I’m working for a well-known burger chain restaurant in the summertime, and for the record, I am quite obviously Caucasian. A few teenagers come in. These teens form a cluster to one side and start not-so-subtly talking about having some “fun” with “that [racial slur] at the counter.” There are several snickers and general sounds of their buddies egging them on and double-daring them to do it.

I brace myself for whatever nonsense is about to unfurl.

Me: “Hello, welcome to [Burger Chain]! May I take your order?”

The first teen speaks slowly, as though I wasn’t a native English speaker.

Teen: “Yes. I. Would like. A number one. That’s UNO. Oooo-know. Got it? Me want uno!”

Me: “Okay. Would you like cheese on that?”

Teen: “Si! Queso! Me want QUESO on my UNO! Me! Queso! On my Uno. You understand words?”

Me: *Sighing internally* “Yes, I do. All right, sir, your total is $5.45.”

The customer hands me a five-dollar bill and two quarters.

Teen: “See that? That is veinte dollar-ohs! Vee-ennn-taaaaayy. Doll-er-ohs. Com-pren-daay?”

I look at the bill, then at him.

Me: “Actually, sir, this is a five-dollar bill. That would be ‘cinco,’ not ‘veinte.’ Also, I would honestly appreciate it if you would stop acting like a fool and just talk to me normally.”

The kid stared at me with his mouth hanging open for a second, then mumbled his thanks and left after getting his food, taking his gaggle of jerks with him.

We have a vestibule in our building, as well as mandatory rules set in place for guests to wear masks. While we offer free masks, we prefer to have people already wearing them. As I’m taking an order to the delivery table, I spot two guests entering, both without masks. I am a shift manager.

Me: *Stopping in my steps* “Oh, do you two have masks?”

Male Guest: “No, I was hoping you had some extras?”

I gesture to my cashier to bring them masks, and he brings one. As such, I ask the second guest if she’ll step outside while her boyfriend orders. She complies, or so I think.

Me: *Going to my other manager* “Outside means outside?”

I get a nod in return, so I go to the guest.

Me: “Ma’am, I do need you to step outside while your order is made.”

Female Guest: “I am outside.”

Me: “Well, no, you’re in the vestibule; this is still inside our building. I need you to step outside fully.”

Female Guest: “Well, that completely contradicts what I know about public building space. The entranceway is public property.”

Me: “As long as you’re inside our doors, you’re in our building. Please step outside.”

My secondary manager has noticed she’s arguing with me and steps behind me. The female guest proceeds to stand with the door open, which prompts my general manager to talk to her afterward. Finally, she relents, and we ask him what happened.

General Manager: “Well, she was concerned that you two were upset with her, and that she was worried whether her dish would still be allergy-free.”

Yes, as if we were going to make it against her allergy requirements. Some people.

Related:
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 20
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 19
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 18
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 17
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 16

My boyfriend and I decide to order pickup from a local breakfast place. The cashier seems ditzy and easily distracted. She asks us to hold at first and just never puts the phone down but speaks to other customers while the phone is on her ear; we keep thinking she’s speaking to us. When she finally tells us to go ahead, she keeps randomly stopping speaking to us and speaking to other servers and customers without putting the phone down or telling us. After a long time, we finally are almost done with our order.

Boyfriend: “The last thing is an order of French toast. It says, ‘Your choice of bread.’ Can we get brioche?”

Cashier: “Brioche buns?”

Boyfriend: “Oh, no, brioche bread for the French toast.”

Cashier: “I need to talk to my manager.” 

She sets the phone down without waiting for our response and doesn’t pick up again for several minutes

Cashier: “That’s a $3 upcharge.”

Boyfriend: “Um. We don’t want brioche hamburger buns made into French toast. We wanted brioche bread. Is that not an option? What can we get?”

Cashier: “Oh! I thought you wanted buns made into French toast. No, we don’t do brioche bread.”

Boyfriend: “That’s fine. What can we get?”

Cashier: “Oh, white bread.” 

We wait a moment, expecting other options, and we finally realize there aren’t any.

Boyfriend: *Sigh* “That’s fine, and that’s all for our order, please.”

When we picked up our food and started eating, I realized my French toast was pretty much just powdered sugar on the driest toast I’ve ever eaten — seemingly no egg or cinnamon in the equation. We haven’t gone back.

I walk in the door before we open and the phone is ringing, so I answer it.

Caller: “I want to place a delivery order.”

Me: “We don’t deliver, but you can order through [Third-Party App].”

Caller: “How do I go about doing that?”

Me: “You can either do it through your cell phone or on your computer.”

Caller: *Screaming* “I don’t have a computer or a smartphone! You need to order it for me or update your system!”

Me: “Sir, it’s a third-party app that we have no control over.”

Caller: “I don’t give a s*** if it’s a third party or a fifth party!”

I have been nice up to this point, although annoyed. Bluntly, I say:

Me: “I cannot help you. You either need to pick it up yourself, use curb-side, or eat in.”

Caller: “I live down the street! Someone needs to bring it to me!”

I cut him off with the hold button and gave the phone to my boss. He lost twenty-six minutes of his life explaining the same things I had just told the customer.

He never did get food.

Related:
Deliver Us From Bad Customers

I work at a sit-down chain restaurant. A group of teenagers, fresh out of their last day of high school, comes in to celebrate. They even bring a cake with them; this isn’t a big deal, except we don’t allow that because we serve cake.

One of the more level-headed ones talks to a manager, and we decide to let it slide, even giving them extra plates.

Fast forward to about an hour later, when the cake is being cut up. These kids are borderline drunk now — we found out later they had spiked their drinks — and one of them gets the bright idea to smush his cake into his friend’s face. This starts an all-out riot at the table, with drunk eighteen-year-olds throwing cake, half-eaten burgers, cups of Dr. Pepper and mysterious alcohols, and even silverware at each other.

Our managers come out, but policy is to not touch patrons at all (lawsuits and stuff), so we have to wait for the cops to come. They do, eventually, and take the lot of them away.

Since it is my table and servers bus their own there, I am stuck with the job of cleaning up the remains. Cake was ground into the carpet, and the stains are still there. I spend maybe three hours making that section presentable again. The worst part is, since the kids were arrested, they didn’t pay. I got no tip and registered zero sales (manager comps don’t reflect in your total) for five hours of my shift, and I later found out that one of the children’s parents was suing the restaurant for not keeping a better eye on her adult son.