I order pizza for my partner and me, plus a small side salad for me. When the order arrives, the salad is missing. No big deal; stuff happens. As I set it up as no-contact delivery, so I call the restaurant to let them know.

Me: “Hey, my name is [My Name] at [address]. I’ve just received my order, but my salad is missing.”

Employee: “Oh, I’m so sorry! Do you want it refunded, sent back out, or a credit put on your account for next time?”

Me: “If it’s not too much trouble, could it be sent back out? I was pretty dead-set on getting the salad.”

Employee: “Sure! Give us about fifteen minutes to get it back to you.”

I let my partner start on the pizza while I wait for my salad.

A bit later, I hear the sound of someone walking up our porch steps and a weird thud against the door. I go to check, thinking maybe the delivery guy is knocking in a weird way. I open the door… to find my salad spilled across my porch, presumably from the container being chucked against the door. The driver is already in his car, and he drives off before I can stop him.

I step back into the house and call the restaurant again.

Me: “Um. I dunno how to tell you this. Your delivery driver just threw my salad at the door. It’s now all over my porch.”

Employee: “What? Are you sure?”

Me: “Yeah, I saw him drive off right after. I’m really not sure what’s up.”

Employee: “I’m not sure, either. I’m going to get my manager.”

After I hold for a minute, the manager comes on the line.

Manager: “So… you’re saying my driver just threw the salad at your door?”

Me: “Yeah. I didn’t witness the actual throwing since I didn’t realize he was here, but I heard it hit my door, and I came out to see him in a [Company]-labeled car driving off.”

Manager: “That’s… Wow. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I don’t know if I can see my driver doing that.”

Me: “I have a doorbell camera that should have caught it.”

Manager: “If you could email that video to me, I’ll look it over and call you back with what I can do for you.”

I hop off the call, and the incident was indeed caught on camera. I download the clip and send it to the email the manager provided.

Twenty minutes later, I get a call back.

Manager: “Wow. I’m not even sure where to begin. That… definitely happened. I can assure you that this won’t happen again. I’m going to have a different driver run you a full-size salad, plus I’m adding some credits to your account. I am so sorry about this.”

Me: “Do you have any clue why on earth this happened?”

Manager: “I do not, but I am, again, so sorry. I’m sending the new driver out now.”

Five minutes later, the new driver comes to my door. Out of curiosity, I ask her if she knows what happened.

Driver: “Oh, yeah. The guy said you were personally trying to get him in trouble by saying you missed something he knew he dropped off, so he was going to make it even. I’m not even sure why he took it personally, since that’s a kitchen mistake. But congratulations; that’s the funniest way I’ve seen someone get fired!”

I work in a pizza place. A guy phones in with an order.

Customer: “I want that mushroom one with the white sauce. Delivered.”

Me: “The chicken mushroom alfredo?”

Customer: “Yeah. That one.”

About thirty minutes later, he calls back.

Customer: “Hey. My pizza is here. Why did it have mushrooms on it?”

Me: “It’s a chicken mushroom alfredo. It comes with mushrooms.”

Customer: “But I never get mushrooms.”

Me: “I’m sorry, you ordered a chicken mushroom alfredo pizza.”

Customer: “I order this like once a week, and I never get mushrooms on it! You should know that!”

I’ve never talked to him before.

My boss ended up making another and sending it back out. I wouldn’t have been so nice.

Related:
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 7
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 6
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 5
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 4
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 3

We close at 2:00 am, and it’s approaching that time. A drunk customer walks in.

Customer: “Do you guys deliver to Lewisham?”

Me: “We do.”

Customer: “I live in Lewisham, but I missed the last tube. If I order a pizza for delivery, can you bring me home with it?”

Me: *Laughs* “That’s a good trick, but our delivery guys all use bikes, so we couldn’t take you.”

Customer: “Oh… I can’t afford the taxi, and I don’t want to take the bus. I can just afford the pizza.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you. There is a twenty-four-hour taxi place next door, though. Maybe they can bring you most of the way?”

The customer drunkenly stumbles out and speaks to the clerk at the taxi place for a moment. Then, he comes back in.

Customer: “One halal chicken pizza, please!”

Me: “So, you decided to go with the pizza instead of the taxi?”

Customer: “No, the taxi guy said he’ll take the pizza as payment!”

I laughed and got him his pizza. He walked back to the taxi place, and the taxi driver happily accepted the pizza, even offering a single slice to the drunk passenger before they headed off.

Late-night London can be a crazy place…

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I used to work in a little privately-owned pizza place. We ran this offer where you would purchase a “Groupon” and get $30.00 worth of food for the $15.00 you bought the Groupon for.

I’m working one night, and it’s getting pretty close to closing — an hour before we’re supposed to be done cleaning. (They had this weird policy that “closing” meant not when you stopped serving to customers but rather when everyone had to get the f*** out.)

I get this call. An African American woman orders something like eleven pizzas.

Me: “That’ll be forty-five minutes and will be $115.”

I start making the pizzas. She walks in just as the last pizza is coming out of the oven, and I have my employees start stacking them for her to take out to the car. I then ring up the order.

Customer: “I have a Groupon.”

She passes me three. It’s important to note that Groupons carry very clear labels that say, “Limit One (1) per customer, per order”.

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t accept all three.”

Customer: “Yes, you can. Split it into three orders if you have to.”

Me: “Because the order was taken as one order, I can’t change it in the system, and corporate doesn’t allow us to do it anyway.”

She stared daggers at me and called her friend, calling me a (and I quote) “dumba** white boy”. She then refused to take the pizzas, leaving empty-handed, and leaving us wondering if we could each take a couple of free pizzas home at the end of the night.

After a few military deployments, I am back to civilian life after some (mostly recovered) injuries, and a slight but manageable case of PTSD. I am not one to sit idle, and I enjoy driving, so I am doing pizza delivery and ride-sharing while I look for a new job.

It is a weekend in the daytime, and I get a delivery order for twelve pizzas! I guess it’s for a nice big summer party or something. I load them into my car and get to the address. I carry all twelve boxes to the front door and ring the bell. I hear a little voice from inside.

Voice: “Can you bring the pizzas around the back? We’re all outside!”

Me: “You got it!”

I carefully make my way to the side of the house, where the side door to the back garden is open. I walk through and immediately get a blast of water to the face. 

I’ve walked into a firing squad of children holding water guns. There must be at least fifteen of them, all aged between five and ten I would guess, and within seconds I am absolutely soaked.

Me: “Please! Stop! This is my uniform and I need it for my shift!”

The kids are wailing maniacally and aren’t stopping. In an attempt to save myself I block them with the pizzas. Finally, an adult shows up and the children stop for a moment. Ominously they all run over to a bucket and start refilling their weapons.

Adult: “About time, we ordered those over an hour ago. You can put them on the table.”

Me: “Sir! Your children just soaked me completely!”

Adult: “Oh, no! Did they get the pizzas?”

Me: “Sir, I protected the pizzas with my body, which is now soaked! I need to wear this uniform for the rest of my shift and I need to now drive back and get my car wet, dry my clothes, delaying any more runs and tips I can get tonight.”

Adult: “Oh my god! So sensitive! They’re just kids, god! Here, take this for your troubles.”

On top of the cash for the order, he hands me a single five-dollar bill, on an order of twelve pizzas and after the liquid firing squad.

Me: “Are you serious?”

Adult: “You’re lucky you even got a tip! You took so long!”

Me: “And you were lucky I saved the pizzas. Not anymore!”

I throw all the money at him, pick up the pizzas, and start walking out.

Adult: “Hey! What are you doing?!”

Me: “Going home to dry my clothes, and throw my own pizza party. I quit, and it’s because of customers like you!”

Adult: “Hey! Get back here! I need those pizzas! I need to feed all these kids!”

Me: “Not my problem.”

I storm out fuming, with all the pizzas. I follow through on my threat and go home. I get an angry call from my boss, but after I explain what happened and my PTSD, he calms down (he had also served). He says he will have to still charge me for the pizzas, but will give me a staff discount, and he asks if I will be back tomorrow. 

I tell him thanks, but that wasn’t happening. I was back the next day with my (dry) uniform, the money for the pizza, and the happy news that the house I delivered to yesterday had been blacklisted.