(I work in a very popular coffee chain. We allow people to bring in company mugs and charge accordingly to how many ounces of liquid the cups hold.)

Me: “All right, ma’am, that’ll be $2.37.”

Customer: “No, it’s not. I pay $1.50 for this.”

Me: “That is a 24 oz cup, correct?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “And you can see on the display screen I have hit personal cup 24 oz?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “And you can see that it’s ringing in $2.37 after tax?”

Customer: “Listen here, you snide little b*****, I don’t need you standing here calling me stupid. I can read and I see what you did but you’re just trying to rob me! I pay $1.50 every f****** day for this cup and that’s what I’m going to pay.”

Me: “Well, I can’t sell you our product for that price so you have two options: either hand me the amount you’ve been rightfully charged or have a good night.”

Customer: “You are a c*** and I’m going to corporate with this! Get me the number for your corporate office!”

(I get her the number and she leaves screaming.)

Customer: “I’ll have your job and your stupid face won’t ever work anywhere in this town again! I always pay $1.50! It’s the principle not the price! I’m the customer!”

(She did call corporate but they sided with me and the next time I saw her she had no problem paying the proper amount.)

(I work as a host at a popular restaurant. It’s my job to welcome and seat everyone that comes in and manage reservations, as evident by the massive reservation book on the host stand just inside the door. A man enters the restaurant alone one night. Usually when people come alone it means they’re headed to the bar.)

Me: “Hello!”

Man: “Hi there.”

(He leans against the host stand.)

Me: “How’re you doing tonight?”

Man: “Not too bad, and yourself?”

Me: “Pretty good, thanks.”

(He continues to lean, smiling at me.)

Me: “So, table for one, or are you on your way to the bar?”

Man: “Table for one sounds pretty pathetic, doesn’t it? Wanna join me?”

Me: “Thanks for the invite, but I’m on the clock for a few more hours.”

(He stares at me blankly.)

Me: “I’m working.”

Man: “What do you do?”

Me: “I’m the host.”

(He stares, confused.)

Me: “I welcome people and find them a place to sit.”

Man: “What, here?”

Me: “Yes.”

Man: “At this restaurant?”

Me: “You got it.”

Man: “OH!”

Me: “So, table for one?”

(I’m working as a server in my family’s restaurant. It’s important to note that I’m half-black, but can pass for being a tan white. A group I’m serving flag me down.)

Customer: “Hey, I got a complaint about you.”

Me: “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Customer: “My wife and I’ve been finished for ten minutes and those white people over at the other table got their checks and their table cleaned and we still haven’t even gotten ours.”

(I look down at their table, I checked up on them not five minutes ago to ask for the check and they said they weren’t done, and they haven’t eaten much more. Meanwhile the customers they’re talking about had cleaned their plates.)

Customer: “You think we’re gonna pay at all, much less tip, for such a discriminatory business? Forget it. We want to talk to your manager and get your racist a** fired.”

Me: “Sir… I’ll do you one better. Want me to get the owner?”

(The customer grins smugly and nods.)

Me: “Hey, Dad!”

(My dad, who is unmistakably black, came up to the table. Upon seeing him, the customer looked at me and registered that I’m not just really tan, and just kind of sank into his bench while his wife, who had just looked embarrassed at this ordeal, burst out laughing. My dad at least got a good laugh out of it – immediately before he banned the guy from the restaurant for trying to use the race card to snag a free meal.)

(I am on a date with a soon-to-be boyfriend. This is one of the first times we have been out, but it still isn’t awkward since we’ve been friends for a while. For some reason, I am admiring the steak knives on the table. They seem unusually big and sharp for a place like this.)

Me: “Wow, these steak knives are really big!”

Him: “Nah, they’re totally normal sized knives!”

Me: “Oh, come on! You could totally kill someone with this knife!”

Him: *facial expression suddenly turns really creepy* “Oh, babe, you know I wouldn’t kill you with a knife. There would be way too much blood…”

(At the cafe where I work, we make burgers and garden burgers. A customer comes in and asks us many questions about the garden burger, even going so far as to ask for the box so she can check the ingredients and stating multiple times that she is vegan and gluten-free. Our cook makes a big show of using clean new utensils and a pan instead of the grill we cook meat on to make her order.)

Me: “Dude… you put butter in the pan with her garden burger.”

Cook: “So? I always put butter in! It helps keep it from sticking and tastes nice!”

Me: “She just spent ten minutes making sure that the patty was vegan.”

Cook: “So?”

Me: “Butter isn’t vegan! It’s a dairy product, made from milk! She won’t want it!”

Cook: “…”

(After a moment of silence, he shrugs, flips the patty, and nonchalantly replies.)

Cook: “F*** it. She won’t notice.”

(Five minutes later, she got her garden burger, took a bite, and threw a fit, throwing the burger back at our cook before storming off. Guess she could taste it, and he had to wear the greasy stain on his shirt from that burger all night long.)

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