A One-Person Announcement System

, , , | Working | February 15, 2020

(My family and I are enjoying a weekend away at a vacation park. On Friday evening, we decide to go to the main area to have a bite to eat in one of the restaurants present in the park.)

Hostess: “Hello, welcome. How can I help you?”

Me: “We would like a table for six for dinner tonight.”

Hostess: “Ooh, I am afraid I can’t help you with that at the moment; management made a slight error in the scheduling today, and they forgot to schedule anyone besides me to work in the restaurant.”

Me: “O…kay, we’ll just find something else to eat, then.”

Hostess: “That might be best, yes; our other restaurants are open.”

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Aye Aioli!

, , , , , | Working | February 14, 2020

(My mom is a vegetarian and hates the taste of anything resembling mayonnaise. She goes to a vegan restaurant for lunch and orders a BBQ “beef” sandwich. When the waitress brings her order, in addition to the BBQ sauce the bun is covered in this light orange goo.)

Mom: “Thank you, and I’m sorry, but I actually ordered this without the chipotle aioli.”

Waitress: “It’s not aioli; it’s chipotle mayo.”

Mom: *trying not to say that’s what aioli is* “Oh, my mistake. The menu said aioli, so that’s what I asked to be left off; I don’t like mayo or mayo-like products.”

Waitress: “Yeah, it says no aioli on the ticket but that’s mayo. It’s okay. We’re a vegan restaurant; you can eat it.”

Mom: “Yes, I know it’s vegan. I just don’t like it. A lot. I’m sorry.”

Waitress: *sighing* “Fine, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some stupid egg thing.”

(The waitress walks to the kitchen, which is open and about twelve feet from us.)

Waitress: “Can you remake this without mayo?”

Cook: “It’s not mayo; it’s aioli.”

Waitress: “But she doesn’t want it.”

Cook: “It’s okay; we’re vegan.”

(My mom is sitting at the table literally wanting to pound her head against it.)

Mom: “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt. Can I get it with nothing but the BBQ sauce, please? It’s okay that it’s vegan; I just don’t eat it.”

Cook: “Oh, okay. We can do that ‘cause, you know, the ticket did say, ‘no aioli’ originally.”

(It’s almost as if food should be made the way it’s requested.)

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Unfiltered Story #186880

, , , | Unfiltered | February 14, 2020

My manager has just seated a table in my section, an older woman, her husband, their adult daughter and her toddler. I guess prior to being put in my section, they tried to sit somewhere else but my manager told them that server was just triple sat so she could not put them there. I take their drink order and as I’m preparing it, another server is restocking our salad station where we make toss salads for customers who order them. This is very close to the aforementioned table, raw onion was one of the things that were just filled. I barely get close to the table.

Older Lady: “I smell a gas leak.”

Me: “Oh no, that’s just the onion we have for toss salads in the waitress station, it was just filled.”

Older Lady: “No. I smell gas.”

Me: (I’ll admit that I was short with her when I said this as I found it ridiculous that someone who just came into the building assumed they knew more about the surroundings than someone who was working there) “I assure you, we do not have a gas leak, it’s just onion you smell.”

The rest of their meal went fine, I was pleasant with the rest of our interactions. After leaving them the bill, the older man goes up to pay but I can hear the older lady complaining about something, I’m not close enough to hear her exact words. After they left, I asked my manager what she said and he told me she said that the other manager, the one who sat them, and I were “snippy” with her. He also told me while she was complaining her husband snuck me a tip on the credit card receipt, making sure she didn’t notice.

Sadly, She’s Not Scone Anywhere

, , , , , , | Right | February 14, 2020

When I was a young teen, I worked at a fifties-themed restaurant in our heavily tourist-oriented downtown. I was just the dishwasher and prep cook, and the real star of our little restaurant was our elderly cook.

She made all our fabulous baked goods, soups, desserts, and sauces, and she had “signature” items that drew in a lot of people. She had been a sous-chef at some high-end, fancy restaurant before her age made her look for something less demanding. She was in her 70s, a tough, plainspoken, chain-smoking kitchen genius. One of the things she made better than anyone else was scones.

One busy Sunday morning, she had already worked her hours and gone home. I was alone in the kitchen, since the fry cook had left for a bathroom break and the restaurant’s owner was up front handling the cash register.

Suddenly, a very large, loud woman in a vividly red dress barged into the kitchen and started yelling at me that she wanted the cook’s scone recipe. She forced me into a corner and kept screaming in my face about how she came to Stratford every year and how the cook always refused to share her recipe.

I was only fourteen and a rather timid, shy fourteen at that, and the woman’s yelling, flailing arms, and intrusion into my physical space had me scared, flustered, and close to tears.

The business’s owner heard the woman yelling even over the din of a full restaurant and ran into the kitchen. Seeing what was going on, she grabbed the screeching woman by the neck of her dress and bodily hauled her out of the restaurant. As she frog-marched the woman out, she yelled into her ear, “I will not have anyone coming into my restaurant, barging into my kitchen, and abusing my staff! Get out! If I ever see you back here again, I’ll have you charged with trespassing!”

The owner then came back into the kitchen and calmed me down. She told me that this woman was an American tourist who came every summer and always tried some ugly tactic to attempt to get the cook to part with the recipe. She had already tried bribing her, waiting until the end of her shift and following her to her home, and even threatening her. The cook had always managed to send her packing with her typical snarkiness.

She also told me that the only reason the cook wouldn’t give her the recipe is that it required steps to be done in perfect order, with exact timing, and with a very light touch, and she doubted the screaming, overly-entitled tourist nutbar could manage it… and she was just the type to sue her if her attempts at the recipe failed.

We never saw the insane tourist harpy again, thankfully.

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Unfiltered Story #186868

, , | Unfiltered | February 13, 2020

(I work in a cross between a diner and a fast food place. We make everything as the order is taken, which means that if we’re busy there is a huge line of tickets up. One night there are 15 or 20 up, along with a huge line.)
Customer: “Excuse me, ma’am?”
Me: “Yes, can I help you?”
Customer: “That sandwich you’ve got up there-”
Me: “Uh, what sandwich?”
Customer: “The hamburger. Don’t put lettuce and tomato on it.”
*she leaves*
Me: “Right, well, if I see a hamburger and it says lettuce and tomato, it’s getting lettuce and tomato.