I’m sure most people have worked in the service industry at some point, or some people know someone who was a part of the service industry. It is, as usually described, a hell on earth.
You clock in, put on your best customer service face and voice, and then power through the day– rain or shine. Over the summer, I was a server at a breakfast chain (I won’t name which one, as I do genuinely love my coworkers and the regulars and don’t want to put them under fire). It was a good job, clock in, take orders, joke with coworkers, clock out. Here’s a short recounting of my worst customer stories this year.
1) Teabag
As a server, you follow a sort of script when you’re serving people. It’s not on purpose. Life is just easier when you can follow a flow to get through the day. Basic lines (Hey guys? How are we doing today? Good? Great. My name is…) and a few quips in an attempt to cover up a small mistake or make a bit more money (handing the check to a grubby-handed baby, saying it’s their turn to treat their parents. That usually gets a laugh from people). But sometimes, that script doesn’t work with people. Repeating yourself gets exhausting when people don’t listen.
It was a Sunday, a rush. I was opening, which meant you get two booths– where you will face either the best kind of person or the worst (such as the man who asked me if a clearly messy booth was still open, and then proceeded to seat himself there while there were still dirty dishes on it). Today I got a bad table.
Party of seven. Three children, four adults. Easy. I’ve done a party of 32 before (more on that later), seven is lightwork. They sit down, put in their drinks and order. The grandmother (who was maybe in her fifties) orders tea. At my restaurant we have a tea-set. A small plate, decorated with a tea caddy (small box filled with an assortment of teas).
“Here’s your teapot and your tea set,” She thanks me. Their food comes out. She asks me where her tea is.
“Your tea is on the small plate, with the small caddy we supply and the teapot,” Her son even points it out. I check on them again halfway through their meal. No issues, no complaints. The food is awesome, they say. I come around, hand them their check. They call me over five minutes later.
“You charged me for a tea. I never got my tea,” I could only stare directly at the plate I pointed out twice.
“Your tea is in the tea caddy on the table, with your teapot.”
“Take it off my check.”
…Yeah.
2) Hot Sauce Lady
We have some regulars who are not the best. Most of them are awesome, they feel practically like friends. They know my life, my family, I see them at least once a week. But Hot sauce lady? We know her well for all the wrong reasons.
The issue with hot sauce lady is that her and her husband come in, order the same thing, and ask if we have a veterans discount. The server usually says no, but corporate is working on it. When we go to reset the table, we always notice that the bottle of Cholula is missing from the table.
She will take our hot sauce as some twisted form of revenge for her husband not getting a veteran’s discount. We have to sit her by the entrance, near the host stand, just so our manager can keep a close eye on her. My manager caught her a few times, actually made her pull the Cholula from her bag and put it back on the table the last time they came.
The worst part? They never put hot sauce on their food. It’s oatmeal and a waffle that they get. I always wonder how much hot sauce they have at home.
3) Soup
This is the 32-top I mentioned earlier. It was a Tuesday, where we only have four servers compared to our usual nine or ten. I clock in, my manager says that we have a retirement community coming in from a retreat. All 32 of them– not including the bus drivers. We set the tables, brace for the servers’ equivalent of war. Water jugs on every table, menus placed, silverware polished to the nines because we know they will find an issue with something.
They all sit down, my coworkers and I get all their drinks organized, take all of their orders. We repeat every motion like a text-to-speech robot, making sure that it’s clear that we are doing what they tell us. Iced tea? Yes ma’am, one iced tea for the lady in purple. Muffin for the man in the floral shirt sitting closest to the window? We repeat what and where and when and how fast. Our A-game.
One table, all elderly women. One woman asks me what kind of soups we have. I tell her veggie and tomato. She asks for veggie. Her friend orders tomato. I make it a point to talk loud, clear, and slow, pointing with my pen to each woman and making unwavering eye contact to make sure they understand what they ordered. They all nod. Thank god, first hurdle over.
Their food starts coming out. The kitchen is in a frenzy. A 32-order ticket on a Tuesday, when we only have two people on the line instead of 4 or 5. We bring out their food in record time– ten minutes and less for each item.
We have one hiccup, a woman forgetting which sandwich she ordered. She tells my coworker that the sandwich isn’t hers. I tell him to take it back and that I’ll handle it. I bring the exact same sandwich out, say “turkey club” as clearly as I possibly could.
“Oh! That’s mine!”
E-z. I got this.
I bring out the soup next.
“Tomato soup for you, ma’am,” I place it in front of her friend. I turn to her. “And your veggie soup will be right out.”
As I bring the veggie soup out, I see the tomato soup in front of Mrs. Veggie Soup.
“I don’t like my soup,” She tells me. I correct her.
“Of course, this is the vegetable soup. That’s our tomato soup, which is what your friend ordered.”
“I don’t like it,” I can only stare woefully, in utter disbelief. I place the soup down and talk to her friend.
“Would you like me to get you a new bowl of vegetable soup?” They all say no, I place the soup down. At that point, I’d offered all solutions I could and they didn’t take any of it. I come back to hand out the checks (which, mind you, all 32 wanted separate checks).
“I didn’t like my soup, can you take it off my check,” Fuck it. Fine. Whatever.
“Can I get cornbread instead?” I put the cornbread in, profusely apologizing to the cooks. “This cornbread doesn’t look right. Can you take it off?” If you go to a restaurant… Please, PLEASE, do not be Mrs. Veggie Soup.
4) “My salad looks like grass”
Picture this: It’s a Wednesday morning. The closer called out, and you’re down to three servers for the whole day. Half of the restaurant is packed, a new manager is being trained, and the district manager is visiting to scope out how we’re doing. New manager is unsure, but doing his best. We get slammed. No busser, people pouring in. Tables are dirty. No hostess, we have to seat people. No food runners, we have to run food. All three of us are nearly strangling each other from stress. I tell my one coworker to go to the walk in and breathe. I can hold down the fort. Like a stupid martyr. Down to two.
A woman comes in with her husband. They have complaints already. Too slow service. Sorry ma’am. I have five tables sat at the same time, and I have to run food, drinks, make drinks, take orders, seat people, and bus tables. All three servers are sweating. My other coworker is crying in the bathroom. Hell is real, and we’re there. I’m carrying two armfuls of trays with drinks, apologizing and practically begging people to grab their drinks out of my arms because my hands aren’t free. Napkins, syrup, silverware (because yes, we had to roll silverware and ran out at that moment).
I’m as attentive as I possibly can be, taking orders, holding conversation, bending to their every whim because I get paid $2.35 an hour, dammit! The wife demands that I put extra avocado on her sandwich. I put on the ticket to add as much avocado as we can fit into a ramekin. She orders salad, saying that she doesn’t usually like the taste. I tell her I’ll bring out extra dressing and, if she doesn’t like it, I can put in a new side. No worries. Easy fix.
I come back to check on them before their food comes out. She yells at me because she spilled her water and used all the napkins I gave them earlier. Like it’s my fault she spilled her water all over the table. I put on my happy face, bring out more napkins that I usually would. I take the used ones back to throw out.
The food comes out, with extra everything. She yells again. Her sandwich isn’t toasted. I tell her that it states on the menu that we usually don’t toast it, but I can take it back and have them do that. She says no. I come back a minute later. Not enough avocado. I point to the ramekin, still full of avocado. Yes, ma’am, here’s some extra. She asks me to take it back. I take it back, come back with so much avocado it’s spilling from the sides. I put the plate down.
“My salad looks like grass. Is this grass? Did you serve me grass?”
“…Ma’am, it’s salad. Can I get you a new side?” She says no. How else do I fix this? It’s my manager’s problem now. My temper is getting the best of me. My manager leaves, comes back.
“She says she wants salad again. But she didn’t like her salad. I don’t know what she wants. Her sandwich is too toasted. What do I do?”
I really wish I could tell you, man. I really do.
Eventually we end up taking it off their check, sending them off. They don’t tip, because why would they? It’s fine. In this field, you gotta cut your losses at some point.
My point in all this? Please be kind to your servers. We’ve had all kinds of threats made to us, been called sluts by grown men over waffles and eggs, been tripped and grabbed and had pictures taken of us without our permission (this part has happened to me several times over the summer). The last thing we need is another difficult table added to the list we build get rid of the “to” and capitalize the E in every, but keep the Every. Single. Day, love that, really drives the point of the piece home. Every. Single. Day. We’re not asking for an angel, just kindness.
Featured image by Kate Townsend on Unsplash.
