I work in a fast-casual restaurant that mostly serves soups, salads, and sandwiches. Only cold sandwiches by themselves come with pickles unless they are otherwise requested.

I see a ticket order for a hot sandwich, with a note that says, “No pickles, allergy.” Okay, easy enough. I can follow the allergy protocol. But then, I realize it’s the BBQ sandwich, and our BBQ sauce is vinegar-based, so I need to know if her pickle allergy is to the cucumber or the vinegar. I call the customer up to the counter. I’m not a manager, but my general manager is listening to this conversation while working in our drive-thru.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am. I see there’s a pickle allergy on your order?”

Customer: “Yes, your cashier said it doesn’t come with pickles, but all sandwiches have to have pickles and I’m just allergic.”

Me: “Okay, ma’am. Just so you know, only our cold sandwiches come with pickles, and this is a hot sandwich. But I’ll do my best to have nothing with pickles touch your food. I do need to ask, though, is the allergy to cucumbers or vinegar?”

Customer: “Just to the whole pickle. It doesn’t matter what part. Just don’t get anything pickle near my food and it’ll be fine.”

Me: “Ma’am, if the problem is with vinegar, then I can no longer in good conscience make you this sandwich as it is, and neither can any of the staff, as our BBQ sauce is completely vinegar-based. So is the allergy to cucumbers or vinegar?”

Customer: “Just make my sandwich with everything on it the way it’s supposed to be and don’t give me a pickle! How hard is that?! I’m not allergic to them at all; I just hate pickle juice making my toasted sandwiches all soggy!”

Me: *Twitches* “I’ll have that ready for you in a minute.”

I turned around to make her food and internally screamed.

Related:
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 19
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 18
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 17
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 16
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 15

I have very thick hair. My mum likes to joke that I can tie down ships whenever I have it in a plait.

I am working one night and I serve a lady and her family their food. I feel there’s something off about her. Her smile looks too forced and her voice drips sugar when she speaks to me.

Customer: “Thank you, and I love your hair, by the way. You have to tell me who did your extensions.”

It honestly takes me a second to process that part.

Me: “Thanks, but I don’t have any extensions in my hair. It’s just really thick.”

Customer: “No! No, it’s not. No one’s hair is that thick.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but this is my natural hair.”

I swear I see her eye twitch slightly as she continues smiling. I turn to walk away when I feel a really sharp tug on my head. I yelp in pain and turn around to see that the customer is trying to rip out my “extensions.”

Customer: “DON’T LIE TO ME, YOU LITTLE B****! NO ONE’S HAIR IS THAT THICK! DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME! TELL ME YOU’RE WRONG!”

This lasted about ten seconds until her husband pulled her off me and made her sit down. I hurried away, about to cry. I grabbed one of my managers and told them what had happened. I went upstairs, and from what I heard later on, my manager kicked them all out, banned the customer from the restaurant, and notified the police. I got to sit upstairs for half an hour. My head’s still a little sore, but I definitely won’t forget that encounter.

For the first time since last March, I am going to an indoor restaurant with my family. There’s a wait, and I’ve been put in charge of the buzzer that lets us know when they’re ready to seat us. After about forty minutes, the buzzer goes off, and I hand it to the hostess at the front.

Hostess: “Go right on in. If the girl seating you asks for your buzzer number, you’re number thirty.”

We go in and are greeted by a smiling waitress. I am somewhat hard of hearing in loud locations, and this place is as packed as it can get with social distancing still enforced. She asks me a short question I can’t quite make out; I only hear the sound “-ty”, so I assume she’s confirming our buzzer number.

Me: “Thirty.”

The waitress’s eyes widen, and it takes me a moment to realize she hadn’t said THIR-ty, but PAR-ty.

Me: “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Five. Party of five.”

I’m sorry, dear waitress, you did not just get a party of thirty dropped on you, just a dolt who’s forgotten how restaurants work after a year.

I’m not usually a complaining person, but when these two things happened on the same day, I must have had some time on my hands.

Thing #1: We ordered takeaway from [Restaurant]. At the bottom of our loaded fries, we found a large shard of broken glass. I called the restaurant immediately. The manager was apologetic but only just. Not a massive deal: I just wanted them to know so they could investigate and prevent further food endangering anyone. End result, we got sent a voucher for a free [signature entree dish that no one really likes] for our “next order”.

Thing #2: I had a special cleaning product in my cupboard and discovered that one of them had leached up out of the upright bottle and spilled all through the cupboard. As that was the second time that had happened with that brand of product, I emailed them to inform them and see if there had been a reported fault with the bottle. End result: I was sent a MASSIVE box of the company’s full range of cleaning products, skincare products, and cosmetics. 

Moral of the story: complain about a serious food safety issue, get a weird onion thing; complain about a minor packaging fault, get given a huge box of freebies.

When I was a teenager, like many of my peers, I worked in a restaurant. I worked hard, and within a few months, I was a shift supervisor. I always worked closing because I was in school still.

One day in class, my phone started blowing up, call after call after call. It was my manager. I called back in the brief period between classes. He needed a supervisor to cover the midday and I had to quickly tell him I was in school and couldn’t be there.

I went in for my normal shift that evening and was immediately pulled into the manager’s office where I was told that I had been unprofessional and that I would occasionally be expected to cover other shifts. Then, I was told I would get a week’s suspension with no pay. I pointed out that I was in school. High school. But that didn’t matter.

Our company has a policy that certain punishments would be put on a written record and the employee got a copy. I brought this up and the manager was only too happy to oblige. On the form, I would get to explain my side and we both would sign it. I wrote that I was still in high school and that’s where I was when I refused to cover the shift.

As soon as I left, I called the regional manager and explained what happened. I basically said that if I didn’t get to work the next day, I’d be showing that paper to the department of labor. When I came in the next night, the store manager had been moved to another store and we had a new one who was pretty cool.

Always get stuff in writing. If not, get it in recording. Of course, check up on your local laws, but having a recording can save your butt just as much as writing.