I work at one of those fancy milkshake bars that make the crazy milkshakes you see on Instagram. People absolutely lose their s*** at our store on a regular basis over orders, so we are instructed to be very clear with customers on what exactly they’re ordering.

A grandmother came in with her two grandchildren, and her young granddaughter ordered a sundae.

Me: *To the granddaughter.* “Just making sure you want just ice cream, as the sundae flavor you’ve picked is pretty thick.”

Granddaughter: “I want the sundae.”

I place their order, and then we hit a massive rush, so I continue taking orders.

About thirty minutes after they ordered, the lady came back up to me and shoved the jar of half-eaten ice cream in my face.

Customer: “My granddaughter’s sundae was too thick! She refuses to eat it! I deserve a refund!”

Me: “Sales are nonrefundable.”

She gets in front of the very long line of customers and orders me to get my manager. I gladly did so.

Manager: *To me.* “What did she order?”

Me: “A sundae.”

Manager: *To customer.* “Ma’am, you got what you ordered.”

She gets angry and refuses to leave, and customers are getting p***ed. My manager gave her a half off discount to get her to go away, which drives me NUTS, but I start heading to the back to get away from her and do dishes.

She walks up behind the counter, grabs my arm, and says:

Customer: “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Next time, be more considerate of the customers!”

Me: “Next time, order the thing you actually want.”

When my boyfriend was nineteen, he had a job at a smoothie shop. He worked with three other people and his boss. My boyfriend’s one stipulation before getting his job was that he not work with peanut butter since he is allergic. He’ll break out in hives, and if ingested, his throat will swell. Not bad enough for an EpiPen, but bad enough to need Benadryl. 

At this job, they made protein balls, and they were made with peanut butter.

One day, during a rush, my boyfriend was at the sink when the boss threw a big bowl of leftover peanut butter into the sink and told my boyfriend to wash it.

My Boyfriend: “I can’t touch that; I’ll have a breakout.”

Manager: “I need you to do it.”

After some arguing, my boyfriend, being the stubborn b***ard he is, said:

My Boyfriend: “Okay. Fine!”

Roughly five minutes later, his hands and arms are covered in hives. Once his arms and hands have visible hives, he takes a picture and sends it to the work group chat the owners are in, saying:

My Boyfriend: “Can someone cover my shift? I’m a tad under the weather.”

He walked out before anyone responded. Someone covered his shift, and the owners came in with the girl who covered the rest of his shift to yell at the boss.

The owners called my boyfriend and apologized for what happened.

Long story short, after that incident, along with stealing money from the registers and being creepy with the high school girls, the boss was fired.

Was it stupid to get an allergic reaction to make a point? Yes, he’s well aware. He was a spiteful teen with no sense of self-preservation, just pettiness. 

The owners liked him and gave him an espresso machine when he left, so he says, “it was worth it”. No. He wouldn’t and won’t do it again.

I’m working the counter when I see a teenage girl and her father come into the store.

Customer’s Daughter: “This is the place, Dad. You should try one! They’re good.”

Customer: *To me.* “What’s good?”

I hate this open question because we have twenty-four base smoothies, plus about a dozen “boosts” you can add that enhance flavors or add extra health benefits.

Me: “Well, did you want any specific flavor range? Sweet? Tart? Creamy? Fruity?”

Customer: “All seems a bit green and hippie to me. What are those boost things?”

Me: “Those can enhance the drink with extra health benefits, such as added protein or fiber.”

Customer: “I don’t need fiber! My bowels process food very quickly! I s*** almost immediately after eating, every time!”

Oooookay. We managed to get him a smoothie based on some of his daughter’s recommendations, with her looking more and more mortified as we proceeded.

He seemed to enjoy the smoothie, but not as much as he seemed to enjoy the twenty-minute restroom break he needed immediately after…

I’m behind the counter at a small boba shop tucked between a sushi place and a Korean bakery. It’s a chill afternoon crowd, mostly students and families, when a woman walks in, visibly uncomfortable already.

She glances at the menu board, then at the ingredients list posted helpfully beside it.

Customer: “So… I need to have one of your drinks for Instagram.”

Okay, some of our drinks do trend on social media from time to time, so this isn’t uncommon. I’m about to suggest what people have been sharing, but she says:

Customer: “Do you have anything… normal?”

Me: “We’ve got fruit teas, milk teas, smoothies, most with tapioca pearls or other toppings.”

She wrinkles her nose.

Customer: “Yeah, I don’t want anything with jelly or… beans. Or taro. None of that ethnic stuff. Just something American.”

I try to adopt the most neutral tone I can manage.

Me: “Boba originated in Taiwan, ma’am. Everything here is, by design, pretty ‘ethnic.'”

She laughs, but it isn’t friendly.

Customer: “Well, maybe you should start catering to regular people, too.”

At this point, the quiet in the shop gets quieter. Someone near the back actually lowers their straw mid-sip.

I keep my voice even.

Me: “Ma’am, this is a boba shop. You walked into an Asian drink café and said you don’t want anything Asian. That’s like going to a pizza place saying you don’t want anything Italian.”

Customer: “Well, first of all, pizza is from New York, and secondly, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

Me: “Ma’am, this menu isn’t the problem, your worldview is.”

She exits without buying anything, but hopefully she learned something.

I work at a smoothie shop on my school’s campus. There is also a daycare on campus for parents who have children and are going back to school. A mother and her (maybe) three-year-old son come into the shop. At first, she seems really normal and nice. I take her order and begin to make their drinks, which involves turning on the blender, which is obviously loud.

The son starts covering his ears and screams.

Mom: “TURN THAT OFF, NOW!”

Me: *Turns it off.* “I’m sorry; is everything okay, ma’am?”

Mom: “No. You are triggering my son’s sensory issues. He’s autistic.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, ma’am. Would you guys like to sit outside the shop? When I’m done, I can bring you your smoothies.”

Mom: “No. We are not leaving. You can manually smash the fruit in a mojito.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, but we actually don’t use those. In order for me to finish the drink, I do, unfortunately, have to use the blender. It will only take like two minutes. I really have no issue walking your drinks out if you want to wait outside.”

Mom: “You know what? I’ll be sending an email about this to your manager and the dean of this school.”

Me: “Okay. Have a nice day.”

Luckily, the whole interaction was recorded on the security camera, so I’m not super worried about her email.