It seems like the world is just full of rude people nowadays, but don’t worry there is still justice (and fine cuisine) served in the restaurant world. Check out these stories where abhorrent customers got their last desserts.
Classy Couple Is Too Trashy For Waffle House
“Years ago, I worked overnights as a cook at Waffle House. We had our fair share of boozers and the like, and for the most part the waitresses could hold their own. It didn’t hurt that the local police liked to roll in once in a while for fresh coffee.
One night, about 3am, two couples rolled into my store. They were very very well dressed, and driving the kind of high-end sports car that does not – ever – park outside a Waffle House. They were clearly coming back from some classy event and ‘slumming it’ by stopping at my store.
Now, keep in mind, that at the time, Waffle House did not accept anything but cash. No cards, no checks, only cash. There’s signage on the door that says this, there’s notations on the menus, and there’s a big plaque in front of the cash register. This is important.
One of the ladies was exceedingly pregnant, we’re talking maybe twins, due tomorrow pregnant. She’s dressed in a beautiful black dress that has clearly been tailored to fit her new watermelon-esque shape. They squeeze into a booth (and in her case, it was a squeeze!) and peruse the menus, the waitress gets their drink orders to them, and then asks if they’re ready to order.
Pregnant lady orders, among a couple other things, a bowl of grits. If you haven’t eaten at a Waffle House, the portions are pretty generous. A side of grits is a small bowl with about 3/4 cup of grits. A bowl of grits is dang near a quart — the grits came in pre-measured packets, and a bowl of grits is about 90% of that package. We actually didn’t have enough made up, so I made a fresh batch for this lady.
And when the waitress put this kiddie-pool sized bowl of grits on the table, Pregnant Lady’s husband made the grave mistake of saying something like ‘… uh babe, maybe you shouldn’t eat ALL of that.’ To an extremely hormonal woman, who has been suffering small indignities to her pride all night. She physically shoved him out of the booth, screaming, and as he scrambled to his feet, hurled the bowl of grits at his face. He ducked (thank God, grits are like napalm; they stick and keep burning, and if you put them under cold water to try to stop the burning, they make a gummy outer shell and KEEP BURNING.) and the bowl shattered against the front window of my store, spraying grits down the entire front of my store. (We later found grits and porcelain shards in the men’s bathroom, which was behind a closed door, 15′ down the hallway behind a second closed door, 25–30′ from the initial point of impact..) She stormed out of the restaurant, got in the Porsche, and peeled out, with him running off into the night after her.
The other two stood there awkwardly for a couple minutes, and decided to just pay and leave. They came up to the register, and held out.. the first and only black credit card I have ever seen. I shrugged and said, ‘I’m sorry, we can’t accept credit cards.’
‘But it’s a black card, there’s no limit on it.’
‘That’s impressive, but we literally don’t have the equipment to run a credit card. No swiper, no imprinter, nothing. We’re only set up to take cash,’ and I pointed at the sign in front of the register. Meanwhile, grits are still dripping own my front window, starting to congeal, and I just want them gone so I can start cleaning that mess up.
Dude blinks, and says ‘[The credit company] says this card is accepted everywhere.’
‘I think they mean, like, more countries and such. We physically can’t run the card to charge it. If you like, though, there’s an ATM just across the parking lot,’ and I pointed to the bank at the other end of the strip mall.
‘You could grab a cash advance there, and cover the bill that way.’
The second lady, who had been kind of instigating the whole time they’d been here (the waitress told me later she’d been making a lot of ‘fat’ comments to the pregnant lady) pushed the man aside and whipped out an exotic-leather, designer-named pocketbook. ‘UGH, fine we’ll write you a check,’ and started scribbling one out with a very expensive looking pen.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t take checks either, for the same reason. We just don’t have the equipment to verify a check.’
‘Well then I’ll make it out to you, personally.’
‘I’m sorry, company policy won’t let me do that either.’ (At the time, I didn’t have a bank account. I was getting my paycheck, and going down the street to a check-cashing place where they charged me $30 to turn the paper into coin. But I’d be if I was gonna say that to a customer.)
She was getting louder & louder, saying things like, ‘I am a model! There is no reason for you to not take my check! Just freaking take it!’
I shrugged and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but the signs are on the door, the menus, and the register, we can only accept cash. Period. The ATM is, like, 50 yards away, it won’t take five minutes to get cash and come back. You’ve spent at least that much time already fighting with me over this.’
Bro. Dude. Holy cow, she lost it. She started screaming that there was $40k in that bank account, that’s more than a piece of trash like me will earn in a year, blah de blah de blah… Meanwhile her date is looking more and more shamefaced off to the side, looking like he’d like to melt and slide down the floor drain. She got more and more abusive, and I glanced off to the side to my waitresses. One was standing at the phone, and the other was standing at the coffee pot, holding a full, fresh brew (and boy I knew where that coffee was going if Model Lady kicked off…)
I interrupted Model Lady mid-sentence, with a quiet, ‘get out.’
She actually hiccupped, she stopped talking so fast. ‘What did you say to me?’
‘I said get out. I am exercising my right to refuse service,’ and pointed at THAT sign, ‘and I am throwing you out. If you don’t leave immediately, Shelley over there,’ and a nod to the waitress at the phone, ‘is going to call 911. They will dispatch a car from the cop shop two blocks away, and I will have you arrested. Get out of my store, and do not come back, ever. You’re banned.’
Her date dragged her, kicking and screaming, out the door, shoved her in their car, and gave me a final apologetic shrug as he drove her away.
Happily, the homeless dude who used to camp out in my store offered to clean the window if I bought him breakfast. I made him steak and eggs, and he did such a phenomenal job that my manager hired him to do it officially.”
The Pianist To The Rescue
“I was only the pianist.
I didn’t wait tables or manage front of house.
I wasn’t the owner.
It was simply my job to shut up, sit behind my piano and tickle the ivories.
Of course, I sometimes circulated tables, and greeted the diners, asking for requests if there was a special occasion. And if people were feeling chatty and approached me, I could carry on an amicable conversation while still playing a tune. Otherwise, I mostly just observed people, and had very little contact with them.
That was my job.
So it was unlike my character, when I confronted a diner, a belligerent drunkard at the bar, who became loud and obnoxious one night, and started screaming obscenities at one of the bussers, who accidentally spilled a drink on him.
‘You f**king dumb sp*c!’ He yelled, while the poor young man cowered and tried to wipe up his accidental spill.
The diners in the room suddenly got very quiet, and for a moment, I was shocked and actually stopped playing. I tried to make up for it, by switching songs to something more upbeat, playing louder to cover up the exchange happening in the bar area, which continued..
‘Why don’t you friggin’ go back to Mexico where you belong!’
The kid was born and raised on USA soil. A young high school student with perfect grades. His father, Armando, was a good friend of mine that I hung out with after work shifts and weekends, also a musician, who worked playing music in the lounge upstairs.
‘You people don’t belong here!’ The man spat into the young boy’s face as he attempted to quickly clean his spill and escape the angry man’s tirade.
The kid was nearly in tears. I looked around horrified, looking towards the boss, who had ‘conveniently‘ lowered her head and pretended to be busy with paper work, and the floor manager had ‘suddenly’ disappeared from the room altogether.
The shouting escalated.
I stopped playing.
The dining room grew hushed.
I watched the veins in the man’s temples bulge out, as his face turn red, and he shouted directly into the young man’s face:
‘You’ll never amount to anything but a dishwasher! Get used to this job. You’re nothing, la ‘co–co-racha.’ Get this sh*t cleaned up and get out of my face!’
I stood up. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was about to lose my job, but I didn’t care.
I marched up to that guy and said, in as calm a voice as I could muster:
‘Sir, you have no idea who you’re talking to. This young man is a straight-A student. He is a citizen. So is his father. He has just as much right to be in America as you do, but he has more right to be in this establishment than you do.’
The man looked at me and blinked at my audacity, but I continued.
‘Gather your things and leave now, or the authorities will be called. You are hereby 86’d from this establishment, the card room, the lounge and the property in general. If you ever set one foot on these premises again, you will be prosecuted for trespassing on private property, do I make myself clear?’
I looked him directly in the eye, as his mouth hung open. I tried very hard to deliver my voice in a clear, professional tone, without showing how nervous I was to be facing off with a big man like that. My voice quavered, betraying my authority, and I had a few places where I fought off the need to burst into tears.
-For the hurt my young friend felt.
-For the horrible insults he had to face.
-For the realization that this actually happened in my country, and which I was just now witnessing firsthand, and what I thought people only talked about.
And finally, for the shame I felt, because this man was white. And I didn’t want him to represent me.
I was actually very frightened of him. I am not a very brave person.
I was a 21-year-old kid, facing off against an overweight, middle-aged, balding, and very inebriated professional white guy.
I had no power to order him off the premises.
They weren’t mine to oversee.
But nobody else was doing anything about it, and he’d ticked me off.
Yet, somehow, my authority seemed to work!
He closed his mouth, tipped back his drink, went to say something, but I cut him off..
‘LEAVE NOW. If you don’t leave in another thirty seconds I’m calling the cops.’
That started him moving.
He wove his way out the archway, into foyer, past the fountain, and down the halls as I made certain to follow him all the way to the front entrance and out the door.
I probably should have called him a cab, but he just made his way to the club down the street next door.
He was their problem, then.
In all my years, I’ve never heard such a disgraceful, prejudice, derogatory, hateful thing such as those words that man said that night.
He made me sick. I’ll never forget it. Those hateful words are burned into my mind, along with every sweaty pore of his bulbous red nose, and thick framed glasses. Especially his eyes. His ugly, brown, bloodshot hate-filled eyes.
Those hateful eyes!
They invade my nightmares sometimes. They belong to monsters, and they are set into the skulls of alligators and sharks, and grizzly bears which stalk me in my dreams, but they are still his. Those eyes!
It’s not a memory I’d like to have stick with me, but for some reason this one does.
When I got back into the restaurant I was met with applause. The owner wasn’t that angry at me, but did pull me aside and reprimand me gently.
She told me that I wasn’t allowed to ’86’ customers from her establishment. To ’86’ someone means they are forever banned. It’s permanent. The greedy spinster actually wanted his repeat business! Disgusting. Get this- my boss, Ileana, was of Hispanic heritage, herself.
But I guess she knew best.
Humbled, I sat down at my piano and dinner resumed as usual. The diners spoke in a hushed atmosphere, and I made record tips that night, even though my music suffered because, for some strange reason, I couldn’t get my foot to stop trembling underneath the piano on the pedals.”
“How May I Help You?”
“I’ve experienced seeing unruly customers kicked out! I was the executive chef and sommelier of a high end restaurant at an upscale historic resort hotel on the Big Island of Hawaii. This particular establishment attracted wealthy individuals from all over the world, and some of the kindest people I have had the opportunity to meet.
I walked the dining room every evening, touching tables, talking to guests, and gathering feedback on their experiences. ‘Touching tables’ means to talk to guests, interact with them, and suss out any issues that may have arisen. As a chef, it is important to know your customers and their needs well. One particular evening after the sun had set, and the tiki torches had been lit on the lanai, I noticed one of the wait staff in tears in the back wait station.
I asked her what was wrong and she replied that table 23 had been exceptionally rude to her and she needed a moment to compose herself. I asked if she would like me to have someone take over the table for her. She nodded affirmatively, through her tears. I went to my colleague, the restaurant manager and asked him if he knew what was going on. ‘She’s overreacting, it’s nothing.’ Well, in my experience, when an employee is that upset, it is far from nothing.
In a few quick steps I was at table 23, with a smile on my face. I approached the couple, who appeared to be a little put off; however I am not one to let that discourage me from an interaction. I introduced myself as the chef and opened a dialogue.
‘How was everything this evening?’
‘Fine.’ The older of the two gentlemen stated.
‘Was the food to your liking?’
‘It was fine,’ he stated again. His partner was visibly upset with the direction of the conversation.
‘Oh…’ I was a little taken aback as most people are quite happy with their meals. ‘And the service? Was that to your liking?’ I inquired.
‘I don’t want that tramp at my table again,’ was his response. His partner was clearly embarrassed, and reached out and put his hand on his arm, as though to stop him from saying anything further.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I asked, ‘have I misheard something?’
He replied, ‘I don’t want that tramp at my table again.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’ I smiled at him, motioning over another member of our wait staff. ‘Your meal is finished and you will not be dining with us during the remainder of your stay. I will bill your room directly for your meal.’ With that I took their glasses and bottle, had the service staff clear their table and left them there with nothing but a table cloth.
The ensuing rant directed at me was completed with the exclamation of ‘do you know who I am?!’ It must have been embarrassing for him as his husband pulled him away from the restaurant, while he screamed profanities.
I don’t care who you think you are. No one has the right to treat people that way. On a more positive note, the server did get half a bottle of a pretty nice Bordeaux.”
