While most of the time we have to abide by “The Customer is Always Right”, there are occasions where customers go so far past the line that even the manager or owner says “I don’t want this person coming back to my business.” Here’s a couple gems from Thrillist to remind us that if you’re being abused and handle it right, the boss will probably have your back.
Don’t screw with burger jockeys
“About six years ago, I worked at a Five Guys. One day, I was working the register, and before our usual lunch rush, this man walks in and asks for a little (one-patty) cheeseburger and a soda. I ring him up, tell him his total, and he hands me his credit card.
“Now, in all of my training at almost every retailer I have ever worked, there was always a rule in some form regarding credit cards. As most people know, they are not always followed or adhered to. The policy for our entire division was to ask for ID with EVERY transaction involving a credit card. Normally I would let it slide, but the ‘big guys’ started to come down really hard and demand we be consistent (I always assumed there was an incident with a stolen card at another one of our stores).
“So after he hands me his card, I politely ask, ‘May I please see your ID?’ ‘What, for a fuckin’ burger?’ ‘I know it’s silly, but it’s unfortunately our policy to ask every time.’ ‘Well, I didn’t bring my ID! So you’re telling me that I have to drive all the way back to work, waste my lunch break, just to bring you back an ID? For a fuckin’ burger?!’ I knew my terrible manager was just hanging out in the office watching the whole thing on the cameras, so I had to give him the ‘I’m really sorry, sir. It’s our policy and I cannot accept a credit card without an ID.’ So he snatches his card back, mumbles some profanities, and storms off.
“About an hour later I get a phone order. It’s pretty large — for about 10 people or so — and comes out to around $80. The order is incredibly specific, too: ‘I want all of those to be with bacon, but only ketchup on three and lettuce on two. Mustard on half but have it on the side. Please bag each meal individually and have them numbered.’ He was incredibly polite and patient while I made sure I didn’t get anything wrong. I put the order in, we made it, and we placed it on our pick-up order shelf ready to go.
“A little while later, our lunch rush is booming, I don’t even get a break to have a drink, and when the dust settles (about an hour later) I turn around and remember that large order and realize no one came yet. As if my mind has been read, I get a phone call. ‘Yeah, you know that order that was just placed? You can go shove it up your ass, you little bitch. That’s what you get for not taking my fucking credit card.’ Before I even get the chance to respond, he hangs up.
“Naturally, I’m fuming. I go back to my manager and tell her everything that just happened. Now with all of her faults, in a moment of beautiful clarity, she pulls up the caller ID. The call came from a local M.A.B. Paints store, so she calls back and asks for a manager. Turns out, the idiot gave us his real name on the order, so she tells his manager the whole story, that he just cursed out a 19-year-old girl from his work phone, and that there is $80 worth of food now going to waste and someone has to pay for it. His manager immediately requests a meeting and rushes over to our store.
“He and my manager sit in the dining room for almost an hour talking. He is visibly distressed and at his wit’s end, and leaves looking like he’s going to puke. My manager then tells me apparently this guy has had several violent outbursts at work and this was the last straw needed to can him. He actually said he would leave it up to her, to which she replied, ‘Can his ass.’
“He never came in again. I guess because he no longer worked close by.”
Not today, Fry Lady!
“When I was 18, I was a relief manager at a Captain D’s in a coastal city near Mobile, Alabama. Aside from ‘relief’ being a euphemism for being ‘relieved’ of extra pay and staff support, I rolled with it pretty well.
“Usually.
“The busiest time of year at ‘the Captain’ was Lent. On Friday nights there would be an endless line out the door and drive-thru from 5:30pm until 11pm when we closed — picture hundreds of people ordering a ton of mostly fried seafood nonstop for hours. On one such Friday, our perpetual 50-ticket-deep nightmare had reduced us to a series of grunts and simple commands as we bore the onslaught — behind! Hot! Fish! Hushpups! 26/30s! Knife! 26/30s! Fries! Fries! Fries!!!!
“In walks the Fry Lady.
“Her MO was consistent. She’d eat most of her fries, then complain they weren’t hot enough and demand more. We’d give her new hot ones. This process repeated sometimes five to eight times in a row in a single night. I’d told both the owner and manager about her before, but they insisted I suck it up. ‘The customer is always right.’
“Predictably, that night Fry Lady cut in front of the line and complained. I took the next batch directly out of the fryer with tongs and dumped them onto a plate. I was aiming for scar tissue with that batch.
“No such luck. Fry Lady returned. The counter person rolled her eyes as she gave me the bad news. I sighed. That time I raised the basket of fries above the pass-through window — dripping with hot grease — so Crazy Time could clearly see it. I put them directly onto a big new plate and sent it out. It was about five orders’ worth.
“The Fry Lady glared. I glared back, then got back to work. Fifteen minutes later, Fry Lady was back again.
I took my apron off, pushed through the swinging door, and stared down Fry Lady with the rage of 1,000 suns.
“Backstory: while I was living in the ‘polite South’ (a total crock of shit) at the time, I was actually born and spent my earlier years in Miami, FL in the mid-’70s and early ’80s, then an insane, coke-fueled nightmare-land of random violence and corruption. I was also raised in part by my first-generation Sicilian grandfather who hailed from New Jersey — a child of the Great Depression. As such, when pushed to a certain point, I could be less than magnanimous.
“I took my apron off, pushed through the swinging door, and stared down Fry Lady with the rage of 1,000 suns. Seething but composed, I told her in a low voice: ‘I’m not playing this game with you anymore. We don’t have time for this shit, lady. I need you and your family to leave now or I’m calling the fucking police and having have your ass thrown out in front of all these people. Understood?’
“It was pure New Jersey — not a hint of my newly acquired redneck drawl or charm present. Stunned, she shook angrily, but slowly backed away to her table, where they quickly picked up their things and left. I was a bit surprised, actually. I expected her husband and teenage son to ‘protect her honor,’ as Southern men are inclined to do. They didn’t.
“Fry Lady called the owner that evening. The next day I walked in, figuring I’d be fired. It was worth it. To his credit, though, the owner said that if she ever came back, we could refuse service.
“Several weeks later, that’s exactly what we did. She came around the corner and, like a lightning bolt, my manager was out of the kitchen, pointing in her face, ‘No!!! No!!! No!!! You leave right now!!! Right now!!! Leave!!! Now!! Get out!!!’
“I found out later she was pulling the same bullshit at other Captain D’s across the city and county. The owner eventually banned her from all five of the ones he owned.”