I was a good waitress back in the day. I wasn’t the best around, but I was pretty good.

One day, this lady and her husband and kid were seated in my section, and I went to greet them. They seemed really normal. I went and got their drinks for them.

Me: “Are we ready to order yet, or do we need a few minutes?”

Avocado Lady: “Yes, I’m ready. But you need to know that everyone always gets my order wrong, and I never get to eat with my husband no matter where we go.”

I was thinking maybe she had some crazy allergies and maybe there were some hidden things she couldn’t eat. I was wrong.

Avocado Lady: “Okay, so, I want this buffalo chicken sandwich, but I don’t want the chicken that comes with it; I want a fried chicken patty.”

Okay, that’s doable, but she kept going.

Avocado Lady: “I don’t want any sauce in it, but I want honey mustard on the side. I want literally everything on the side but the avocados. I also want the Swiss cheese, not American, but I want it added on last. I also need four containers of ranch, and the fries need to be crispy with extra salt.”

Like I said, I was a good waitress and I wanted to be the one that got it right for her, so I went to my manager and asked her to help me ring it in, just to make sure it was absolutely correct. She’d been there for nine years and also struggled with it a bit.

If you’ve worked in the food service, “on the side” can mean two things: “get rid of it completely” or “I want to add the amount myself, so put a bit on the side.” I was running around with other tables when this lady’s order came up, but I was able to run it.

There were baby plates with all of the side stuff on them, including the avocados. The kitchen saw all the stuff on the side and just decided that also meant the avocados. I put her husband’s food down and he thanked me. Then, I went to put the lady’s stuff down and she lost it.

Avocado Lady: “Are you serious?! Are you really this stupid?! Why does this happen everywhere?”

Her husband tried to calm her down, but she started screaming for a manager. My manager went over and started talking to her.

Manager: “Hi, I’m the manager. What’s the problem?”

Avocado Lady: “…and my avocados are on this stupid plate and not on my sandwich! And that waitress is literally the dumbest person I have ever met!”

This is where I thought my manager was going to cave and give her free food or something.

Manager: “What would you like me to do, take it back to the kitchen and put them on for you?”

I almost died laughing. The lady had the wind taken out of her sails, and she was quiet for the rest of the night. She left me no tip, but it was worth it for my manager to point out how stupid she was. Maybe the reason you can never eat with your husband in public is that you do stuff like this?

Related:
Avocado-No-No, Part 2
Avocado-No-No

I’m enjoying a lobster dinner with some friends on an outdoor deck at a lobster house. Knowing that it’s outside and it’s York County, Maine, I choose to wear a shirt that has Permethrin treatment. Any mosquito or horsefly that gets close enough has its nervous system scrambled… so I’m comfy and safe.

A woman at the table next to us has been swatting herself like crazy because she’s being eaten alive. She looks over at me and interrupts our conversation.

Woman: “You haven’t had a problem with the bugs since we’ve been here.”

Me: “Nope.”

Woman: “It must be where you’re sitting. If you were a gentleman, you’d give me your bug-free space so I can eat in peace.”

I’m bemused but offer her my chair, which she happily takes. Of course, she is still being swarmed, so I offer her a pocket wipe of mosquito repellent.

Woman: *Making a face* “I don’t believe in pesticide.”

Me: *Politely* “That’s probably why you’re getting bit, and that’s why I wear clothing with Permethrin when I know there are going to be bugs.”

Woman: “You’re an a**hole! You should have told me that you had repellent on!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m not proactive for others when they choose to be stupid.”

I then went back to enjoying my lobster. She dragged her husband off in a big huff.

I work in one of those over-the-top fast food places that you only really find on The Strip in Las Vegas. There are several eating challenges where if you eat a certain amount, then it’s free, and we take your polaroid for a “wall of fame.”

We have an item on the menu that isn’t part of this deal but is equally ridiculous. I can’t say its real name but it’s something like the OCTUPLE-CHEESE QUADRUPLE-PATTY CHEDDAR EXPLOSION. Seriously, it is that ridiculous. Only in America can a heart attack be a challenge, not a fear.

A family walks in, and one of the guys wants to try this cheese explosion. His family sits down, and I bring out their orders. After a few minutes, they call me over.

Customer: “There’s something wrong with my burger.”

Me: *Eyeing the cheese explosion* “What’s that, sir?”

Customer: “There’s not enough cheese.”

I am eyeing the ridiculous cheese-to-literally-everything-else ratio as eight types of cheese meltingly ooze from his burger in all directions.

Me: “That is the… uh… standard amount of cheese that comes with the octuple-cheese quadruple-patty cheddar explosion, sir.”

Customer: “It’s just… I wanted more.”

Me: “Would you like me to—”

Customer: “I’m not paying for this.”

He takes another bite. Cheese oozes further onto his plate.

Me: “If you’d like to order something else, I can take this and—”

Customer: “No, I’ll finish it. I’m just not paying for it.”

Me: “Sir, if you continue to finish the meal, then you will have to pay for it.”

Customer: “Are you [slur for disabled people]? I’m… not… paying.”

As soon as he uses that word, I am done. I get my manager and explain the situation. My manager approaches the table.

Manager: “Excuse me, sir. My waiter told me that you have an issue with your meal?”

Customer: “Yes! I wanted more cheese! I didn’t get the expected amount.”

Manager: “I can also see that you’ve almost finished your meal.”

Customer: “I’m hungry! I’ll finish it, but I won’t be paying for it.”

Manager: “Sir, if you have an issue with your meal, we are happy to replace it provided you haven’t finished it, but if you proceed to finish it, then we will have to charge you for the meal.”

Customer: “Seriously? I am not paying. I made a complaint. Why aren’t you upholding a customer complaint?”

Manager: “Because, sir, you ordered the OCTUPLE-CHEESE QUADRUPLE-PATTY CHEDDAR EXPLOSION burger and thought to yourself, ‘What this needs is more cheese.’”

Customer: “You… You’re making me sound unreasonable!”

Manager: “Am I? I’ll have [My Name] come by with your check.”

He simmered. He finished his meal. He paid. There were huge clumps of cheese left on his plate.

Related:
Seriously Cheesed Off, Part 4
Seriously Cheesed Off, Part 3
Seriously Cheesed Off, Part 2
Seriously Cheesed Off

This is a story that was recently brought up again by my mom when she was recounting some really s***ty racism she encountered when she first came to the United States.

It was the late 1980s in Los Angeles, California. By this time, my mom, a Japanese immigrant, had been living in the United States for ten years. Although she could speak English well, she wasn’t fluent and preferred to speak Japanese with others from the local Japanese-American community.

One day, she and a friend were waiting to be seated at a restaurant. As they chattered away in Japanese, a shadow cast down upon them. Looking up, they found a woman leering down at them.

Woman: “You two! This is America! Speak English.”

Startled, my mom and her friend made eye contact, unsure of what to do. Encounters like this were, sadly, ones they had run into many times since they came to live in the USA. They were not ones for confrontation. Before, they couldn’t do anything while their bullies marched off, unpunished. But then, as they made eye contact, a brilliant thing happened.

Mom likened the moment to their thought processes coming in sync together. They had a shared idea that didn’t need any further elaboration or explanation.

Mom chimed in the poshest English accent she could muster:

Mom: “[Friend], my dear, I do think the waiter ought to have shown up to escort us to our table by now. It’s frightfully rude to keep us waiting like this!”

Her friend replied, invoking her best impersonation of the Princess of Wales:

Friend: “Yes, darling, it is frightfully rude, indeed!”

As they continued to twitter away in their fake English accents, the woman began to slowly back away. Her face reddened and twisted itself in a visage as hideous as the Furies. Realizing that she had just been outsmarted by two young women obsessed with British culture and celebrity, all she could do was storm off down the street a defeated bully.

While there was no direct punishment, it was a story that my mom would continue to retell thirty years later. It has always made me chuckle to myself, and I hope you enjoyed it, too.

I’m working as a floor manager at a restaurant. A server comes up to me, saying her table of four teenage boys wants to send two businessmen a round… of milk.

Me: “Do they know them?”

Server: “No, they just said they look like they could use something to take the edge off.”

Me: *Laughs* “Okay, seems harmless enough. Sure, bring them a round.”

The boys get a round for themselves, and the server takes two tall glasses of frothy moo juice to the suits sitting by the door. Now a collection of servers has joined me watching the confusion on the suits’ faces. One of them raises the glass and looks at the boys, toasting them, and takes a sip. The other suit, extremely confused, doesn’t touch his glass.

The boys finish their meal (and milk). As they approach the suits, all of us are staring at the group, expecting some s*** to go down. One of the boys points at the full glass of milk.

Boy: “Are you gonna finish that?”

The guy shakes his head, and then the boy picks up the glass, chugs it, and walks out.

I rush over to apologize for the bizarre experience, and the milk-drinking suit just laughs.

Suit: “Kids. What are you gonna do?”