I had a big group of around fifteen people come into the bar and grill where I work.

Customer: “I’ll get the fried egg cheeseburger.”

When it came out to the table and he starts pointing to parts of the burger:

Customer: “What’s this?

Me: “That’s the lettuce.”

Customer: “And this?”

Me: “The tomato.”

Customer: “And this?”

Me: “The fried egg.”

Customer: “And this?”

Me: “That’s the burger…

Customer: “What’s a burger?”

I’m confused. I’ve never been asked what a burger is before.

Me: “A burger, you know beef… cow.”

Customer: *Upset.* “I don’t eat cow!”

Me: “Well, the fried egg cheeseburger comes with a burger.”

Customer: “I thought a fried egg cheeseburger was made with just the eggs.” 

He ordered something else, but my manager was adamant he still had to pay for the burger. They tipped me 1.75$ when it was all said and done.

I was a waitress. I come back from the kitchen and there is this horrible stench in the air; it’s clearly coming from one big table in my section. We thought someone had farted or something and maybe followed through a bit, but it was A LOT worse than that.

We determine that the smell seems to be coming from this one man. The manager goes to check the men’s toilet on a hunch and finds what can only be described as a fecal Jackson Pollock.

It’s EVERYWHERE. On the toilet, on the floor, when on the walls. God know what happened in there. Maybe a stoma bag broke? No judgement there but please make us aware!

He left that disaster and went to sit back at the table IN HIS OWN FILTH and finished his meal like nothing happened. We actually pick up a piece of it from the floor.

We end up having to refund meals of patrons that quite reasonably do not want to stay. The craziest part is that the owner does not let us kick him out as he is a regular. 

The thing that still haunts me to this day is that no one at his table flinched. Like did no one ask around the table “can you smell this?”. No, they went on like nothing was happening. The guy left the restaurant eventually with a jacket around his waist and with his back firmly facing the wall.

I’m working in the kitchen of a restaurant, and we’re going through a rare quiet moment. My coworker, who is a bit of a prankster, walks up to one of the chefs.

Coworker: “Hey, [Chef], one of the customers asked if our drumsticks come from the front legs or the back legs of the chicken?”

Chef: “Lemme go check the packaging.”

He starts to walk away, leaving the rest of us looking at each other.

Me: “Didn’t he used to work for KFC?”

Customer: “I really want to complain! You don’t have spaghetti on your kids’ menu, and that’s all my daughter will eat!”

Me: “Ma’am, this is a Mexican restaurant.”

Customer: “So?”

Me: “Spaghetti is Italian.”

Customer: “Shut up! Spaghetti is as American as pizza!”

Me: “Well… you’re not wrong.”

I used to work in this hillbilly dinner theatre, so the atmosphere in the lobby is fake combativeness as the setting is a Hatfield & McCoy style feud. One of my coworkers was an “in-your-face” gay guy.

A lady spotted my friend and approached him with playful aggressiveness:

Customer: “I’m gonna beat you up if you’re from the opposing side!”

Coworker: “Lady, I will pull those high heels off of you and show you how to walk in ’em.”

I don’t know how he got away with it. Maybe because the customer was drunk?