It is Saturday night, 7:00 pm, mid-December. It is a widely-known fact that companies have their office Christmas parties around town starting from October.

The restaurant is still fairly quiet; one small group is in the dining area, there are a couple of people at the bar, and there’s a group of around forty in a private room.

A family of three comes in. They order starters, mains, desserts, and drinks, and everything is going smoothly. About twenty people come in from the private room to the bar and dining area to enjoy the evening as a live duo is about to start performing. The duo is a calm blues/swing with a piano and vocals.

The mother of the family waves to me.

Mother: “We have been waiting for forty-five minutes for our main courses. What’s taking so long?! This place is terribly noisy and we want to leave!”

Me: “I’m sorry, I’ll ask the kitchen to expedite your order. We did have a private group in the other area and now some of them have come over to listen to the live music.”

I haven’t checked the time, nor do I have a clear idea on how long they have been waiting, but the starters have just been finished, so…

Mother: “You should have warned us about the number of people in here. We just wanted to have a nice, calm meal with our family, and it’s so noisy with all the people talking and music blaring!”

Me: *Pauses* “My apologies, I didn’t think to mention that our restaurant has customers. There is really nothing I can do about them chattering.”

Father: “We don’t care! You should have told us that there was a private party going on and that they were coming in here after!”

Me: “Yes… So, I’ll ask the kitchen to hurry up, then.”

Mother: “Bring the check while you’re at it!”

Absolutely I will, just to get rid of you idiots.

I went to the kitchen and checked the order. It had been printed thirty-one minutes before. So, okay, they might have waited five minutes with the empty starter plates, but forty-five?

The orders came up quickly, and with the biggest customer service smile, I took them over and wished them bon appetit. I got grumpy huffs as a reply.

A couple of minutes later, and not surprisingly, the dishes were not spicy enough, the burger was missing an onion (not part of the dish or description), the steak was too thick (?!), etc. Luckily, they paid without further incident and left.

It was the middle of the hottest Christmas party season and Saturday night in a restaurant. Would it be too much to assume that customers would expect someone else to be present at a restaurant, as well? It’s a public space; everyone is welcomed. If you want peace and quiet, eat at home or come in on Monday evening.

I work at a tiny pick-up/delivery restaurant in an affluent area by a major university and hospital. Most customers are from surrounding neighborhoods or drunk/high uni students and stressed-out nurses. This is my second job but the first one where I’ve had to deal with customers face-to-face. I was given no training, so it has been a bit of a learning curve.

Enter [Customer], who looks like she was born with not just a chip but a whole block on both shoulders. She comes in and orders one of our more popular items: fried rice. Our fried rice has the option to add a meat for $1 more. She specifically wants shrimp fried rice.

Me: “All right, madam, that’ll be $6.66.”

Customer: *Aghast* “What? But the menu says $5.66!”

Me: “Yes, madam, but meat costs $1.”

Her face fills with pure disbelief and contempt, her lip curling up in growing outrage, and then, she grinds out in a near hiss:

Customer: “SHRIMP IS A MEAT?”

I’m shocked at the ridiculous question. It’s clearly listed under MEATS on the menu, and my brain seems to have stopped functioning.

Me: “Um, yes, madam. Meat is when you partake of a living creature’s flesh, and it used to be a little animal swimming around in the ocean.”

I wiggle a hand to emphasize without thinking because brain now broken. The customer’s eyes grow big with indignation. I brace for yelling; I have enough entitled relatives to recognize the signs. WHY AM I HERE ALONE?! THIS SUCKS!

The customer snorts like an angry bull. I’m surprised she doesn’t slam a fist on the counter; it looks like she wants to but she is holding a clutch purse.

Customer: “HOW DARE YOU?! THIS IS A SCAM! SHRIMP ISN’T A MEAT! THIS IS A RIP-OFF!”

She rants for a bit. I start tuning her out, since she isn’t anything close to as scary as my mom when she’s pissed.

I see her take a breath and I jump in.

Me: “Do you want to order the shrimp fried rice, madam, or perhaps a regular one?”

Customer: “CANCEL IT!”

She storms out through the door. Luckily, it’s propped open; it’s a glass door and would have broken from a good slam.

Me: “Ooookay.”

Fortunately, she never returned and the shift manager — when he returned from a delivery — thought it was hilarious.

My family and I are moving to another state soon, and we want to get one more takeout meal from a local restaurant that’s been special to us for a long time. My wife and I went there for our first date in 1998, for instance.

I get there at 6:15 pm on Saturday and find the parking lot empty. Thinking, “Uh-oh,” I get out of my car and walk over to find a hand-lettered sign in the window saying, “We closed at 6:00 pm.” Darn. I go looking for a sign with their regular business hours, figuring I can come back the next day… and I can’t find one.

Great. Well, no hope for it. I tap on the window, knowing they’re going to think I can’t read the sign but with no other way to ask when they’ll be open on Sunday. I don’t have a cell phone, so I can’t just call them from the parking lot. I finally get the attention of someone inside, but sure enough, they just point at the sign. I nod — yes, I saw — and then try to hand-signal them that I want to ask about tomorrow’s hours. A second person sees me, points at the sign, and ignores my nods and gesticulations.

Finally, a third person spots me and does the same but comes over when I keep gesturing.

Employee: “READ THE SIGN!”

Me: “Yes, I read the sign. I understand you’re closed. But when are you open tomorrow?”

Employee: “Eight.”

Me: “Eight am? Eight pm? Is that opening or closing?”

Employee: “Eight pm.” *Walks off*

I gave up, figuring it was the best I’d get. I figured I’d come back the next day and get lunch for the fam. I ended up forgetting until mid-afternoon and going there for dinner instead. It was just as well I didn’t try for lunch, because the handwritten sign in the window then said, “We open at 1:00 pm.”

Not to nitpick, but how hard is it to: A) post your hours of operation more than a few hours in advance, and B) spend ten more seconds to clarify things for someone who’s been coming to your place for twenty-plus years?

These four guys came into the restaurant and sat at one of the high-tops, and they seemed disappointed when I introduced myself.

Customer #1: “No cocktail waitresses working tonight?”

Great, a bunch of machismo jerks. I roll with every stripe of personality, so after they started making fun of their friend who ordered a lite beer, I won them over by dropping off a kid’s menu and asking if he wanted a bib. (Aren’t played out gender stereotypes dandy?)

They started ordering a bunch of top-shelf shots, and a general rule of thumb in service is the higher the shelf, the lower the tip percentage. These dudes racked up a pretty hefty bill.

They were there for over an hour — four rounds, big meals — and the total bill came to $240, and one guy handed me his card. I wasn’t expecting much, but I’ve been in the industry for so many years that I’m perpetually nonplussed. When I dropped off the guy’s card, he grabbed the pen and stared at me with a big grin.

Customer #1: “Hey, buddy, I’m gonna leave you fifty bucks. How does that sound?”

Me: *More relieved than excited* “Oh, cool.”

His friend leans in.

Customer #2: “Isn’t that your biggest tip of the night?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Granted, it was only mid-evening. They all kind of looked at each other.

Customer #2: “Aren’t you excited?”

It was getting kind of awkward now.

Me: “Yeah, great. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

And I turned around to go take care of other stuff.

I guess I wasn’t enthralled enough by their generosity because when I picked up the book, the guy had only written in $30. Whatever weird mind game power fantasy these guys were playing, I’m happy I had no part in it.

I am a general manager at a fast-casual sandwich place that also serves soup, pizza, and pasta. I am only twenty-four and have somehow gotten the general manager job.

We’re in a small town, and a lot of people know the owner. He has five [Sandwich Shop]s in the area, but one is his pride and joy. I’m still not sure why, but this one has the brand-new oven with four different conveyor belts that you can change speeds on if you need to do catering or something, while my store has two conveyors, one of which is broken half the time. They are given the nice soup bowls that are normal glassware for people who want to eat in store, as well as a couple of other things that just make life easier for them.

One of my employees comes over.

Employee: “I have a customer who’s very unhappy that she was given a to-go soup bowl when she told us she was eating here. I tried to explain to her that we have only been given to-go bowls, but she wasn’t having it. She started belittling me and then demanded to see a manager.”

The owner is one of those guys who act like anyone except for the general manager and assistant general manager are idiots. He evens call them “the hourlies” which I also think is weird. So, unfortunately, I can’t just go up and tell this lady off; I have to talk to her until she gets testy with me.

Me: “Hello, ma’am. I’m the general manager. What seems to be the matter?”

At first, she starts laughing.

Customer: *To her friend* “Look! The idiot employee went and got a friend so won’t get in trouble for lying.” *To me* “I want a manager, not some idiot—”

But then, she stops when she sees my name tag. She goes into this rant.

Customer: “Your employee lied to us about not having bowls! You probably just haven’t washed them because you’re all lazy!”

Me: “We don’t have regular bowls, ma’am. Our owner hasn’t given us any.”

That doesn’t go over well.

Customer: “I go to [Other Location] all the time, and I know it’s the same owner! I know you’re lying!”

She starts getting snippy with me, cutting me off when I try to say anything. Eventually, I am able to cut in.

Me: “Ma’am, the owner only gave bowls to that particular store and has not given them to any other store. If you want a real bowl, you’ll have to go there.”

Customer: “I know the owner, and he wouldn’t do that! You’re just lying because you’re an idiot. You only work here because you’re a loser. If you were intelligent and knew what was good for you, you’d go get me the right bowl!”

Finally, I have had enough.

Me: “If you know the owner, then you should tell them that we need those bowls to avoid dealing with people like you. I have put up with your disrespect enough. You need to leave. And you won’t have to worry about our bowls anymore because I will not serve you anymore. You can go to the other store from now on.”

She is stunned. She turns to a gentleman right next to her.

Customer: “Can you believe today’s youth? They are so disrespectful and need to be put in their place!”

The guy looks her dead in the eye.

Guy: “This manager put up with more than I would have. You’re the one who needs to be put in your place.”

She stormed out, threatening to get me fired, and I gave that guy a coupon for a free meal.