"Don't try to come back if you've been 86'd from my place or someone else's. We have long memories and we talk among ourselves. Grope a waitress at a different place and you can bet your butt someone in my restaurant will recognize you. Some time back, a man who'd done something like this came to my place with his wife, who was a brunette, and his kids. We asked him politely to leave, he didn't want to, waved the 'I am a lawyer' threat, and told us he had 14,000 followers on some review site and would destroy us.
My sous chef at the time, a quirky, short, and not very patient woman, responded with, 'Oh, don't you remember? You groped my servers' behind at [another restaurant] when you were there, drinking that $900 bottle of champagne with the blonde girl you practically had sex with on your way in.' Usually, we're the most discreet bunch on the planet, but harass my staff and you'll be kicked out and get a free divorce in the process."
"I was finishing my meal with my husband at a small diner when the customer seated directly behind me asked the waitress to turn the heat up. It was a very warm summer day and was already almost uncomfortably warm in the diner. The waitress politely told him that the heat doesn't work in the summer, but she would fetch the sweater that he asked her to hang when he arrived. I guess she thought he was satisfied with that response, so she left to get his sweater. When she returned, I heard her gasp, and I reflexively turned around to see what happened. He had completely removed every stitch of clothing he was wearing, and had them neatly piled on the table in front of him. She ran and grabbed her manager, and he confronted the naked man. He asked him to quickly don his clothing and leave, or he'd have to call the police. The man responded, 'You can't make me leave. I'm suffering from severe hypothermia because your inept waitress wouldn't turn the heat up, and now I'm experiencing paradoxical undressing as a result of that. Call me an ambulance or you'll be hearing from my lawyer.'
The manager said, 'That's fine, I'll call an ambulance straight away, but you'll have to wait for it outside, and you're hereby banned from this diner.' The man got up, scooped up his pile of clothing, went outside and sat on the curb, still in the nude. Shortly thereafter, two police cruisers and an ambulance showed up. He was handcuffed and put in the back of one of the cruisers, still completely naked. The ambulance followed the cruisers as they left. Most of the customers were still shaking their heads."
"Before hitting my stride in sales I was an "AMW" (Actor, Model, Whatever) in Sydney, Toronto and Los Angeles, among other various ports of call. This invariably means I was a waiter or bartender. I've had the pleasure of kicking out Leonardo DiCaprio from the Nightwatch on Sunset and Vine (who may or may not have been doing something illicit in the bathroom stall), and I even kicked out Micheal Jordan and an Asian call girl after their third bottle of Dom Perignon, which they were drinking straight from the bottle (all I saw them do was drink, but she WAS a lady of the night), however, the craziest place I ever worked at was Don Cherry's, a bar and occasional restaurant in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. You think Vegas is sin city? Windsor has more strip bars, per capita than any other city and being a border town with the drinking age at 19, Windsor attracts EVERY underage American in three states. Did I mention that Canadian beer has far higher alcohol by volume than American beer?
Underage drinking + higher alcohol consumption + a different country (where the rules don't apply, apparently)=lotsa fistfights.
Now, I'm not a small guy, 6'1", 220 lbs, but because I was a 'pretty boy' when I was young, drunk males tended to not want to listen to me when they offended my delicate sensibilities. So here in fair Windsor, where we lay our scene, we have 300 kids from Michigan all drinking at the upstairs 'holding area' as fast as daddy's credit card will allow and waiting to be let downstairs to the main bar and dance floor where the perceived 'real' action is.
As the night thunders on I spy with my little eye one of these gents grab a girl Donald Trump style. This is grounds for ejection under any social convention, so I jump the bar, signal to the bouncers and grab this guy by the scruff of his neck and the belt on his jeans and start heading to the stairs and the exit. He was tipping the scales at about a buck-twenty, buck-thirty, but JESUS he was a wiry, tough bastard and his close buddies weren't having this, it was almost like I had grabbed their sister's privates, oh the irony! Anywho, after what was probably ten minutes of fighting, this is where things got crazy.
During the scuffle, one of the Bouncers named Davis was kicked in the balls so hard he was puking and coughing his lungs out in front of the bar. At this point, we have all 30 or so of the offenders outside the bar and sequestered across the street in a parking lot. The bar, both upstairs and down had emptied onto the street to watch the carnage. Our two off duty but uniformed police officers have called in reinforcements and paddy wagons for crowd control. I'm catching my breath and checking my head for soft spots when Dennis sees the guy that kicked him in the balls, across the street, in the middle of the crowd of battered, pissed off American teenagers. He bolts, making a beeline for this dude and I, in some misguided form of loyalty (I was sleeping with his sister at the time, so there's that) run after him.
Davis and I do a good job for about three seconds, tossing the tossers here and there, regular two-man wrecking crew. But, here's the thing. You know those souvenir, miniature baseball bats you can get at all the stadiums in America? Yeah, well turns out that even a glancing blow to head will stop a confused and surprised 220 lb bloke trying to back up his mate. When I came to, probably only a few seconds later, I lay there on my back, bleeding profusely and looking up at the distinctly gratifying sight of Roy the cop and a number of his brethren 'helping' these gentlemen into the wagons. I go stumbling back across the street looking like I'd just done a shift at the slaughterhouse trying to head-butt the cows into submission and into the adoring gaze of about 250 American teenage girls. Twelve stitches over my left eyebrow. Nice manly scar, and more dates with those girls than you could shake a stick at."
"When I'm out running errands with my service dog, there's only a couple of restaurants we tend to frequent, as the staff and most customers don't seem to mind, and even enjoy, the presence of my dog. On one rainy, cold afternoon, we went to one of those restaurants for lunch. We were seated at our normal table, a two-seater that could accommodate my wheelchair and service dog, then our waiter proceeded to seat a young, 20-something girl who had just walked in. As he was finishing taking her order at the table just across from mine, she pulled a tiny pig and a bottle of pink nail polish out of her purse, place it on the table, and despite its loud, screeching protests, painted said pig's nails/hooves/whatever they're called. The stunned waiter calmly told her pets weren't allowed in the restaurant, and pointed to the sign on the nearby front door that she recently walked through, which clearly spelled out that rule. She simply said, 'Oh, he's not a pet,' and continued her painting, never even looking up at the waiter.
He again tried to reason with her and said in the same calm voice, 'I'm not sure what you call a pig in a purse, be it a pet, animal, or what-not, but we don't allow such animals in our establishment.' This set her off.
She placed the pig, wet nail polish and all, back in her purse, stood eye to eye with the waiter, and yelled, 'But SHE has a dog and you never kick her out! This is discrimination! You can't kick out a service animal!' while pointing at me.
Again, calmly, he responded, 'That dog laying quietly on the floor is a legally protected service animal. According to the law, purse-dwelling, loudly-screeching pigs aren't considered service animals. I'm going to have to ask you to remove the animal from this establishment.'
She moved even closer to his face and screamed, 'But he IS a service animal! I'm not leaving!' and sat back down at the table, and folded her arms in front of her.
Now, this particular waiter is pretty well versed in the ADA laws governing service animals, so, he calmly asked her, 'What service does your service animal provide for you?'
To which she responded, 'It calms me down when I paint his nails. You can't kick me out.'
The waiter turned and walked to the back, and came back about a minute later with a stack of papers in his hand, and a highlighter. He thumbed through them and highlighted a few things, handed the papers to the girl and said, 'According to the laws you claim to be covered by, first, pigs aren't considered service animals. Second, the service you describe that your pig provides to you isn't covered by the law. Third, your pig has caused a disruption in this establishment by screeching, so even if it was a protected service animal, I could still ask you to remove it. Fourth, that dog over there IS a service animal, protected under these laws, but I wouldn't hesitate to have that service animal removed from here if she caused a disturbance. And last, you're not welcome here anymore. That's not discrimination. Please leave.'
The woman stood and stomped out of the restaurant, but not before telling me I was a disgrace for 'faking a disability just so I could bring [my] filthy dog wherever [I] please.'"
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