at a high-end hotel in Los Angeles, so most of the people I serve tend to be fairly cosmopolitan. A couple in their late fifties from Montana is definitely not. They have been at the hotel for a couple of days already, and my coworker has supplied them with a list of highly-rated restaurants in and around Beverly Hills, and at their request, managed to get them a last-minute table at a VERY celebrated Japanese restaurant last night.

It is afternoon and I see them heading over to the concierge desk, looking extremely upset. The wife is already yelling as she approaches.

Wife: “You’d better get our money back! That d*** restaurant made us pay three hundred dollars for that s*** they dare to call food!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m here to assist you in whatever way I can, but I do request you that lower your voice a little considering we’re in the lobby.”

The wife starts to sputter angrily, but the husband steps in.

Husband: “That restaurant your coworker sent us to did not serve us real food, and we were basically robbed, and I demand that we get that money back.”

Me: “I’m really sorry to hear you did not enjoy the food, sir, but the hotel cannot refund you money that you spent at an establishment not affiliated with us. I can, however, try to get you a comped meal at one of the high-end restaurants that we enjoy a continuing relationship with.”

Wife: “Fine, but it had better be real food.”

Not wanting to cause any further upset, I try to figure out what kind of food would appease them. I figure their complaint is the smaller-than-average serving sizes at high-end restaurants similar to the one they’ve been to, since this tends to be one of customers’ primary issues.

Me: “My apologies, ma’am, I just want to clarify that when you say real food you mean bigger portions?”

Wife: “No! I mean real food. Good American food, not that fruity garbage they fed us last night. This is an American city, for f***’s sake! How could they serve us all of that raw fish and expect us to eat it like we’re f****** [Asian slur]s?!”

Me: *Trying to not react* “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from using such derogatory language, or I will be unable to help you. I apologize if it was not made clear to you that you were requesting a table at a Japanese restaurant. I can book you a table at a restaurant that serves American pub food or a steakhouse, if those seem all right to you.”

Husband: “We shouldn’t have to work so hard to get a good burger, you know? How can people in this city survive on this ethnic s***? It’s not meant for good honest Americans to eat.”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry if your experience last night did not meet your standards. Now, should I reserve a table at the bar tonight for you two?”

Husband: “Yeah, and it had better cost as much as that dump last night. I want my money’s worth.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but this place isn’t as expensive as the Japanese restaurant you went to, and I don’t know if I can even find you a place serving burgers where your meal would cost as much as an eight-course sushi dinner.”

Wife: “This f****** city is full of idiots! [Asian slur]s & idiots! Who values this s*** over good, honest American cooking?! We should never have come here. We can’t even eat!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m gonna ask you to stop using that word and to speak at a much lower volume, or I will have to refuse to help you any further. You might not have liked the food yesterday, but you sat there and ate it and then you paid what that food costs. The hotel does not bear any responsibility for your negative experience there. Moreover, your outburst is disturbing other guests, whose experiences within the hotel we are responsible for. I can get you a reservation at a restaurant tonight, but only if you speak to me and my colleagues politely.”

Wife: “The gall of some people! Fine! Get us a table at an expensive restaurant, that doesn’t serve sushi or whatever. One of those fine-dining places, with real food.”

Me: “I’ll send you a list of places, with menus for each, so you can make sure you like the restaurant you end up going to. Just call the concierge desk once you’ve made your choice and I’ll make the booking.”

At this point, it’s of relevance that I’m of Indian descent, and I look it, while the other concierge is white.

Husband: “Actually, can the other girl make the list? I don’t want you to pick out whatever curry places you go to; we only want American food.”

I’m pretty livid at this point, but before I can react, the wife jumps in.

Wife: “Don’t worry, she came here to escape that place! She probably finds it as stinky as we do! You’ll find us proper food, right?”

I am so gobsmacked that I can’t think.

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

I still hate myself for how I ended that conversation, but it probably saved my job. I sent the list and the menus up to their room, but they hadn’t called back by the time I left. My coworker told me she had a pretty uneventful encounter with them when she made the booking, and they seemed pretty happy with the place they ended up going to.

Related:
For The World Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Pie

A couple of years before the health crisis hit, my wife and I spent a week at a fancy hotel for our anniversary. Our granddaughter was in her freshman year at a small college about twenty miles away, and we invited her to dinner on Thursday night. As it happened, my wife twisted her ankle that afternoon and needed to keep it elevated, so I drove over to get my granddaughter and we had dinner by ourselves in the hotel’s restaurant.

Each of us has been lucky in the genetic lottery. Although I was in my very late sixties, I could pass for fifteen years younger, and my granddaughter is objectively gorgeous. While not inappropriate, she was dressed very attractively.

During our meal, we got a few glances from other patrons and some of the servers, but I assumed it was due to my granddaughter being attractive. After the meal, we headed for the elevator so she could visit with her grandmother, and that’s where the trouble began.

We were met by the manager and a security guard who blocked us from going up. They beat around the bush for a bit but it finally came out that they’d assumed I was a businessman who had hired an escort for the evening. My granddaughter was humiliated and I was furious. It took a few minutes to convince them, but I finally got it through their thick heads what was going on.

We got our entire hotel stay comped, including the dinner, and vouchers for free stays in the future.

Guest: “We are checking out a day early. Can we get our money back for the extra day?”

Me: “Unfortunately, your reservation was booked and paid through [Budget Third-Party Company], which has a non-refundable clause, and therefore, we cannot refund you for the remaining night.”

Guest: “Thanks. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

I have a friend who is… strange, to say the least. He is FIERCELY pro-gay rights and yet is simultaneously one of the most homophobic people I’ve ever met. Don’t ask me to explain his logic, because I can’t. It’s worth noting that neither of us is gay.

I invite him to go with me on a trip to London, which requires an early morning departure; our flight is at 6:30 am or something like that. To soften the pain of waking up early, I decide that we’ll go to the airport the night before and check ourselves into the airport hotel, literally a three-minute walk from departures.

We arrive at the hotel and check in, and on entering our room, we discover that the reception has put us in a double room instead of a twin. I say nothing, but my friend starts THIS conversation.

Friend: “It’s a double bed.”

Me: “Yes, it is. Reception must have messed up.”

Friend: “So, can we talk to them? It’s a double bed!”

I phone reception, who realise their error and apologise, saying that they can’t do anything about it as they are fully booked. They give us a complimentary dinner in the hotel as an apology. I thank them, tell them we manage with a double bed, and hang up.

My friend emerges from the bathroom as I’m hanging up the phone.

Friend: “Well?”

Me: “They’re fully booked.”

Friend: “So what do we do? It’s a double bed.”

Me: “We’ll have to manage.”

My friend looks genuinely terrified at the prospect of having to share a DOUBLE BED with a male friend.

Friend: “But…”

Me: “But what?”

Friend: “…”

Me: “Oh, come on, mate. It’s one night. What are you afraid of? Sharing a bed with your male friend isn’t going to turn you gay, you know!”

Friend: *Panicking* “Don’t say stuff like that!”

We went down to dinner and my friend seemed more nervous and on-edge than usual; he always was highly strung. Back in the room, I lay on the bed to watch TV while my friend sat awkwardly in a chair. When bedtime arrived, he squirmed as I climbed into my side of the bed, and then he rolled over and tried to get as far away from me as possible. He was being ridiculous.

We both ended up sleeping very well, and my friend survived his “ordeal” with no “damage” to his sexuality. We had a great time in London and arrived home safe and sound. To this day, I still feel his response to sharing a bed with me was an overreaction. Am I right?

My husband works in hospitality, as do I. We decide to take advantage of a discount on a room and spend the night in a hotel during a weekend of wine tasting with friends. Check-in is uneventful and we proceed to our room. My husband tends to evaluate it as an engineer and housekeeper to make sure all is well. I tend to look at the upkeep details.

My husband finds two lightbulbs that are out, so he takes them out of the lamps and leaves them on the dresser. I notice some minor upkeep issues.

Then, we realize that there is no real airflow in the room, despite turning the fan and AC on. My husband looks around and locates the return air filter and opens it. The filter is completely blocked and disgusting. When we look at it, we notice a date written in the corner; it is two years old!

Upon checkout, I mention the lightbulbs to the front desk agent.

Agent: “How would we know unless you tell us?”

I was shocked silent. I skipped mentioning the air filter, figuring they would see it leaning against the wall when they serviced the room. In the industry, it is standard for housekeepers to test all lights to ensure they all work, among other things. There is no excuse for the air filter.