I work in a café. One of our dishes is a cheese and tomato pasta, which is loaded with cheese and tomato. A family (parents, son, and daughter) comes in and the mum very loudly announces:

Mother: “My son is allergic to cheese and tomato and must not have anything that has been in contact with them.”

Waiter: “Okay, we understand.”

They write this down and make everyone else aware of the allergy. The family orders food, including this pasta dish. The food is brought out and given out. When it comes to the pasta:

Waiter: “Who is the pasta for?”

The mum points to the son and the waiter is taken aback.

Waiter: “We are unable to give this to your son as it has cheese and tomato in it.”

The waiter takes the dish back to the kitchen and explains the situation, saying the mum will be coming up to order something else. The mum comes up to the till, not to reorder food, but to demand the manager, who is called over.

Mother: “You’ve stolen my son’s food and you’re refusing to give it back!”

Manager: “Madam, we can’t give this dish to your son as you have said he is allergic to cheese and tomato, and this dish is predominantly that.”

Mother: “I paid for that dish, and that is what my son wants! It’s pasta; he can have pasta.”

Manager: “Yes, but it’s also covered in cheese and tomatoes, two things you said your child is allergic to and can’t come into contact with.”

Mother: “But it’s pasta! He’s allowed pasta!”

Manager: “But he’s not allowed cheese and tomato.”

This goes on for a few minutes with the mum not backing down. We offer to make a dairy-free cheese option, minus the tomatoes, but the mum wants the tomatoes added, which we refuse. The manager has had enough of this.

Manager: “Madam, I have refunded your entire table. Please leave.”

Mother: “Seriously?! I’m going to give you negative feedback and ring your head office for not serving us!”

Manager: “Yes, please do tell them how we chose not to serve your child the food items he’s allergic to. The number for the head office is here.”

The mum was handed a business card and shown the door. We had an email from the head office a few weeks later asking for our side of the complaint, and when we explained, they sided with us and said we did our jobs correctly.

Even better, the mum left feedback on the website and was laughed at and berated by other people on the site for wanting to make her son ill and trying to get the café in trouble for following guidelines.

Related:
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 25
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 24
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 23
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 22
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 21

I am a fire marshal at my place of work. Essentially, it means I am responsible for ensuring that my assigned area is clear of people when the fire alarm sounds, and I am authorised to use a fire extinguisher and run the Health-And-Safety-mandated weekly test. Due to the others on site having more demanding roles, I usually run the weekly test.

To do the test, I have to call the service company to inform them I want a test state for our building (so the fire service is not dispatched), set the alarm board to avoid cutting off the gas, and announce on the PA system that we are in a fire alarm test. As there are many deaf and hearing-impaired staff on site, I also have to leave at least two minutes from the announcement until the alarm so that they can be updated.

On the morning of our story, I have been solidly at my desk for an hour and forty-five minutes, I have not announced anything, nor have I informed my colleagues that I am doing the test — something I make sure to do, so no one thinks I am shirking my regular tasks.

The alarm sounds out. It is loud, wailing, and accompanied by flashing lights — deaf colleagues, after all. Right away, I stand and tell my manager that this cannot be a test. She is a fire marshal also, as is my team lead. Two other staff in the office have already left for the safety point. The final one is still on the phone.

Me: “We need to leave the office now.”

[Colleague] continues to talk on the phone.

Me: “This is a real alarm. We have to go now.”

Manager: “[Colleague], end the call.”

[Colleague] carries on with a long “goodbye” to the caller and then stops to note who she was talking to and what record it was about.

Me: “This is a real alarm. There could be a fire in the building.”

Manager: “Out of the office. Now.”

[Colleague] stops to fetch a coat and scarf. It is early spring, but not cold enough to need that much.

Me: “[Colleague]! We have to go!!”

Colleague: “Oh, it isn’t a test? I thought you had to do those!”

I usher her out of the office.

Me: “I didn’t tell you I was doing a test, I didn’t announce it, and all six other people in this section evacuated. It is not a test.”

As it turned out, a large space heater placed on a desk — I work with some very… different… people — had triggered a smoke detector.

My colleague had a very stern talking-to from management and needed to sign an improvement notice over the incident. When a fire marshal tells you to get going, you get going!

I used to work as a supervisor at a department store in England before I got my current office-based job. It was a good move for me, and there were no hard feelings when I left; we even had a great leaving party, which is what makes this so bizarre.

I go back to the store occasionally to window shop and catch up with my old colleagues. This takes place eight months after I leave.

I’m talking with two of my former colleagues about random life things when a third comes up to us.

Coworker #3: “Hey, [My Name], haven’t seen you in ages! How’s things?”

Me: “Good, thanks! Been reading a few books lately.”

Coworker #3: “That’s nice. So, are you on holiday this week?”

Me: “No, why?”

Coworker #3: “Oh, day off? I feel like we haven’t worked together for months!”

[Coworker #1] and [Coworker #2] laugh.

Coworker #1: “I know, right?”

Coworker #3: “So, will you be giving out sales targets tomorrow, then?”

I realise she isn’t joking

Me: “I… got a new job?”

Coworker #3: “Oh, really? When are you going?”

Me: *Pauses* “Eight months ago.”

Coworker #3: “Really?”

Coworker #2: “You went to her leaving party!”

At that point, I just backed away and went to find some other people to talk to. But really, did I make so little impact that this colleague didn’t notice I was gone for eight months? Or was she really unobservant?

Related:
Mister Cellophane, The Early Years

This story concerns a manager. At least, that’s what we called him. We never really figured out what his job was since it didn’t exist before he was here and nobody ever replaced him when he left. He had decided to move to England with his family and apparently a good chunk of money (which to be honest is how he got the job).

This being rural England and him being foreign, you can imagine why a good chunk of the workforce didn’t like him, which is sad, because there were so many perfectly good, non-crappy reasons to dislike him.

While I was getting some parts from the stores, he sauntered up next to me, leaned on the racking and, with a big smile on his face, said:

Manager: “I’m very disappointed in you.”

Me: “Why?”

Manager: “[Unimportant job that he asked me to do] hasn’t been done yet. Why not?”

Me: “I need to finish welding the parts, and the welder isn’t working right now.”

We’d just gotten a new welder and the right plug socket hadn’t been fitted yet.

Then, he said the golden line.

Manager: “That’s not my problem. I want it done.”

And he walked off.

Not your problem? Okay, I can fix that! So, I sent him an email — CCing Human Resources — that roughly read:

Email: “Hi, [Manager]. You spoke to me about [job] that you want done and I told you we’re waiting on the welder to get set up. You told me that it ‘wasn’t your problem’ and that you ‘want it done’. Since nobody in their right mind would ever speak to a coworker this way, let alone a manager, I assume it was a ‘lost in translation’ kind of mistake and you meant you want to be more involved in getting it sorted. So, from here on, I’ll be sending you regular emails for updates on the progress of the welder and when it’s sorted the progress of [job] so it can be your problem, too.”

I never heard back about it, never saw a new socket get ordered and fitted so fast in my life, and never had a problem with him again.

It is Christmas Day. I share a flat with three flatmates, hailing from Nigeria, Korea, and Spain. I am American, and we are all relatively new(ish) to London, and we were caught off-guard a few days earlier when we found out that London (well, the entire UK actually) completely shuts down on Christmas Day. No public transport, no shops, cinemas, restaurants, nothing. Unless you’re a hospital or a hotel you’re pretty much guaranteed to be closed.

Since none of us are going home for Christmas, we make our own plans. We all agree to make food from our respective cultures and have a nice Christmas Day meal together.

They are all talking among themselves.

Nigerian Flatmate: “I am making jollof rice, and some moimoi. It’s really flavourful and spicy!”

Korean Flatmate: “That’ll go well with my fried chicken, and we have some kimchi for sides.”

Spanish Flatmate: “I’m glad you’ve for the rice sorted [Nigerian Flatmate]! I’ve got some Iberico Ham from [Spanish convenience store] and [other items] that we can turn into a tapas.”

They all look at me expectantly:

Me: “I’ve prepped some roast beef with vegetable trimmings.”

All Flatmates: *Forlornly.* “Oh.”

Me: “What’s wrong? Is… is beef not good?”

Nigerian Flatmate: “I was hoping for something a bit more… American.”

Me: “A lot of Americans have roast beef at Christmas!”

Korean Flatmate: “Yeah, but…”

Me: “…but, what?”

Spanish Flatmate: *Stifling laughter.* “They wanted burgers [My Name!] They wanted fries, milkshakes, twinkies!”

Me: *Also stifling laughter.* “American food is more than just burgers and fast food!”

Nigerian Flatmate: “Yes, but… it’s Christmas!”

Me: “What does that mean?”

Korean Flatmate: “I was hoping to send pictures back to my family and make them laugh that I was having burgers with my Nigerian and Korean food.”

Me: “Well… we do have burger buns in the cupboard.”

Suddenly, there was a brainwave. Christmas dinner was served, and my flatmates were all laughing and enjoying the holiday spirit as they video-called families and make them laugh at their moimoi-kimchi-fried-chicken-iberico-ham-roast-beef burgers.

To clarify; they knew American food is way more than just burgers, I just hadn’t done a good job of convincing them otherwise since I had moved in (lots of Subway and Five Guys!). After New Year’s I made a better effort to cook at home more and introduce them to a much more varied selection of cuisine from the USA!

We all still live together and Christmas Day is approaching again, and circumstances mean we’re all here again. I can’t wait to see their faces when I present to them homemade Big Macs as my Christmas Day contribution!