(I’ve been doing my job for a long time, and have had dozens of versions of this conversation. [Customer #1] storms back into the store a few minutes after getting his pizza.)

Customer #1: “Why does my pizza only have eight slices?”

Me: “Because that’s how we cut them?”

Customer #1: *gesturing to [Customer #2], who ordered after him* “Why did you tell her that a medium has eight? Why does my large pizza have eight?”

Me: “We cut both pizzas the same way.”

Customer #1: “But what’s the difference, then?”

Me: “They’re different sizes. The large is more pizza. We only cut them the same way.”

(He looks at me like he knows I am trying to swindle him but he can’t quite figure out how, and leaves.)

Customer #2: “Does that happen often?”

Me: “More than you’d think.”

(My fiancé, his grandmother, and I go on a trip to the nearby city for some errands and end up in a well-known pizza place. After placing our order, my fiancé’s grandmother waits about ten minutes and then starts complaining.)

Grandma: “What is taking them so long?”

Fiancé: “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Grandma: “Look at all these people! We should have just ordered like them and got the buffet.”

Fiancé: “You wanted leftovers to take home, Grandma.”

(At this point a waitress, not our waitress, walks by.)

Grandma: “Excuse me! I said, ‘Excuse me!’”

Other Waitress: “Yes?”

Me: “She’s not our waitress, [Grandma].”

Grandma: “Do you know how much longer for our food? If it’s not ready yet, I want the order cancelled.”

Me: “She’s not our waitress; she wouldn’t know about our order.”

Other Waitress: “I’m not sure, ma’am. I can certainly have a look.”

(The other waitress leaves and literally as she walks away, our waitress brings our food. There has been a total wait time of 20 minutes for two pizzas and a calzone.)

Grandma: “Fin—”

Me: *cutting her off* “Those look amazing! Thank you so much.”

(A coworker has just finished making a bucket of pizza sauce. In our store we make sure all product has a sticker listing the expiration date and time. A manager comes to talk with the coworker.)

Manager: “Hey, did you date the sauce?”

(Before [Coworker] can speak, I interject.)

Me: “Nope, he took it to one dinner and figured out they weren’t compatible.”

(Everyone laughs.)

Manager: *to coworker* “I’m going to tell your wife you’re cheating on her with a redhead.”

Me: “A robust, saucy redhead!”

(I’m sitting beside my husband at home when he calls the nearby pizza restaurant to place an order. I can hear the whole exchange. It goes as follows.)

Husband: “Hello, I’d like to place an order for carry-out.”

Employee: “Okay. Is that for delivery?”

Husband: “No, I said, ‘Carry-out.’”

Employee: “What?”

Husband: “CARRY. OUT. You know, I’m going to place my order, go to your store, pay for my food, and CARRY IT OUT WITH ME!”

Employee: “…”

(My husband stares at me in disbelief. I try to whisper to him to tell the employee that it’s take-out, pick-up, or some other variant, but he can’t make out what I’m saying. Finally…)

Employee: “OH! You want to do take-out!”

(Predictably, the rest of the phone call doesn’t go much better.)

Husband: “Okay, so, for the first pizza, it’s your two-topping deal. I’m wondering if I can do double pepperoni for that.”

Employee: “And what do you want for your second topping?”

Husband: “No, listen. I’m asking you if I can do pepperoni for both toppings. So, put extra pepperoni. Lots of it. We want tons of pepperoni on the pizza.”

Employee: “But you get two toppings—”

Husband: *rolling his eyes* “You know what? Fine. Pepperoni and mushroom.”

(Unfortunately, there wasn’t another nearby pizza place we could switch to, so my husband went ahead and completed the order, but we haven’t gone back to that place since. Having worked in pizza myself, I’m not sure what was so difficult for this employee to grasp!)

(I work for a popular pizza delivery company. I am on my way to an address with an order. My car has got the light-up sign on top of it with the company logo on it. I have stopped at a traffic light when suddenly my rear passenger door opens. A lady I don’t recognise puts a whole load of shopping bags in before climbing in herself.)

Lady: “All right, I need to get to [Town an hour’s drive away]. The address is…”

Me: “Whoa! Sorry, madam, but I’m not actually a taxi. I work for [Pizza Place].”

Lady: *looks at me like I’m crazy* “I know that! But you’re better than a taxi service! I’m sure you know the roads just as well, and I wouldn’t have to spend an extortionate amount of money, either!”

Me: “Madam, I’m not allowed to take passengers, and even if I could I never head to [Town]; it’s outside our delivery area!”

Lady: *huffy* “Well! It’s not like you have nothing to gain from this! If you take me home and help take my shopping indoors, I might consider ordering a pizza from you tonight. Depending on how I feel later, of course.”

(By this point, the lights have been green for a while. The cars behind me are honking their horns and the drivers are expressing themselves with rather rude gestures.)

Me: “Madam, I really don’t have time to explain this! I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can give you a lift! You’re going to have to travel home some other way!”

(The lady stares agape before scowling, grabbing her bags and leaving, slamming my car door as hard as she can. I take my delivery as normal. When I return to the shop, my manager pulls me aside.)

Manager: “So, we got a complaint about a straggly young man that wouldn’t take a tired woman with her heavy bags of shopping home?”

Me: “Oh, she rang up, did she? Did she say how she got in my car at a traffic light, knowing full well I was a pizza man?”

Manager: “Actually, yeah. But don’t worry; I talked some sense into her.”

Me: “Oh? You explained how we’re not insured to do that?”

Manager: *raises an eyebrow* “No. I explained how, if she rides in your car to [Town], all her shopping would stink of pizza for months. She asked why you didn’t just say so, and hung up. Okay, back to work.”

(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you become a good manager.)

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