(A customer recently picked up a salad from our carry-out. Later, she calls back to tell us that when she got home, she found only lettuce in the box, no toppings. Because I am the manager, I just tell her to come back with the salad so we can replace it.)
Customer: *coming in and shoving the box at me* “Here!”
Me: *opening the box and indeed seeing only the lettuce*
Customer: “See? What kind of place is this? I want one with actual ingredients in it, not just this rabbit food!”
Me: *looking from her to the box* “Ma’am, I think I know the problem here.” *I close the box, flip it over, open it, and come face-to-face with the rest of the salad – all ingredients included.*
Customer: “Oh…”
Me: “Here’s your salad back, ma’am. I hope you have a great day.”
(I work morning shifts at a very popular drive-thru over my winter break to get money for school. Unfortunately, this morning our coffee machine does not start up properly, so our manager is taking a look at it.)
Me: “Welcome to [Restaurant]. Can I take your order?”
Customer: “Yes, ma’am, can I get a sausage biscuit and a hot mocha with whole milk?”
Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our coffee machine is down right now. Would you still like the biscuit?”
Customer: “WHAT?!”
Me: *thinks she didn’t hear me, so I repeat myself*
Customer: “But that’s stupid! Why isn’t working?”
Me: “I don’t know, ma’am. Our manager is looking at it now.”
Customer: “Oh, okay, let’s see… can I get a latte?”
Me: “…”
(We are allowed to say something to a guest if they litter in our drive through, especially if it’s at the window.)
Customer: *dumps can of drink out at my window*
Me: *hands him his change, and some coins fall on the ground* “Sorry about that, some of them will be wet because people rudely pour their drinks out in my drive through.”
Customer: “Uh, oh, sorry about that.”
I was a very loud, hyperactive, and rather undersized child of no more than four when this happened. My family had just finished a meal at [Restaurant], and being the walking cartoon character I was, I wandered off, only to spy the remnants of someone else’s meal at an unoccupied table.
There was something that, to my eyes, looked very appetizing, and I didn’t give a rat’s a** that it was half-eaten already, so I reached up and grabbed a fistful of what I innocently presumed was a dessert and crammed it in my mouth. It was not a dessert.
It was an onion blossom slathered in hot sauce.
I eventually made my way back to my family, and refused to eat onions in pretty much any form again until I was well into my teens. My mother could not for the life of her figure out why.
I was at a restraunt and this girl was carrying a huge stack of lids, and one fell. I heard her mutter, “Aw nuggets!” before getting the rest to where they should go. I was trying so hard not to laugh.
