"Not me, but a co-worker from my days at Starbucks. My coworker had been lent out to our sister store up the road. He was working with the manager and a new girl fresh out of high school.
The manager was cleaning the bathroom, and my friend was doing inventory, so the new girl was the only one on the floor. A man walked in and ordered an extra hot venti white mocha. The girl made it and handed it to the man. He took one sip, screamed, 'This sucks,' and proceeded to throw this 180-degree cup of coffee at this girl's face. Then he ran out of the store. The manager came running out, along with my friend, who happens to be an ex-marine. He went to chase after the guy, but he had already jumped in his car and peeled out. The girl was rushed to the hospital with burns on her face and hands.
The police were called and fortunately, there were cameras that caught the guy's plate number. He was arrested and promptly convicted of assault.
She's fine. She was just out of commission for awhile, but nothing permanent."
"There's this guy that always comes in to buy coffee from me. He walks in and orders the same thing every time: 'Let me get an extra large americano with an extra shot of Espresso.'
'Okay sure. Totally fine. It's going to be $3.'
I make his extremely mispronounced and watered down cup of Joe, leaving about an eighth of an inch of room, so he doesn't spill it on his way out the door. The water is really hot, like 205 degrees.
He looks down, looks back at me and says, 'What's with the half a cup of coffee, man?'
'Oh, I'm sorry sir, allow me to add some more water for you.'
I fill that cup all the way up. The only thing keeping it in at this point is surface tension.
'Now we're talking!' Dude puts the lid on poorly, walks out the door, and spills that sucker all over his hands. I heard his expletives from the kitchen. I actually felt bad and remade it for him. He'd already gotten his karma anyways."
"Once upon a time, there were two couples.
These couples were regulars and came in at least three times a week. Of the four people involved, three were as sweet as could be. The two gentlemen were in their late 60s/early 70s and served in the Navy together. One wife was wonderful. The other wife was the opposite.
They sat in the same booth every time they were there. I think it was unofficially 'their' booth. That's fine; they felt comfortable, and it was part of their routine.
I was still pretty new, but even I knew that it was their seating of choice. The first couple arrives. They normally arrive 15 minutes before the nice husband and Devil Spawn (DS), so they secure the table. They noticed there were three construction workers eating at their usual booth. Not missing a beat, they just sat at a different table; getting their drinks and chatting with one another.
A few minutes later, nice husband and DS arrive. As soon as she opened the lobby door and saw those construction guys, it was all over. Her husband simply went and joined his friends, but she was walking slowly, GLARING at the table. I'm talking a death stare. As in, if looks could kill, they would be 20 feet under. She refused to sit at the new table. She just stood there and tried to make those poor construction guys' heads explode through sheer will or something. It was unsettling to see, and I wasn't even the one sitting there. The guys took the hint and finished their food in record time, then stood to leave. They didn't even dump their trays in the trash before she waddled over as quickly as she could and plopped down on the booth.
This woman was difficult in every way possible. She always had to be the one who ordered for herself and her husband and had no patience for the person taking her orders. We would play rock, paper, scissors, or flip a coin to see who had the misfortune of dealing with her.
One day, a father comes in with his two little girls. They ordered and sat in the booth. The sweet couple came in, noticed the booth was taken and sat elsewhere. No problem.
Then it happened. DS and her husband arrived. I started paying attention while making sweet tea. I just had a spidey sense that this was going to be a 'When animals attack' sort of train wreck.
She played her staring game again. Like she's placing a curse on generations of his family. That goes on for five minutes or so, but the dad doesn't notice because he's paying attention to his children.
She realizes that her death ray vision isn't working and she decides to start talking LOUDLY under the guise of speaking to her friends and husband. 'Children these days have no respect for their elders,' 'You would think they would have learned to not be so selfish,' (oh the irony) 'Maybe for Christmas, the store will buy us a plaque and put it on OUR table so that people know to not sit there when we come in.'
I just want to point out, her group and the dad and kids were the only ones inside eating at the time. It was pretty obvious what she meant.
The father looked at her and immediately picked up his children's half-eaten food and moved to another table. She, of course, made a beeline for the booth.
The best part was when the father apologized for sitting at her table, saying he was not aware it was off-limits. He then said, 'Thank you though. Today you have helped me. I am trying to teach my daughters lessons about how things work in real life.'
She harrumphed and sat down.
'You see,' he continued, 'I've been trying to teach them what grown-ups should do and what they shouldn't do. What grown-ups shouldn't do is throw a temper tantrum because they can't get what they want.'
I stopped stirring the gravy
'They also are learning that being the bigger person in such situations is a reward in and of itself. Remember what I told you about not sinking to low levels?'
Both little ones nodded.
I had to quickly walk into the cooler, I needed to so that no one could see or hear my laughter. I ended up slipping them three cinnamon rolls on the sly and whispering, Thank you,' to him.
He just smiled and whispered back, 'No problem.' What is so special about that booth?'"
"I've worked at a local fast food place for the past year.
One morning, I was working a shift for someone else, and this woman came in with nine kids (6 months, 2, 5, 6, 8, 11, 13, 15, 16). This lady ordered four kids meals and some cheeseburgers. I asked if she wanted the usual toys that come with the meal to be swapped for toys we have for younger kids. And this lady lost it. Her exact words were, 'If I wanted them to be the baby toys, I would've said so!' I apologized and said I was just making sure she knew they are available. This lady said that she should know everything about this place and she was going to call the owner of our restaurant, who she said she knew, and get me fired. This lady was throwing a full-on tantrum to the point where some of her kids had walked away.
So, I gave her my sweetest cashier smile and said, 'How was (owner's) funeral?' This lady just got her kids and left, never seen her since."
"At the ice cream shop where I worked, we did our sizing by ounces and had different names for the different sizes. We did this for the normal ice cream cups, as well as the larger to-go containers we had. It really just made it easy for the employee so that we didn't have to ask if they wanted a normal cup or a to-go container when they ordered. Sometimes people got confused about the way we did it, or just didn't really like the system. One customer, (C) decided to be a little sassy with her order. The interaction went something like:
Me: 'Hi, welcome to (store name), how can I help you?'
C: 'How do you guys do your sizing?'
Me: 'We do our servings by ounces, but people usually tell us the name of the cup they'd like it in.'
Customer wrinkles their face a little, obviously displeased by this information, whilst looking at their options.
C: (With sass) 'Well, in THAT case, could I please have 2.5 ounces of this flavor, and 2.5 ounces of that flavor?'
The customer proceeds to give me a grin that roughly translated to, 'nyah-nyah.'
Now, I've never really been one to take sass without giving some back. But I couldn't give sass to a customer without getting fired. However, I wasn't going to take this one lying down. So I decided to give the customer EXACTLY what they wanted.
The customer's grin transformed to confusion at my unusual cheeriness to the situation.
To begin preparing their precise order, I would need two things. The first being a container to hold the ice cream. The second being the ounce scale. I placed both of these items on the counter in front of the customer and zeroed out the scale. I was ready to begin.
Me: Now, which two flavors did you want again?
C: This one and that one.
I proceeded to start scooping out the ice cream, slowly adding it to the container and checking the scale to make sure it was the amount the customer had requested. Between each scoop, I made direct eye contact with the customer, watching as they gradually became more and more irritated during the lengthy process. After a little trimming of the flavors since I had 'accidentally' added a little too much at some points, I placed the ice cream into a cup and handed it to the customer, who at this point looked very impatient and annoyed, and rang them up without breaking a smile. After the customer left, the shift leader walked over and gave me a high-five for my excellent customer service."
"I work in a fast food chain in Sweden, and there was a huge festival in the town called Summer Meet, which means our sales would triple, but our customers were just the worst type of people... wasted adults.
So as you can imagine, we were crowded. We had two cashiers, one drive-thru, and eight self-ordering stations, and everything was full. Luckily, we were well prepared, and as the Team Leader at this shift, I had stationed myself as an extra so I could run around and oversee everything. My manager was stationed as a cashier, and (luckily) he was the one to deal with this.
Those involved were: Me = as Myself, RM = Restaurant Manager, and WT = Wasted Teenager.
Apparently, WT ordered in self-service and was waiting on his food while his friends had already received their food, which made him very unhappy.
WT: 'Where the eff is my food!?'
RM: 'It's on its way, should be done in a minute or so.'
WT: 'MY FRIENDS ALREADY GOT THEIR FOOD AND I ONLY ORDERED CHEESEBURGERS! WHERE ARE THEY?!'
RM: 'If you keep cursing at me, I will deny you service. Your food will be done in a minute.'
WT: I DON'T CARE YOU EFFING IDIOT! GET ME MY FOOD, NOW!'
My RM doesn't take crap lying down, so he calmly walked over to the kitchen, packed the WT's food in a bag, and threw the bag in the trash. He then proceeded back to his register, picked up a bill, and put it on the counter.
RM: 'Here is your money, now leave or the cops will make you leave.'
This just infuriated the wasted brat.
WT: 'THIS EFFING IDIOT JUST THREW MY FOOD IN THE TRASH! GET OUT HERE AND EFFING FIGHT ME, YOU COWARD!'
RM pushed the silent alarm and just kept his cool. Just standing there and telling him to leave. Other guests have moved away from the commotion, and there were babies crying in the back.
Whilst this was going on, the phone rang and I took the call. It was the police dispatch wanting info on the silent alarm. I informed them of the situation and of his appearance.
This went on for a minute or so. Most guests stayed out of this, but one guest had had enough.
RG: 'That's enough, you skinny brat! I will put you down you if you don't leave!'
But the wasted guy just continued.
WT: 'He threw away my food!'
RG: 'I don't care! You leave now!'
I realized that this was not going to end good and fistfights are the worst to deal with. Luckily, the police came just when they got really heated and arrested the wasted guy more or less immediately.
Rocker guy got some coffee and pie for the help, and after that, everything went back to normal."
"I used to work at a Brazilian supermarket (in Florida). The customers were pretty much all Brazilians, leading to almost everybody speaking Portuguese. My parents are from there, but I was born in North America. Although I do know how to speak Portuguese, sometimes my American accent bleeds through, and sometimes I don't know a word or two. People usually understand.
But not this one lady. Boy, did she have something to say. I was behind the customer service desk, so I couldn't leave, but the lady asked me where something was. It was near a certain shelf. I couldn't remember what the word for 'shelf' was, so I think I said, 'fixture that holds things' or something like that.
''Fixture that holds things?' What the heck is that? Do you even speak Portuguese?'
'Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry I forgot the word for that (I point to the shelf), but what you're looking for is right around it.'
Keep in mind, the shelf was in sight of both of us, but she didn't want to look.
'You don't speak Portuguese. Get me someone else to help.'
I was a little confused. I mean, it's just one word I didn't know, but my manager, Maria, happened to appear and I figured she was not busy.
Keep in mind, this is all in perfect Portuguese:
'Maria, would you be able to help this woman? Apparently, I don't speak Portuguese, so I'm not able to communicate with her. She doesn't understand anything I'm saying, because, even though it sounds like Portuguese, she said it's not. So, honestly, I'm not really sure what language I'm speaking. But, that doesn't really matter, I guess. She needs help finding (item), which I said was over there, but I guess she needs to hear that in Portuguese, which, again, I apparently don't speak.'
It turned out that Maria was well aware of this customer, and she complained about everything, so she wasn't surprised that she was acting like a jerk. She almost stopped as she had to stifle some laughter during my monologue."
"I used to be a hostess and I was a really good one. I ran errands for the restaurant on my day off, installed TVs in the men's bathroom, the works. I wasn't a manager, but I tried to run interference when possible because people can be idiots, and honestly, the managers had better things to do than deal with small stuff.
One day, a lady came up to me at the host stand, angry.
Lady: 'I need to speak to a manager.'
Me: 'Is there something I could help you with?'
Lady: 'Well, I ordered the lobster mac, and I would like a refund.'
Me: 'Oh, I'm sorry. What was wrong?'
Lady: My son is allergic to shellfish, and there was shellfish in the lobster mac.'
Me: 'Uh, yes, what did you think there would be?'
Lady: 'Well, the description does not say there is shellfish. My son could have died, and I want a refund.'
Me: 'Ma'am, it is LOBSTER mac. Lobster is shellfish.'
Lady: 'But the description doesn't say that lobster is shellfish, and that's dangerous. My son could have died. Other patrons could get sick!'
Me: 'Ma'am, I'm pretty sure people who have shellfish allergies would know not to eat lobster.'
Lady: 'That was rude. Get your manager, now.'
I walked off, rolled my eyes when I knew she couldn't see me and walked into the office.
General Manager: 'What?'
Me: 'A lady wants to speak with one of you.' I retell the whole situation, both managers roll their eyes and sigh. GM and another manager (J) play rock paper scissors, which J wins.
GM: Sighing. 'Let's go.'
I followed him to the front, interested in how this would play out.
GM: 'Hi ma'am, I was told you'd like to speak with me?'
Lady: 'Yes, I ordered the lobster Mac and I would like a refund.'
GM: 'Could you please explain why?'
Lady: Explained her thing again.
GM: 'I'm sorry, but I can't give you a refund.'
Lady: Now getting agitated and huffing, 'Well, why not?'
GM: 'Because you were dumb enough to order the LOBSTER macaroni and cheese when your son has a shellfish allergy. No. No refund.'
GM left, the lady was ticked. About 30 minutes later, I went to help buss the table. She ate the lobster mac.
Story two: One night, it was busy but no big deal. I was talking with the other hostess when I saw her glance over my shoulder. I looked back and saw my GM at the bar with a patron in a headlock, and three waiters pushing the two of them towards the door with another man following behind. The three waiters are: D, a big black guy who is a total sweetheart but will mess you up if you deserve it; A, former military, tatted up, and a little scary; and M, who is Russian, so just a little unnerving all around. As I was about to ask what's going on, J casually strolled by and asked me to call the police.
I was on the phone talking to dispatch out on the patio when GM tossed the patron into the street. And I mean literally tossed. The man's shoe came off. The patron was mad, so he took off his ridiculously large t-shirt off to reveal an equally ridiculously large t-shirt underneath. I had just hung up with dispatch when D came over to me.
'Hey, hold my ring for me,' and handed me his wedding band. In my head: oh crap, it's about to go down. Patron tried to come back in the restaurant while his friend tried to get him to leave. D blocked the entrance, 'Nah man. Just go, and we won't have a problem.'
This is when Patron screwed up. He said, 'Don't tell me what to do,' and then he called D the n-word (with a hard r).
D responded, 'What did you say to me?' and advanced towards Patron as A and M attempted to hold him back. Just as D went back inside and Patron tried to walk off sans one shoe and his dignity, four squad cars showed up and arrested him for disorderly conduct. The night progresses fine with D getting extra tips from his tables."
"I used to work at a sub sandwich-fast food place. I'm sure you know the one. I was there for about four years, so I have quite a few stories. One afternoon, an Old Man (OM) walks through the door. I would also like to preface this story by saying that I am a female person, and was about 18 years old when this story takes place. I had been working there for a few years at this point and had already heard of every iteration of 'woman, make me a sandwich' I can think of.
Me: 'Welcome to [sandwich place], what can I get started for you?'
OM: 'Make me a sandwich.'
Me: This is going to be fun. 'Alright, sir, what kind of bread would you like?'
OM: 'Make me a sandwich.'
Me: Somehow, I don't jump over the glass to strangle him. 'Yes sir, I would love to start, but I need to know what kind of bread you want first.'
OM:' MAKE ME A SANDWICH.'
Me: 'Sir, I cannot start-'
OM: 'YOU'RE A BIG GIRL, FIGURE IT OUT!'
Now, I am willing to bend over backward to help a customer, especially if they're nice to me, or at least as half as nice to me as I am to them. But hey, I am a big girl, right? I'll figure it out!
Me: World's fakest smile. 'Of course, sir.'
I then proceed to make him the most expensive sandwich we had at the time and make it as gross and spicy as I could manage. I had never done anything like this, no matter how rude a customer was to me, and I never did anything like this after. I would never purposefully ruin a sandwich, not least because I don't want to be responsible for some crazy allergy attack. Also, I am not generally a garbage human. I'm literally here to take your order. How can I do that if you WON'T GIVE IT TO ME? This sandwich had it all: every sauce we had, every veggie we had, and to top it all off, a giant fistful of jalapenos.
I finish up this puddle of sin/sandwich and wrap it up. I then very sweetly finished ringing him up and sent him on his way.
I never saw him again after that, so I just have to assume that either he got the message, or I killed him with all of the jalapenos."
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