Customer: “Excuse me, but I ordered the vegetable soup!”
Me: “Yes, ma’am, I know.”
Customer: “I don’t see any vegetables in this!”
Me: “Ma’am, that’s because it’s your coffee.”
Customer: “Oh.”
(She was surprisingly nice for the rest of the meal and left a hefty tip.)
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Customer: “I’ll have a margarita, please.”
(I get a margarita and serve it to the woman.)
Customer: “Excuse me, miss? Can I please have another margarita? This one doesn’t have enough quatilia in it.”
Me: “Ma’am, your drink is strong, I can guarantee it.”
Customer: “How do you know there is enough quatilia in this?”
Me: “Because you said, ‘Quatilia.'”
Customer: “Yeah, and?”
Me: “It’s called ‘tequila.'”
(The customer’s face turned a nice shade of crimson.)
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(I work at a well-known pizza chain; let’s call it Daddy Jim’s.)
Customer: “I’d like a large sausage and ham pizza and a large Italian Meats Trio.”
Me: “Alright, your total is [total]. We’ll have it out there in about 45 minutes.”
(An hour later as I arrive back from the delivery, the store receives a phone call from the same customer.)
Customer: “Yeah, hi. I ordered an Italian Meats Trio pizza, and you guys got it wrong.”
Me: “How did we get it wrong?”
Customer: “Well, it has sausage, ham, and some other s*** on it.”
Me: “Is the ham kind of orange?”
Customer: “Yeah.”
Me: “Is the sausage peppered and brownish-orange?”
Customer: “Uh… yeah.”
Me: “Is the other stuff salami?”
Customer: “Yeah! What the h***?”
Me: “Well, the orange ham is Italian ham, the sausage is Italian sausage, and you say there’s Italian salami.”
Customer: “Yeah, so what?”
Me: “That’s three Italian meats… Italian Meats Trio.”
Customer: “Well if I had known that, I wouldn’t have ordered a sausage and ham pizza too!”
Me: “Well maybe you should have some idea of what you’re ordering before you order it.”
Customer: “Well, why didn’t you guys tell me?!”
Me: “Because you ordered it. You didn’t ask about it.”
Customer: *click*
My Loud Manager: “F****** morons! I hate this job!”
(A little kid comes running up to counter and points at our menu board above my head.)
Kid: “I want that one!”
Me: “The taco or the burrito, honey?”
Kid’s Mother: “Don’t point! That’s rude. You have to tell her what you want.”
Kid: “I want the taco.”
Me: *turning to the mother* “Okay. What can I get for you?”
Kid’s Mother: *points* “I want that one.”
(I go to a table of four, a mom and dad and two kids who are ready to order.)
Husband: “How big are your pizzas?”
Me: “They are ten-inch pizzas, sir.”
Husband: “Well how big is ten inches?”
(And before I can answer, the wife chimes in.)
Wife: “You wouldn’t know anything about ten inches, dear.”
(I stood there for a moment with my mouth open, before I ran to the wait station and started laughing hysterically.)
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