Customer: “The bacon in my sandwich has gone off! It’s rotten!”

Me: “May I see?”

She shows me the offending ingredient.

Me: “Actually, that’s—”

Customer: “I want a refund!”

Me: “Well, I—”

Customer’s Friend: *To the customer* “Oh, my God, [Customer]. Really?”

Customer: “What?! I just want a refund! They’re lucky I’m not reporting them for serving rotten meat!”

Me: “I can’t give you a refund, madam.”

Customer: “Why not?!”

Me: “Because that bacon is a slice of tomato.”

Sadly, as soon as she realized what it was, she demanded compensation for being served tomato that looks like bacon. Her embarrassed friend mercifully dragged her out of there.

We have to wear gloves when preparing food. Occasionally, Muslim or Jewish people come in so we have to take our gloves off, wash our hands, and put new gloves on because our hands have come into contact with pork.

A customer comes in and explicitly states:

Customer: “I’m a Muslim, so I can’t eat any pork. I’ll have the number six.”

As per the usual procedure, I take my gloves off, wash my hands, and put new gloves on — all of which she observes me doing — and start making her sandwich. She stands over the counter, watching me every step of the way, and so, upon finishing, I wrap the sandwich up and go to hand it to her.

Customer: “Wait a minute… Did you change gloves before you made this for me?”

Me: “Yes, you’ve been watching since you came into the store.”

Customer: “Sorry, but could you remake this? I’m just not sure if you actually washed your hands and changed gloves.”

I’m pretty annoyed, but of course, I oblige to remake her sandwich. This time, I make absolutely certain that she watches me wash my hands and change gloves so she can’t say otherwise. I make her sandwich again and go to hand it to her.

Customer: “Wait, did you wash and sanitize the table before making this one? There could have been bacon or ham on that table, and I don’t want to risk eating that.”

I am now making her a THIRD sandwich, after washing and sanitizing the table and, of course, washing my hands and changing gloves again. There’s no possible way she could have an issue now. I make the sandwich again, and this time, there appear to be no problems — how could there be? — and she sits down to eat her food.

Bear in mind that there have been other customers in the store and calling for delivery, making things extremely hectic for me and my two coworkers in the store.

The customer comes back up to the front a few minutes later.

Customer: “What kind of sandwich is this?”

Me: “That’s a number six: the roast beef and cheese.”

Customer: “Oh, I wanted turkey.”

A lady comes in with her two kids and asks for three sandwiches, which I kindly proceed to make.

Firstly, I take care of the two kids with no problem; the kids are polite and tell me exactly what they want. Then comes the mom; she orders a footlong turkey. When it comes out of the oven, we start the veggies.

Our store policy is to change our gloves if we touch anything outside of the prep area so as to not contaminate, but to be courteous, I even change my gloves between sandwiches, so at this point, I have touched NOTHING but her sub. She leans over:

Customer: “Lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions.”

I put all of them on her sandwich, pickles LAST, and I then ask:

Me: “Anything else ma’am?”

Customer: “No.”

I go to close the sandwich in order to cut it. She loses it. She goes bananas and reaches over the counter, almost hitting me.

Me: “What’s wrong?!”

Customer: “You are disgusting! Change your gloves! You touched the pickles with those hands!”

Me: “But ma’am, there are pickles on your sandwich.”

Customer: “It’s not the same! That is gross; pickles are gross!”

Me: “Would you like me to change gloves, take the pickles off, or perhaps make you a new sandwich?”

Customer: “No! I want those pickles on there; eating isn’t the same as touching!”

I saw that arguing would be futile. I went on with her demand, apologized, and let her go on her merry way.

Related:
Got Yourself Into A Bit Of A Pickle

I work at a sandwich delivery place that is known for being rather fast. We only have a limited selection of sandwiches, none of them hot.

Today is relatively slow and it is just me, my coworker, and my manager getting random things done until the phone rings, at which point I pick it up. I can barely understand this guy; he sounds like an off-screen Peanuts adult.

Customer: “Hey, is this [Sandwich Place]?”

Me: “Yes, it is, sir.”

Customer: “What? I can’t hear you; you have a bad connection.”

Me: “I said yes, it is, sir.”

Customer: “You have a bad connection; I’m going to call back.”

The customer hangs up and I go back to work, thinking it was a one-time thing. A couple of minutes later he rings us up again.

Customer: “Is this [Sandwich Place]?”

Me: “Yes, this is [Sandwich Place] at [Location].”

The customer explains exactly what he wants in one giant run-on sentence with no pauses. The procedure is to ask for his phone number first and then his address to make sure he is within our area. I scribble the order down as best I can.

Me: “All right, sir, what’s the address?”

Customer: “You have a bad connection; I’m gonna call back.”

He hangs up, and I go back to work. By this point, my coworker has noticed and he is laughing. A couple of minutes later, the phone rings and we recognize the number as the same guy, so my manager picks up. The order seems to go smoothly until, again, my manager asks for his address, at which point my manager gently hangs the phone up.

Manager: *Shrugging* “He had a bad connection, apparently.”

We think it’s over until five minutes later this same guy calls back, this time sounding much clearer and on a different phone number. We get through the address fine, so I ask for what sandwich he wants.

Customer: “Can I get a [muffle muffle]?”

Me: “What was that?”

He then speaks as loudly as humanly possible, which ironically makes him even harder to understand.

Customer: “CAN I GET A [MUFFLE MUFFLE]?!”

Me: “Sir, yelling is not going to make you more understandable.”

Customer: *With a familiar tone* “You have a bad—”

I make a desperate guess so as not to repeat this.

Me: “Was that a Philly cheesesteak, sir?”

Customer: “Yes! God, finally!”

Me: “Sir, we don’t serve hot sandwiches. Only cold ones.”

Customer: *Sounding defeated* “You don’t?”

Me: “Nope.”

The customer hung up for the last time. We had a good laugh about it, all that for just a Philly cheesesteak that we don’t have. Next time, I would recommend Subway.

When I was younger, I worked at a sub sandwich chain. I was seventeen and fully enrolled in school, and I worked the closing shifts, so I was working from an hour after school finished until midnight. Our location closed at 11:00.

At 10:30 one night, a man walked in and checked the menu. We had a daily “sub of the day” that was discounted, and the man decided to order that one. I had to regretfully inform him:

Me: “I’m afraid we’re out of the meatballs for that sandwich.”

Customer: “Go make more, then!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t. We make them in the mornings because they take a few hours to defrost.”

Customer: “Fine. But then you have to make me whichever sub I want, regardless of price, for the same daily deal.”

Me: “That’s not in our policies, but I am happy to make you a sandwich from what we do have.”

He LOST it. He started swearing at me and calling me a b****.

Customer: “By law, you have to make me whatever I want for the same discounted price! I’m going to call the police!”

This went on for around fifteen minutes, and it was getting close to closing time. I’d had a long day and I was not having it. Finally, I said:

Me: “Go ahead and call the police. You can have a seat while I close up and lock the doors.”

He stormed out and I never saw him again. All of this over like… $3.