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Pouring Your Brain Cells Out With The Drinks

, , , , , , | Working | June 19, 2020

I am working at an event that starts in thirty minutes. My husband has just let me know he can’t bring me lunch like he was planning — the baby’s nap ran long — so I run to the nearest fast food place and rush through the drive-thru. 

Me: “Can I get a chicken sandwich combo with American cheese instead of Swiss? With a [drink]. And can I also get a large diet [drink]?”

Employee #1: “Sure. That will be [price]. Please pull forward.”

I do so.

Employee #2: “[Price], please. The food will be right out!”

[Employee #2] walks away. So, I wait. Five minutes in, [Employee #1] finally walks over to the window, pours my drinks, and walks back to the floor without giving them to me. She and [Employee #2] send out several in-store orders and stand around a while.

Meanwhile, I’m getting panicky about being back to my event. Finally, [Employee #1] walks to the window with a bag of food. It’s probably been over ten minutes.

Employee #1: “You had the double cheeseburger, right?”

Me: “No… I ordered the chicken sandwich.”

[Employee #1] wordlessly walks away, bag in hand. Meanwhile, I’m thinking I’ll have no choice but to drive away without the food I’ve already paid for when she comes back with a new bag.

Employee #1: “Here you go. Have a nice day.”

Me: “Um… can I have the drinks I ordered?”

Employee #1: *Snippy* “Well, I didn’t know they were yours! I just walked over here!”

Me: “So, you took my order and poured the drinks, but didn’t know they were mine?”

The employee had no response. The kicker: I finally got back to my event with about ten minutes to scarf down my food… and the order was still wrong.

Mama Mushroom, Her Name Is Karen

, , , , , | Right | June 5, 2020

I work at a Mexican restaurant. A family of four comes in and I take their orders. 

Customer: “I would like this—”

The customer points to a menu item.

Customer: “—but I don’t want mushrooms. I am very allergic to mushrooms, so please make sure the cooks know.”

Me: “All righty, ma’am. No problem.”

I take her daughter’s order, but as the daughter is ordering, her mom cuts in.

Customer: “Make sure my daughter’s food doesn’t have mushrooms, either. We don’t know if she is allergic like me, but we don’t want to take the chance.”

Me: “Okay, not a problem!”

The dad and son order, and I proceed to put their order into the computer. I make sure to let the cooks know that they do not want any mushrooms. After the food is done, I carry it out to my table.

Me: “Does everything look okay? Can I get you all anything else right now?” 

Customer: “What is this?”

Me: “The chicken you ordered. Is there a problem?”

Customer: “These are mushrooms! I can’t eat this! I am deathly allergic to mushrooms!”

I’m just thinking to myself, “If you are THAT deathly allergic to mushrooms, why would you order one of the only things on the menu that has mushrooms?!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, and I apologize. I will have them make you a new plate as soon as possible!”

I turn to her daughter.

Me: “Are there mushrooms on your plate?”

Daughter: “No, I don’t think so.”

Mom: “Well, it looks like there are mushrooms on hers!”

Me: “ I can have the cooks make a new plate for her, too, if you want.”

Daughter: “No, it’s fine.”

Me: “Okay. Well, ma’am, I will have your new plate out shortly.”

Customer: “Okay, thanks.”

I know that the plate doesn’t have any mushrooms on it, but “the customer is always right,” so I have the cooks make her a new plate. I bring out the new plate and set it down.

Me: “Here you are, ma’am. Enjoy!”

Customer: “Wait.” *Poking her food* “What is this? This looks like a mushroom! I am allergic to mushrooms! Don’t you get it?! I could die!”

Their son, age four, is jumping up and down in the booth.



The customer proceeds to pick up the “mushroom” with her fork and shoves it in my face.

Customer: “Does this look like a mushroom to you?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but that is an onion. It’s just a burnt onion. From the grill. I made sure that there were no mushrooms on this plate.”

Customer: “So, you’re telling me that this isn’t a mushroom?!”

She continues to push the fork closer to my face.

Customer: “Are you telling me that I’m wrong?!”

Me: “Ma’am, I can assure you that it is not a mushroom. It’s a burnt onion.”

Customer: “Let me speak with your manager.”

I go and get my manager, and my manager goes over to my table. The customer tells my manager that I put mushrooms in her food knowing that she was allergic, and then proceeds to stick the fork in my manager’s face!

Manager: “Ma’am, I am sorry. We will make you a new plate. Everything will be cooked in separate pans, and we will make it to-go!”

The customer was very upset with me and left me no tip.

They Talk Too Much

, , , , | Right | May 22, 2020

My wife has a tour company, and we often have military reunions — mostly WWII guys — come to town with multiple buses, which require us to have multiple guides. I’m standing at the second coach. 

Customer: “Are you our guide?”

Me: “I’m one of them, yes. Do you have a question?”

Customer: “Yes. Are you going to be our guide?”

Me: “I am if you are on this coach.”

Customer: “Good. I’m just making sure I’m not on the coach with the same guide from yesterday.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. That was the city tour, yes? What didn’t you like about it?”

Customer: “She talked the whole time we were on the bus.”

I ignore the irony of wanting a silent tour guide.

Me: “Okay, do you remember her name?”

Customer: “No, but she’s standing next to the other bus; that’s why I want to make sure that woman isn’t our guide.”

Me: “Oh, you mean my wife? Yes, she’ll be on the first coach. I’ve got this one.”

The customer muttered something under his breath, got on the bus, and sat in the back and talked to his friends during the entire tour. I still have no idea why someone would take a city tour but not want to hear any information about the city!

Not Meeting The Bar For Customer Service

, , , , , , | Working | May 21, 2020

I deliver for an app-based food/item delivery service, and I get an order to pay for and pick up from a Mexican restaurant I have never been to before. I head in and they seem busy with a group that has shown up early so I figure that, like most places, the carryouts are handled at the bar, so I stand by the bar and wait.

For fifteen minutes, I wait, periodically meeting the eyes of several of the waitstaff as they pass and serve the people in the front, and some who go back to the back where I assume the large party is seated. At no point does anyone acknowledge me and no one seems to be working at the bar. After I realize how much time has passed, I head to the host stand and stand there for five minutes. Then, a woman walks up to me.

Hostess: “How many?”

Me: “No, um, where do I pay for and pick up a to-go order?”

Hostess: “Over at the bar.”

The hostess waved for me to follow. I stared off into space as if I were breaking the fourth wall in a sitcom.

Speaking American Is A Country Diction In Terms, Part 2

, , , , , | Right | January 17, 2014

(I’ve lived in New Jersey all my life but moved to Missouri roughly two months ago. I’m managing the fitting rooms in our store when a husband and wife approach me.)

Husband: “Ma’am, do you think you can help my wife find something?”

Me: “Oh! Of course! What were you looking for?”

(The couple stares at me in shock for a few seconds.)

Husband: “Where are you from? You have a very strange accent.”

Me: “I just moved out here from Jersey.”

Wife: “That’s in Europe, right?”

Me: “Er… no. I mean New Jersey. The state.”

Husband: “Oh, so you’re from Eastern Europe?”

Me: “No, sir. The East Coast of the United States.”

Husband: “Was New Jersey one of those Soviet countries?”

Wife: “It must have been. You poor dear, living under such oppression. Welcome to America! Your English really is excellent!”

Me: “Uh… thanks. What was it you were looking for?”

Wife: “Oh, I’ll get someone else to help me. I really dislike being helped by foreigners.”

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