CONTENT WARNING: Mention of death.

We’re having a normal early evening doing normal early evening things when a woman walks in; I would have sworn she was in the wrong place. We’re a clean place but a bit shabby – we make great pizza, but it’s definitely not a fancy joint.

This woman is in a business suit and heels, carrying a bag the counter girl told me later costs more than my fairly decent and newish car.

She walked up to the counter and smiled.

Fancy Customer: “Hello, is the manager in by chance?”

Oh dear. Alarm bells already ringing. We summoned the flour-covered manager from where he was prepping dough.

Fancy Customer: “I’m very sorry to pull you away from your work, I just need a moment of your time. How much notice would you need for eighty pizzas delivered twice a day for three days?”

Four hundred and eighty. Pizzas. To date, our biggest catering order ever was for a BIG wedding, and it was sixty pies.

My manager manages to shake off his stunlock long enough to answer.

Manager: “Well, that’s… a lot of pizza. I would need at least a month’s notice to make sure I could get all the ingredients on hand at once, plus the staff required; we’d need… probably a van, I think, I can’t imagine it’d fit in a car…”

The woman nods along, never breaking a pleasant face.

Fancy Customer: “All perfectly understandable. Of course you would need to charge accordingly for all that; I’m happy to give you time to run the numbers. Could we possibly organize it for the 12th, 13th and 14th of November?”

It was June.

Manager: “I… yes, that’s plenty of notice. What kind of pizza were you wanting?”

Fancy Customer: “Oh, a mix of everything. I understand you likely can’t offer gluten-free from a shared kitchen, but definitely some vegetarian and vegan options would be wonderful. Whatever your best sellers are would be fine.”

The manager asks her to hold on for just a moment while he goes to the office and calls the owner to ask about a fair price. The owner is as baffled as we are. While the woman is waiting, she actually looks at the menu board and orders from our shell-shocked cashier. We all go back to what we were doing while the woman patiently takes a seat and scrolls on her phone. The manager reappears.

Manager: “Sorry. This wasn’t quite a scale we’re used to. The owner is on his way down now to hammer out the details with you, but I’d like to warn you, the numbers he was throwing around were… high. And he said he’d definitely need a deposit.”

Fancy Customer: *Waves a silver credit card.* “I will happily pay up front.”

I don’t know anything about credit cards, but my manager said it was some very fancy kind that doesn’t have a pre-set limit that they basically only hand out to people who make my yearly wage in a week.

The owner comes down and embarrassedly invites the woman into the somewhat messy and cluttered office to talk through the order. She reappears to collect her pizza and leaves, smiling and warmly thanking us on her way out. The owner is standing in the doorway holding the credit card receipt and looking like he might cry.

Manager: “So we’re doing it? Where’s it going?”

Owner: “The… the hospital. Her little boy drowned a few years ago. For his birthday every year, she organizes food for a few days for everyone working. Lunch and dinner so people don’t miss out, to thank them for trying so hard to save him. Some of the pizzas go to the ambulance base and the fire station that sent the crews out.”

We were all very quiet for a few minutes. We found out she usually goes to the hospital and just asks a few random staff what their favourite food is to grab after a shift – she’d just fluked that two people she asked were our regulars.

It was hard when November rolled around – but we did it with minimal hiccups and the hospital staff got their food. If I ever have that kind of money, I hope I use it on stuff like this. Happy birthday, Daniel – I’ll be thinking of you this November.

I work at an organic wood-fired pizza restaurant.

Customer: “So, how are the pizzas baked?”

Me: “In our firewood oven.”

Customer: “Is the firewood all natural?”

Me: “As opposed to…?”

Customer: “Fake!”

Me: “The wood we use to heat the ovens is not fake, sir.”

Customer: “Hmm… well, it better be! I can taste it when fake wood has been used!”

I’m collecting a pizza from my favorite pizza place and overhear the worker on the phone with a customer.

Pizza Worker: “Medium pizza is twelve inches.”

Pause.

Pizza Worker: “You’re asking how big a twelve-inch pizza is?”

Pause.

Pizza Worker: “Twelve inches.

Pause.

Pizza Worker: “You have a footlong ruler?”

Pause.

Pizza Worker: “Take that and spin it.”

I work in the kitchen of a small family-run pizza place. One night, we’re short-staffed, so I’m helping out at the front counter. A young guy walks in and says he’s here to collect their usual. I check the orders, but we have multiple similar tickets.

Me: “What’s your address?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Okay… what’s the phone number on the order?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Can you get someone to confirm the order?”

Customer: “No.”

At this point, I have a teenager standing in front of me claiming a pizza belongs to him, but he can’t tell me his address, his phone number, or the name on the order. He just keeps insisting it’s “his regular.”

Me: “I need some way to verify the order.”

Customer: “I’m a regular here!”

Me: “That’s great, but I’ve never personally served you before.”

Customer: “Just give me my pizza.”

Me: “I can’t hand out food to anyone who walks in and claims it’s theirs.”

The customer becomes increasingly irritated.

Customer: “I don’t know my address. I don’t know my phone number. I don’t have a phone. Just give me my order.”

I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to verify anything with that information.

Me: “You’ll need to get someone to confirm the order.”

Customer: “I just want my pizza!”

What I hear is: “Trust me, bro.” 

After several minutes of going in circles, I asked him to leave until he could verify the order. Instead, he plants himself in the lobby and refuses to go.

Customer: “Do you know who I am?”

And there it is.

Apparently, the answer was yes; everyone else did. The owner came out, immediately recognized him, and thankfully took over.

Afterward, I learned this customer had been coming in for years and was genuinely there for his family’s order. But I still maintain that if you’re old enough to demand special treatment, you’re old enough to know your own address, for god’s sake.

Or, failing all of those, maybe don’t act offended when the employee doesn’t recognize you from a description that amounts to, “Trust me, I’m the pizza guy.”

I had this one house I would deliver to almost every weekend. Every time I went, their order would come to something like $19.95, and they would pay with a $20.

Also, every time, they would send their young son to pay and pick up the pizza. The little guy (maybe about six or seven years old) was sent out because the adults knew they were stiffing me with the tip, and they couldn’t look me in the eye. The little guy would always say with a big smile:

Son: “Keep the change!”

I couldn’t be mad at him, as he thought he was doing an amazing thing.

One time, I’m delivering as usual, and the little guy is there to pay and receive the pizza as usual. This time, for reasons unknown, instead of holding a clean twenty in his little hands, he’s got a wallet from one of his parents. He pulls out a fifty, hands it to me, and says with his customary smile:

Son: “Keep the change!”

Now, I am very tempted to just leave with the fifty. You could call it compensation for months of being stiffed by no tip, but I don’t want this little guy to get into trouble because of me, so I say:

Me: “Thanks, dude, but the pizza is $19.95. Does your mommy and daddy know you’re using that particular bill to pay?”

Son: “Uh…”

The deer-in-the-headlights look from him indicates to me that he might not know how to tell the bills apart yet.

Me: “Maybe call your mommy or daddy and ask if you’re paying with the correct bill?”

Son: *Nods, and turns into the house.* “Moooom! The pizza man says he wants to talk to you about ‘paying with the correct bill’!”

I hear a voice, but see no one.

Mom: “You tell the man that what we give him each week is what we can afford, and that’s all there is to it.”

It’s at this point I realize that the mom (who is still hiding behind her child in shame), not aware that her son has pulled a fifty from the wallet instead of the usual twenty, thinks I’m finally calling her out on the months of being stiffed. She doesn’t know I’m calling out the payment because if unchecked, I’m getting a pretty decent tip!

The son repeats what his mom said.

Me: *Loud enough for his mom to hear.* “Well, thanks, little dude! And thank your mommy for the $30 tip!”

I turn and walk away, and just about hear his mom say:

Mom: “Wait… what?!”

But the son has closed the door, and I’m already on my bike before anything else can happen.

I know it wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but I did invite the mom to come and correct the situation, and she did specifically say that what they give me each week is what they can afford, so… 

They ordered on time again the next week, except this time the mom is there along with her son. It’s she who hands over the cash and receives the pizza. Payment is back to the regular twenty. As I take it, I say:

Me: “Do you need the five-cent change?”

Mom: *Not making eye contact.* “…No.” *Closes door.*

Ah, well, it was good while it lasted.