I worked at a pub that was attached to and served the menu of a chain restaurant next door. The restaurant was known for breakfast and greasy food. The owner was an… interesting man. He was extremely strict, and if you were new or a customer watching the interaction, he would be seen as horribly rude. Thankfully, he didn’t care about the business whatsoever, and we would rarely see him.

[Owner]’s attitude made servers come and go in droves; I think there were only three long-timers. I was originally hired on for the pub side only due to my extensive bartending experience, but due to mass quitting, I got tasked with working the dreaded Sunday morning shift one week.

Between 6:00 am and 10:00 am, everyone was mostly friendly and left good tips, but once churches let out, all Hell broke loose — no pun intended. The churchgoers were the most hypocritical of all people; repent and ask for forgiveness, then come and scream at waitstaff making minimum wage, let their kids make horrible messes, and sit for an hour and a half even though they saw the lineup out the door for a table. And 99% of the time, they’d leave no tip — or they’d leave a note or pamphlet about how I was going to Hell, smeared with strawberry sauce that their kid splattered in a five-foot radius around the table.

I grew to like the early morning regulars, and I was the only person who volunteered for the weekend mornings at that point.

One glorious Sunday, I clocked in and saw [Owner]. Uh-oh. Both the manager and assistant manager, scheduled to serve that morning alongside me and one other server, called in sick. Due to [Owner]’s INCREDIBLE cheapness and distrust of us “peasants”, only the manager had a PIN to do discounts on orders — including for the fifty variations of coupons [Owner] sent out in flyers, newspapers, and online ads to try and drum up business. Yes, a manager was on call or physically in the building between 6:00 am and 2:00 am closing time. Absurd.

On top of that, there was a hockey tournament happening, so we had four reservations for tables of fifteen, PLUS the regular church reservations (five tables of six), PLUS the regular walk-ins. It was going to be insanity.

So, here was [Owner], rolling up the sleeves on his $295 shirt — yes, he told us how much it cost after he spilled jam on it — looking like he was going to work. Thankfully, the other server and I were rockstars and were doing pretty well, to the point that [Owner] decided he could expedite in the kitchen rather than interact with the lowly customers… until orders that normally took fifteen to eighteen minutes to come out were taking upwards of thirty to forty-five!

I went back to see what was going on when I had a minute to breathe, and I saw LITERALLY fifty-plus slices of toast on the counter, twenty-plus plates dying in the window, and [Owner] red in the face and dripping sweat all over everything.

Me: “[Owner], what’s going on? Why haven’t you called me or [Server] for pick-ups?! And what’s with the toast?”

Owner: “I know what the f*** I’m doing. I’m the owner, not you.”

Me: “Okay… Not what I asked, but all right. Can I get some of these out?”

Owner: “No! I tell you when to take them. Don’t you ever try to do something without being told!”

Me: “‘Kay.”

I walked away and continued apologizing to my tables for the delays. Thankfully, most people were understanding, but it definitely took a toll on morale in the restaurant. Another ten minutes or so went by, and I still hadn’t been called to drop food. [Server] came running up to me with a panicked look on his face.

Server: “[My Name], oh, my God… Please. Do something.”

What had been fifty-plus slices of toast had now become THREE four-foot-tall piles of various types of bread, toasted and now stale, piled up on the counter. The plates that had been under the warmer were now flooding every flat surface, and the window was full again.

I started checking plates and calling out remakes, and then I felt a hard bump right on my spine.

Me: “Ouch! What the h***?!”

[Owner] had just jabbed me with the corner of one of the square plates.

Owner: “I SAID I GOT THIS! GET OUT!”

The restaurant fell silent as everyone heard that, and almost everyone was now focused intently on the doors to the kitchen 

Me: “[Owner], this is insane. Table thirteen has been waiting an hour for bacon and eggs! Please just go to the office and let me sort this out!”

Owner: “F*** YOU, STUPID B****! I NEVER SHOULD HAVE HIRED YOU, F****** KNOW-IT-ALL! I. AM. THE. OWNER. I WILL ALWAYS HAVE MORE EXPERIENCE AND KNOWLEDGE THAN SOME DUMB SLUT WAITRESS! IF I TELL YOU TO F*** OFF, IT MEANS F*** OFF AND GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”

I stood shocked for a moment. Then, I took off my apron, tossed it on the ground, and started collecting my belongings from my locker to leave. [Server] followed behind me, as did two of the cooks and the dishwasher.

As we made our way out of the kitchen, [Owner] continued screaming, swearing, and hurling insults at us all. Slowly but surely, tables of shocked patrons got up and followed behind us, loudly proclaiming how they’d leave bad reviews and post in the community groups about what they had witnessed and how [Restaurant] had gone downhill since [Owner] bought it six years prior.

The community groups were full of almost exclusively posts about [Restaurant] for the next week. Their Google rating went from a 4.6 to a 2.8 within that same amount of time, with only friends of [Owner] leaving positive reviews and comments in the Facebook groups, calling all of us who’d walked out “entitled brats who haven’t worked a day of real work in their lives”.

Eight other staff members (five servers and three cooks) quit that week after hearing what had happened. [Owner] was down to three front-of-house employees (a manager, an assistant manager, and one server who was a relative of his) and only one back-of-house employee. He left me a voicemail saying more horrible things, begged me to come back halfway through, and ended it with more insults and comments about how I’d never amount to anything in life.

A decade later, I own a successful business in the same town, and [Owner] is riding off of investors’ money and begging for customers, but everyone remembers what he is!

I’m a cook in a small bar/pub. It’s typical pub food, mostly grilling and microwaving frozen food. One day, one of the bar staff asks one of the kitchen staff to come to the bar to answer a customer’s questions. I go through and have this conversation.

Me: “Good evening, how can I help?“

Customer: “What’s in the [special chicken burger]?“

Me: *Gesturing to the menu in her hands* “Let me show you: breaded chicken, bacon, onion rings, salad, and a brioche bun. We can change things to fit dietary requirements or preferences.“

Customer: *Rolling her eyes* “Yes, I can read, thank you. I mean is the breaded patty gluten-free?“

Me: “I don’t believe so; I can go and double-check with the food bible to make sure, though.“

Customer: “…the what? Food bible?“

Me: “Oh, yes, it’s what we use to double-check information about each item on the menu.”

Customer: “And you call it a bible?“

Me: “Yes?“

Customer: *Slamming her menu down on the table* “I will not be eating here around such blasphemers, thank you. You and your chicken burger can rot in Hell.“

She stormed off, leaving me and the bartender looking at each other and the other customers staring at us. I checked later with my supervisor, and I didn’t get into any trouble for the interaction. It was just a very odd conversation.

I went to a pub and ordered fish and chips, but they forgot the tartar sauce.

Me: *To my server* “Can I have some tartar sauce, please?”

Server: “Tartar sauce? I’ve never heard of that. Let me check with the kitchen.”

She went to do so and then came back.

Server: “None of the chefs know what this ‘tartar sauce’ is.”

Me: “Okay, can I get some relish and mayonnaise, then?”

I got mayo and some chopped cucumbers. I sent the fish back and ordered the chicken.

That was not the first time I had been in a place where they ran out of the main ingredient for a popular dish but the manager refuses to let them 86 it and keeps it on the menu, hoping most people will just suck it up and not complain.

There was another pub I went to where I was assured that they ALWAYS make chicken fajitas with breaded deep-fried chicken nuggets. Or the manager at a steakhouse chain who told me they’d run out of candied pecans. She just kind of opened and closed her mouth a few times before walking away with another apology when I asked her why the chopped candied pecan salad was still being served if they had no candied pecans and why, if they were still serving it, wasn’t I informed so I could have ordered something else instead of sending it back?

I hand in my two weeks’ notice on a Friday. I’m not sure if the two weeks include the day I hand it in or not, so I write down that my last day will also be a Friday, just in case.

The next week, I notice that my schedule still has me on for the Saturday after. After debating with myself whether or not that is my problem, I speak to the manager on duty.

Manager #1: “It’s fine. They probably just didn’t bother to remove it. They’ll have found someone to cover it since you’ve handed in your notice.”

There is an incident on my last Wednesday where I think I am having a heart attack (I wasn’t) and sit in A&E (Accident & Emergency) for hours. The manager that day is reassuring that he really doesn’t care if I work or not since I’ve already handed in my notice, and he tells me just to phone to let them know whether or not I can do the Friday. Since the A&E doctor says there was nothing wrong with me and to just have some paracetamol (acetaminophen) if it hurts again, I phone work on Thursday and say I can come in for my last shift. (I found out later that the doctor put a note on my discharge saying it was due to anxiety.)

I work my last shift on the Friday. It gets to seven minutes past my end time, and I decide, “F*** it. I’m done. I’m not waiting for permission to leave on my last day.” So, I say, “Goodbye forever,” to the people on shift with me and just go.

On Saturday, I get a phone call from a different manager — who I’ve never really gotten along with.

Manager #2: “Where are you?”

Me: “I already checked with [Manager #1] about this. Yesterday was my last day.”

Manager #2: “Your notice says your last day is today.”

I frantically look for my copy of my notice to double-check because I know my memory is s*** and I’m terrified I misremembered the day. But no, I did write down Friday; I’m just being lied to again. I tell [Manager #2] this.

Manager #2: *Getting mad* “You should’ve told someone the schedule was wrong!”

Me: “I did. I spoke to [Manager #1].”

There were several long seconds of uncomfortable silence before I remembered I didn’t actually need his permission to hang up, so I said bye and hung up.

I’m so glad I’m done with that place, but now I’m worried that their reference will claim I didn’t complete my notice. (Also, I saw my general doctor, who figured out what the chest pain problem was; it’s nothing serious but also not just me being an anxious mess.)

I have been working at a small pub in my hometown for around two years now. Our pub was once a hardcore biker bar, so most of our staff are either a little crazy or know how to fight.

I am on shift with a coworker, working in the outside area which can seat around a hundred people. During summer, we rarely serve anybody inside, so the inside bar never has anyone working behind it, but we do put signs up everywhere stating that they can get served outside. To get to our outside area, you have to walk all the way through the pub.

At around 3:00 am, a man walks up to the bar and tries ordering some shots.

Customer: “When we came inside, nobody served us, so we went behind the bar and poured our own beer!”

Assuming it’s a joke, I laugh a little and keep on pouring his shots, until he pulls out his phone and shows me video proof of himself and another guy going behind our bar, getting a glass, and pouring a beer for each one of them while absolutely splashing beer everywhere.

We kick him out — and his friend, after finding him, as well.

But because drunk guys don’t like getting kicked out by a 168-cm (just over 5’5″ in American), twenty-year-old woman, one of them runs back inside and gets a hold of about a hundred coasters. He starts throwing them at me and my coworker and about fifty at the few customers we still have.

I am literally chasing a fifty-year-old man out of the pub while he is screaming like a maniac.

Me: “You’re banned for life!”

Well, that doesn’t sit right with them, so they start calling my coworker all sorts of racial slurs just because he told them they are trespassing.

What ensues is probably the saddest fight I’ve ever seen.

The two men start hitting my coworker and me. We end the fight by knocking one out, and the other one runs away. We get two of our usual guests to watch over him until he wakes up. When he does, he screams at them to call the cops.

Regular: “First of all, you’ve broken about three laws, and second, you’re on camera for all of them.”

This prompted him to run away, as well.

The owner posted the videos on Facebook and Instagram, and now those two are banned from every bar and club in town. 

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.