(I am sixteen and working a summer job as a hostess at a local high-end restaurant. It’s a busy evening and I’m helping one of the waitresses carry food out to a table. My arms are full and one of the plates has a ramekin of sauce on the edge. As I’m walking through the restaurant, the sauce slips off the edge of the plate and lands on the floor. I’m not immediately concerned since it is at least five feet away from the nearest table. I deliver the food and walk back to clean up the sauce when a lady in her 30s sitting with her son and about eight of her friends begins to scream at me.)

Customer: “YOU GOT SAUCE ALL OVER ME!”

(A very small amount of the sauce splattered onto her shirt when it fell, even though it was a good distance away.)

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am! It was an accide–”

(She rips open her purse.)

Customer: “Is there any in my purse?! It’s all over the chair and table! I’m never going to be able to get this out of my shirt!”

(I’m apologizing profusely and offer to help her clean up, but she storms off to the bathroom and comes back a couple of minutes later.)

Customer: “I was right! My shirt is ruined! Thanks a lot!”

(She then storms out of the restaurant, leaving her son and her friends alone, only to come back fifteen minutes later in an entirely new outfit, right down to her hat. I have to go on break to calm down because I am very upset and crying at this point. Later…)

Manager: “Hey, [My Name]! Come here!”

Me: “What’s up?”

Manager: “That lady who came in here earlier and yelled at you for getting sauce on her demanded that the restaurant buy her an entire new outfit.”

Me: “Really?”

Manager: “Yeah. I talked to her and she said that all she wanted was an apology.”

Me: “The first thing I said was, ‘I’m sorry.’”

Manager: “Oh. Well, all right, then.”

(I haven’t seen the woman, her son, or any of her friends since.)

(I work at a sushi restaurant that is family operated, sometimes people walk in to order food to-go and since I was the only one that spoke English at the moment I had to take most of the orders. This middle-age woman comes in and grabs a menu.)

Me: Hi, is there anything I can help you with?

Woman: Yes I want to order to-go, but I was wondering if you could help me find something healthy. I have been recovering from a stroke I had 6 months ago and I need to eat healthy.

(After some recommendations she chose something to eat and sat down for a moment, the woman was smiling most of the time which made me happy too. It reminded me of my father who died of a stroke seventeen years ago. I looked at the woman and tried to make some conversation with her while her food was ready.)

Me: So you have been driving now?

Woman: Oh yes! Just recently I got my license back, I feel so good because now I can be independent again.

Me: You are really lucky, and I am happy for you. My dad died seventeen years ago from a stroke, so I am glad to see people like you, it makes me really happy.

(The woman stared at me with a worried face.)

Woman: I am really sorry to hear that sweetie.

(I shock my head and said “It’s alright,” then went to put her to-go order together and went to give it to her, but just before she took the bag she gave me a tight hug and whispered to my ear “God bless you sweetheart. I teared up a little bit but her hug made me feel somehow happy. It really made my day!)

(A Yorkshire pudding is a savory item made of batter and baked until it rises and looks kind of like a mini bowl. Aunt Bessie’s is a famous brand of supermarket-sold Yorkshire puddings. It is Sunday. Our pub is well known in the local area for doing really good roast dinners. I am serving a family. They all look fairly normal, apart from the young grandmother — middle-aged — wearing pearls and a cardigan. Everyone else at her table is in jeans.)

Me: “Here you go, everyone! Here’s your roast beef, your lamb, and your veggie sides. Does anyone need any more sauces?”

Woman: “Excuse me?!”

Me: “Is everything okay?”

Woman: “Take this back to the kitchen at once! This roast pudding is burnt!”

Me: “I can do that for you now. I’m so sorry! I’ll get this changed right away!”

(I rush off to the kitchen.)

Me: “One of the ladies at table eight says that her roast pudding is burnt. Could you swap it for a lighter one?”

Chef: “It’s not burnt. Bloody h***. Let’s take a look at this batch and find one she might like.”

(We find the palest one we can find and I go back out.)

Me: “I’m so sorry about that. Here’s your meal. The chef assured me that they aren’t burnt. The Yorkshire puddings just look a bit darker than you would expect because they are made from scratch and baked. If you pull it apart, it still comes apart like bread and doesn’t flake.”

Woman: “Hmmf!”

Me: “Is it still not to your liking? If not, the chef cooks them in batches, so I can get another one for you in about five minutes. If you don’t want to wait, I’m more than happy to get you some more meat or potatoes, instead.”

Woman: “What I want is an unburnt roast pudding!”

(She shoves the dish at me and spills hot gravy on my hands.)

Woman’s Daughter: “For God’s sake, Mum! Every restaurant!”

Me: “It’s no trouble.” *forced smile* “I’ll just go check on the kitchen and get you a new one.”

(I go back to the kitchen and the chef hands me a plate of roast puddings.)

Me: “What’s this for?”

Chef: “That’s the new batch. Check if she can find one she likes. Let the table have the rest if they want them.”

(I go back to the table.)

Woman: “Every single one of these is burnt! Can’t you do anything right?! A roast pudding is meant to be beige! Light brown! Not mahogany! Not the colour of my bloody coffee table!”

Me: *silently goes back to the kitchen and explains what happened*

Chef: “I’ll make her one special. The colour she wants.” *sarcastically* “As this woman clearly knows how to cook a roast pudding better than me! You know what? I think she’s thinking of those cheap crappy ones you buy at the supermarket.”

(I take out the newly-cooked Yorkshire pudding. It’s light brown, undercooked, and almost raw in the middle. Her family has finished eating.)

Woman: “That’s what I’m talking about! Finally! That’s the right colour!”

(The woman takes a bite of the gooey mess, only held together by a ring of almost-cooked batter. I see the look on her face. It’s clearly underdone, but she’s made such a fuss to get what she wanted, it’s obvious she can’t back down.)

Me: “Is it to your liking?”

Woman: “It’s perfect. Thank you!”

(As I walk away, I hear…)

Woman’s Daughter: “Next time, we’re leaving you at home with your cheap Aunt Bessie’s!”

(We offer both hand-cut regular fries and sweet potato fries as choices of sides on our menu. A group of three older ladies sit and order, one of them ordering a side of sweet potato fries. Once they receive their food, the lady that ordered sweet potato fries beckons me over.)

Customer: “I am not happy with my sweet potato fries.”

Me: “I’m very sorry to hear that. Is anything wrong with them?”

Customer: “They’re not very crispy or cooked. I would like a side of regular fries, instead.”

(I bring her a side of regular fries, which are fairly crispy. I know that our sweet potato fries are dropped raw, which will never result in a crispy texture like regular fries. To get a crispy sweet potato fry, you have to do something to it, like put flour or cornstarch on them.)

Me: “Here is your side of fries, ma’am. We cook our sweet potato fries raw, so they won’t get crispy like you wanted, I’m sorry.”

Customer: “Raw? Well, you put your regular fries in raw, as well, don’t you?”

Me: “Yes, but they’re untreated–”

Customer: “Then they should be the same!”

Me: “But sweet potato fries are more fibrous; they won’t cook the same.”

Customer: “If you cook regular fries raw, then the sweet potato fries should be the same.”

Me: “Okay. Enjoy your meal, ma’am.”

(I am in a bout of depression, which isn’t helped by my little sister being in the hospital in Boston, with both parents with her. It is my birthday, and I have to work in the afternoon, so I decide to get myself a treat and make use of a certain restaurant’s coupon for a free stack of pancakes on your birthday. I go in and I am one of maybe ten tables being served. I’ll fully admit I look horrible, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and sneakers, with hair unbrushed.)

Waitress: *after seating me* “What would you like today?”

Me: “Can I get a pot of coffee? Also, I have a coupon for a free stack of pancakes.”

Waitress: *smile fading* “Anything else?”

Me: “No, thanks.”

(The waitress walks away without another word. She comes back with my pancakes and a pot of coffee, and leaves again as I thank her. I eat quietly, watching as she checks in on other customers, and gives me nothing but sideways glances. As soon as I am done with my pancakes:)

Waitress: “All done? I can take that from you.”

(She picked up my dishes and walked off. I watched as she glanced back at me and started talking to a waiter quietly. He looked at me, then shrugged at her and walked off. She came back a minute later with the check, told me I could pay at the front desk, and walked off. I got up and went to pay with the last $10 I had. My coffee came to about $3, and clearly the waitress didn’t expect to get a tip from some grungy teenager for a $3 order. I walked back to my table, downed the last of my coffee, and tucked the remaining $7 under the mug and walked out. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see her face. Never judge a book by its cover! I may have looked like trash, but that’s no excuse for poor service!)