My husband and I go to a sushi restaurant for dinner. We are pretty much sushi newbies, so we just order whatever sounds good. When the time comes to pay…

Me: “I wish I’d taken note of what we’d ordered. It was all great, and I’d like to be able to order it again in the future.”

Husband: *Scrutinizing the bill* “Unfortunately, this isn’t any help; it just has a few hand-written squiggles and a total.”

Server: “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Me: “Yes. We’re just curious — can you tell us what we ordered? We’d like to be able to order it again someday.”

Server: *Condescendingly* “Sushi.”

Me: “Well, yes, but what kind of sushi?”

Server: “Fiiiiish.”

I gave up at that point.

Years ago, I was serving at a casual restaurant. I’m very white with blonde hair, so you wouldn’t know by looking at me that I’m almost fluent in Spanish.

As I was cleaning a table one night, the one right next to it was seated for me. While wiping the dirty table, I heard the new table talking loudly about me in Spanish. They were saying how big my butt was, how fat I was, and how they didn’t want to be served by someone so disgusting, not knowing that I 100% understood them.

My initial reaction was anger and tears; I wanted to give them bad service and not even try to be nice. But I wanted to be the bigger person. I walked to the table and did my “Welcome to [Restaurant]! My name is [My Name] and I’m here to help you out” spiel, but I said it all in Spanish.

The look of shock and embarrassment on their faces gave me one of the greatest feelings ever.

Then, I listed every burger, every milkshake flavor, and every side item in Spanish. For the entire meal, I spoke no English at all, and I gave them the kindest and most attentive service I’ve ever given anyone. The nicer I was, the more humiliated and ashamed they were.

When one of them asked quietly if he could have some more water, I already had a tray in my hand with his water on it. They refused to speak Spanish to me and would hardly even look at me. When they left, they closed their $25 check and left me a $50 bill under a plate for my tip.

Such a glorious day! Everyone always asks why I didn’t spit in their food, give them bad service, or ring in their order wrong. Kill people with kindness, baby! That’s the way I do it.

This story is part of our Best Of July 2021 roundup!

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I work in a restaurant that has a bakery section. We often have people come in to eat and then order one of our specialty pies to take home with them, but some people simply come in to order pies directly. A lady walks in and heads right to the bakery counter.

Customer: *Without even a hello* “How good are your pies?”

Me: “They are very good. We have apple—”

Customer: *Cutting me off* “Yes, but how good are they?”

Me: *Thinking she is worried about freshness* “They are made fresh each morning and then as needed throughout the day. We just—”

Customer: *Letting out a big, loud sigh* “Yes, but how good are they?”

Me: “Very good. We have several five-star reviews about—”

Customer: *With an identical big, loud sigh* “But how good are they?”

I am getting fed up with trying to play guessing games with her and with getting interrupted.

Me: “On what scale, ma’am?”

This apparently breaks her out of her mental rut.

Customer: “Huh? What? I just want to know which pies are good.”

Me: “Our apple pies are excellent, and they are my favorite, but I still don’t know what you mean by ‘good,’ given that quality, freshness, and good reviews apparently don’t cut it.”

She just stared at me for a bit before making a big production about sighing, shaking her head sadly, and then turning to walk out the door. I still have no idea what type of answer she was expecting.

Everyone who works in a restaurant has had campers before (diners who stay at their table for a while after paying), and that can be especially frustrating on a Friday night where you have a limited amount of tables. However, tonight I was feeling laid back and trying not to walk too much as I have a sprained toe, so I have only three tables when I usually have five. I was not worried because my foot is swollen; this weekend was going to suck regardless.

Out of my three tables, I had two women sit from 6:30 to 9:00, and I believed they cashed out around 7:15 with a $40 check. I returned their change and new receipt; they tipped well. I was totally not stressed about it because I didn’t want to walk on my swollen and sore injured foot and they did tip well. I did offer more water after they cashed out and they said they were fine. I got cut around 9:00 and started helping my closing bartender.

The busser came over to me and handed me $50.

Me: “Where is this from?”

I had two open tables where $50 wouldn’t make sense.

Busser: “It’s from table [number], and they just left.”

These ladies paid me double to sit at the table and I’m grateful. I could have lost the chance to make money on that table but instead, I got extra money that I don’t have to tip out on.

Ladies, you know what’s up and I appreciate what you did.

I’m at a small, hole-in-the-wall barbecue place; it’s not anything to look at, but the food is excellent. The owner, who’s run the place for decades after inheriting it from his father, cooks only so much meat every day. He then opens up at 10:30, sells until he runs out, and then shuts down for the day, usually by 1:00 p.m.

On this particular day, there’s a substantial line waiting to order. Just after noon, the phone rings. The owner pauses from serving to answer the phone, and we just hear his side of the conversation.

Owner: “Hello?” *Pauses* “Where?” *Pauses* “No, sorry, we’re almost out.” *Pauses* “No, sorry.” 

And he hangs up. Those of us in line are a little worried. He’s almost sold out of food?

Owner: *To us* “Don’t worry, folks. I’ve got plenty left. That guy was all the way over by [Local Mall twenty minutes away]. He’s got lots of places he can eat over there.”