From  leonis_ Tales From Your Server:

I hate you.

I brought the check at 10pm after you ordered your last round of drinks. I let you guys sit in peace while I finished cleaning everything. I, however, didn‘t think you would sit for TWO HOURS after I dropped the check. After I asked if anyone needed to use the restroom so I could turn the lights off. After I asked (very kindly) if I could close up soon and you gave me irritated looks and a cryptic answer. After I opened the door in my jacket, to let my SO in who was picking me up.

My life doesn‘t revolve around you and I sure as fuck don‘t get paid the hours you‘re sitting. So thanks for ruining my mood and my night.

I hope you get diarrhea, leonis

-- leonis_

From DabblesInDirewolves, TalesFromYourServer

Dear Diary,

For the past week Old Man Winter has done nothing but spit snow and shit woe. Barely an inch and the state has regressed into the Dark Ages; parents huddle their children around their Netflix fireplaces and sob for the sun whilst hugging loaves of bread. Give us a tornado in the front yard and we rush gleefully out to die; drop us three quarters/inch of fluff and we are reduced to the productivity level of salted slugs. I did not have high hopes for the day...in this, at least, I was not disappointed.

I could give a shit less about the lack of servers, I'm nine tables ahead of the game. Back of house takes the worst hit: the dish boys are so surrounded by shit they look like they've lost a challenge on Hell's Kitchen. Our only current backup cook lives 45 minutes and a hearty "FUCK THAT" away. And the grill cook? Well, let's just say he picked a hell of a week to lay off the coke.

They try to be optimistic. Who would come out in this? they say nervously to each other. But it is coming, a dark cloud of anticipation that mists out from the surrounding FOUR hotels. Nobody believes me when I tell them these hotels are going to fuck us harder than they ever did on Boardwalk.

But come they do; the house is full by 5 pm and by 5:30 there's no earthly way of knowing which way I'm fucking going. By 7 pm we've 86'd 1/3 of the menu and 2/3 of my patience. And of fucking course, there goes the bread.

Luckily enough, the rush seems to die along with our options. By 8 the place has cleared, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Manager sends everyone off the floor minus myself and the other closer. Our one remaining grill cook has to leave at 8:30, so the manager closes down the grill. For the next two hours, only fried foods are allowed out. He takes over the cash stand/host stand, personally explaining to every guest the circumstances as he seats them. Two tables enter, eat without complaint, and leave.

Enter the Fucksticks.

The Fucksticks are a table of 5, two middle age couples and one older man. I watch from the kitchen as my manager seats them and gives them the rundown. Bright happy voices meet his explanation, and I feel slightly better. The respective couples order their food without a problem. And then I turn my attentions to the older gentleman.

He first "double checks" with me to make sure we're out of cornbread. I confirm this, then per my managers suggestion, offer him a blueberry muffin, a premium item we usually charge for. He accepts the offer of the muffin, then moves on to his entree.

"I'll have a hamburger steak, medium-well..."

"I'm so sorry sir, but our grill is out of commission for the night. I can only offer you fried..."

"Sweetheart," he breaks in firmly, "you just need a skillet to make a hamburger steak."

Okay, fair enough, you wanna part the concrete like a Satany Moses and bring forth the hellfire to cook it with? I gently reiterate that the grill is shut off and cold, and that we would have to restart the grill to make a hamburger steak. I once again steer him in the direction of an available entree. He deflects again, this time asking what time we close. I tell him 10:00, roughly an hour and a half.

He thinks on it, then says, "That's fine then," and places an order for the shrimp plate.

Things settle into blessed routine. Food comes out good and hot, everything tastes great, drinks are full and tickets are out. Now we play the waiting game.

And what a wait it was. They were almost done eating shortly after nine. By nine-thirty, the table is bussed to perfection and the chat continues. But hell, it's cold and snowy and fucky outside, can't fault them for soaking up the warmth.

By 10:00, I'm frustrated. By 10:10, I'm alllllmost livid. Jesus, I have a window that doesn't roll up, I'm literally going to be driving a snowbank home. I'd rather get it over with.

And then all thoughts of Snowpocalypse are washed away as Fuckstickpocalypse roars forth with a fury. The older gentleman spots me skulking around and calls me over. "We almost ready?" At first I assume it's a joke that I'm not getting.

He states that he is ready for his hamburger steak. I kind of chuckle, but shit, he's beaten this dead horse through all seven layers of the Inferno. And then it dawns on me...he's serious.

"I thought you said you could make my hamburger steak if you turned the grill back on?"

"I...no. I said that the grill would have to be turned on in order to make it."

"AND YOU DIDN'T DO IT?"

I look from him to his companions, I guess expecting a voice of reason to be lurking about somewhere. One of the ladies says, "An hour and a half is more than enough time to cook a hamburger steak. You could've had the grill cleaned by now!"

Thanks for turning on me, Benedict Bitchface, I so regret not charging you for that extra cheese. AND THEN THE OTHER ASSHOLE CHIMES IN!

"And I bet yall didn't make any more cornbread, even though it was requested?"

AND I BET YOUR ASS ENJOYED THE FUCK OUT OF THE BLUEBERRY MUFFIN I SLAVED OVER THE MICROWAVE FOR!

"We...did not." I immediately exit stage right to get the manager. His circus, his ebola-riddled feces-smearing monkeys. I head up to the cash stand to chat with the cashier. Luckily (I guess) the table was directly on the other side of the latticework.

"What can I help you folks with?"

Fuckstick 1: "I can understand running out of cornbread, but I guess you could make some more when it's asked for!"

M: I'm out of milk too. (Total deadpan, great delivery, would have bought him a steak if the grill was fucking on.)

Fuckstick 2: "I sat here for almost two hours for a hamburger steak!"

"Yeah, which is weird, cause I told you when you got here that we couldn't provide grilled menu items. Please come back when our grill is functional." Swoops off, funnily enough, like a BOSS.

And so ended the Fuckstickpocalypse, which rushed out into the ether, leaving me with a prized pair of Washingtons (that fancy silver, not foldable tree-killin' green. Generous bastards.)

--DabblesInDirewolves

From DabblesInDirewolves, TalesFromYourServer

Dear Diary:

So it's Sunday night. Sunday, funday, eat-a-fucking-gun day. I've spent the better part of twelve hours catering to my beloved fucking public. Gently prodding the hungover college kids in the direction of something slightly less greasy. Consoling babbling football fans who seem to be under the impression that I coached their shitty team last night. Attempting to prove to various church groups that I deserve a higher percentage than God, a task that usually works out about as well as showering naked with a cat.

But there's a light at the end of the tunnel. It's twenty five minutes until close, there's a shit-ton of the chicken special left for us foraging scavengers, and best of all, I'm off until Wednesday. Whatever comes in now, I can handle.

The restaurant has cleared out by now, and my fellow closer and I get to work deep cleaning the dining room. I'm focused on sweeping as we shoot the shit, until the sudden, deafening silence peaks my intrigue. I glance at my co-worker, who is staring out of the window, his expression similar to one who is being eaten by a shark from the feet up. I slowly pivot, preparing to duel-wield a broom and dustpan against whatever monster is about to descend on us...

Jesus Hoagie-Eatin' Christ.

Lesson Number One: The light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an oncoming train. Or in this case, the headlight of an oncoming bus...and before I can hit my knees in despair, they're here, careening through the front door like so many anchovies into the Krusty Krab. I catch a fleeting glimpse of our host, all ass and elbows as she flees through the parking lot.

It's a party of 30. Party of 30, twenty-odd minutes before close. Well, it's my job, and they can literally bury me in bodies if I try to escape. I decide to make the best of it, ignoring the only good advice Ramsay Snow ever uttered, "If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention."

Issue Number One in this Subscription of Bullshit: A lady orders a cheeseburger, PLAIN. "I need it absolutely plain. I'm allergic to most vegetables. No vegetables at all, please. PLAIN."

Yes ma'am, I'm well-schooled in the vernacular. One plain cheeseburger coming up. Except it wasn't plain, cause cheese.

"I said I needed it PLAIN! I'm allergic to cheese!"

I must have had one of those blackouts where I write down my aural hallucinations in a perfectly confident hand. Really should get that looked at. "I'm sorry, ma'am, for some reason I wrote down: Cheeseburger, plain."

"Well, YEAH! If it's a plain cheeseburger, you take off the cheese!"

"Ohhhhhhh...so a hamburger?"

"If you want to nitpick, yes, a hamburger. WITH NO CHEESE. I'm allergic to dairy."

I return to the kitchen for another burger, silently grieving for the innocent cow who would come to rest in the belly of this beast.

Issue Number Two, otherwise entitled, "Why Don't These Assholes Sell Their Merchandise for a Reasonable Price?"

I was first alerted to this issue when a grumpy-looking gentleman on the end complained loudly to his wife: "Why don't these assholes sell their merchandise for a reasonable price?" I finally work out that he's referring to the old-timey horseshit we have hanging on our walls: Citizen fucking Kane has been transfixed by an old sled hanging beside the table. He wants this sled. He NEEDS this sled.

If it were my decision to make, he would be gleefully riding that one horse open sled to hell, preferably on the heels of some shit-yourself-to-death disease. I settle for politely explaining that the items on the wall are not for sale, that the tag he saw on the sled was its inventory number, which is why it was over 1000.

No. HE is the true Mufasa, rightful owner and master of everything the light fucking touches. I simply shrug, assure him that this asshole didn't have anything to do with it, and avoid that end of the table indefinitely.

So we're finally nearing the end of the meal, and I'm just pleased as punch that I have an extra 4.38 (ie, two extra hours) to add to my paycheck. I gather them up boxes and to-go drinks, check to see if anyone wants dessert. Nope, good deal. Head back to the kitchen for a few minutes, eat half a bag of chocolate chips as a reward. Then return to the dining room for clean-up.

They're still there. One lady spots me peeking around the corner and frantically waves me over. "We forgot it's his birthday!!" She points to a teenager in the center of the throng.

Now, I love celebrating shit. It's a lovely break from the ranch and gravy encrusted reality that is my life. Granted, a better break is going home, but still. This particular kid hasn't wronged me, so I grab his cake and get it back to him. Someone grows vastly upset that there isn't a huge group of birthday singers.

What can I say, dude? All I can do is enlist the help of night maintenance, and he's covered in mop water and fryer grease, way too overdressed to serenade gutter rats such as yourselves.

So they forego the singing. I tell the kid "Happy Birthday," and pick up a couple of plates. That's when I hear it.

"Hey, it's MY birthday too!" I glance over, and of course, it's Cheeseburger-With-No-Cheese Lady. I can automatically tell, just by the way she says it and then glances coyly downwards, that she's full of shit.

I haltingly ask, "Really?"

"Well, it was a couple of weeks ago!" she said with a laugh. I chuckle weakly, thinking this has to be a joke...I reach out to take a plate from her and she says, "I'll have the apple dumpling with two scoop of ice cream."

Shit of ten horses, she's serious.

Now, I'm not gonna check your fucking ID to make sure it's really the day you frolicked forth from the womb, but Christ, at least own your fucking lie enough that I don't doubt you. At this point I'm sick and fucking tired of dealing with these jerks, so I go talk to my manager and explain the situation. At this point he's itching to get me off this fucking clock, so he says to make them happy and just give it to her. Great, a fine example we're setting here.

So she gets her fucking cake, bravely fighting through her dairy allergy to choke down these two scoops of ice cream. Then, after what feels like a immortal's lifetime, they finally meander out into the night and onto their bus, probably off to terrorize some poor Waffle House just for shits and gigs.

I clean up, and then two hours and forty five minutes after they first broke down our gate, I clock out. An $11 experience I'll never forget.

A few days later, I'm closing again, hanging around waiting for another manager to check me out. She's going through the comp and void receipts, and does not look pleased.

"You know, I'm beginning to think (District Manager) is right when he says that all these dessert comps can't be birthdays."

If you only knew, miss. If you only fucking knew.

--DabblesInDirewolves

From Former McHell Manager:

My restaurant has five managers, and all of them are trained that if we get a complaint, we write it down on a designated sheet of paper that gets put up in a designated spot up front. In the past, we had a few managers who always forgot to write the complaint down, but those people have come and gone, and now I -know- that every manager writes down complaints/what actions we are taking to resolve the complaint when the customer returns. 

Also, 99% of the time, managers are the only ones to answer the phone. There is literally only one other person in the store that we allow to answer the phone and she knows how to handle complaints as well. After all, it isn't a huge operation; it's just a fast food joint in a small town. 

One other small point, we usually do not replace food unless there is evidence that they bought it/something was wrong:  A receipt, the wrong food, my knowledge that something went out wrong, a phone call, etc. If it's a small item like a small fry, it's not worth the fight, but for the most part, I need some sort of proof. 

So last night, I was working the closing shift and cleaning the dining room when the phone rang. When I picked it up, a guy told me that he had called the previous night and was given the wrong order, and the manager told him he could come back and get his order replaced. He didn't make it back to the store that night, and was curious if he could come "today" (today being last night, as I am typing this the next day) I checked our complaints area, and nothing was written down. Script form time!

Me: Well do you know who you talked to?

Him: No, I don't remember her name (okay, not everyone remembers names when they call, I get that)
Me: Do you happen to have your receipt?

Him: No, it got wet.... (red flag number one!)

Me: Ooookay, well what was your order supposed to be?

Him: Two *sandwiches* with cheese

After a brief hold where I ask questions to the person who was on the previous shift if she remembers an order being handed out, of course not, but I decide that I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt and give him the two sandwiches. 

Him: I also had two large fries with that order! (Red flag number two: suddenly adding on food)

Me: Well unfortunately since it's not written down, and you do not have your receipt, I can only replace the two sandwiches.

The guy accepts this and we hang up, continuing our nights. Shortly after, he comes inside. My worker calls me from the dining room and I proceed to ring his order through (still have to ring it up and make it free, gotta count that inventory somehow!)

Him: So you really can't give me the fries?

Me: Well unfortunately without the receipt, I can only give you the sandwiches. 

Him: I have the receipt, it just got wet so you can't read it.

Me: Well the receipt is thermal paper, it shouldn't matter if it got wet as it has no ink to smear.

Him: It was in a lunch box! (oookay that's supposed to change anything at all?)

I went to go wait for his food, getting the bag ready, when he throws the third, and biggest Red Flag at me. 

Him: It's just so shitty. I got two double *sandwiches* and you are giving me the single *sandwiches* and I had fries in my order!

Me: Sir....you told me you had ordered two *sandwiches*, not two double *sandwiches*...

Him: No I didn't, I said double!

Me: No, you definitely told me the regular *sandwich* with cheese

Him: This is so shitty. Because it's not written down, I can't get what I ordered?!

Me: Well unfortunately the double *sandwich* is $7 for one, and without proof, I cannot just give it out for free...

Him: When is your GM going to be in??

Me: Tomorrow morning...

Him: Well I'll be calling tomorrow morning! This is just shitty!

After that, he got his food and left, grumbling still. This guy wanted me to replace a near $20 order with no evidence whatsoever that it's what he ordered, or even that he had been there the previous night. He added onto his order once he found out that I would give him free food, and then once that food was actually being made, he changed his story and claimed it was supposed to be a more expensive sandwich. And then tried to bully me by saying he's going to call in the morning-99% of the time they do not call, they're just trying to pressure me into caving and giving them what they want. What he doesn't know is my GM will back me, so -if- he does call, the GM will not cave in. 

This is what I get for giving someone the benefit of the doubt and replacing food with no evidence. 

PS: I texted the previous night manager after, she never got a call from this dude and she would have been the only one to answer the phone. So yeah, total 100% scammer. 

--Former McHell Manager

From DabblesInDirewolves, TalesFromYourServer

Dear Diary,

Friday night, dinner rush.

I'm having the textbook perfect shift. Dip checks out the ass, nary a complicated ticket to be found, and my tables seem to be making a concentrated effort to pay my rent in one fell swoop. Calm seas, smooth sailing...if only I'd known to batten the goddamn hatches when I had the chance.

All my tables are settled and happy when the host pops in and announces I have a table. Perfect timing, citizens! I head out to my section, walking on sunshine.

Looks like a nice enough family. Mom, Dad, two girls, all dressed nicely. I step up to the table, already scripting in my head.

"Hello! I'm DabblesWithDireswolves, and I'll be your server this evening!" the four turn to me in unison, and my cheery server grin melts faster than ice cream in hell.

All four of them are glowering at me as though I'd personally shat in their breakfast of choice. I'd skipped straight out of the sunshine and into the Lands of Always Fucking Winter.

When it became apparent that neither my name nor my key role in their dinner experience warranted comment (fair enough), I asked if I could get them started with some drinks while they look over the menu.

The mom cuts me off. "No, we'll order now. In case you get busy and forget about us. Water with lemon, unsweetened tea with lemon, two lemonades for the kids."

Okay, I can work with this, who needs friendliness when you have efficiency? I get the orders in and get to work on the drinks. I gather up the lemonades, one in our standard frozen mug for the older girl, and a plastic kid cup for the toddler. I return to the table and parcel out the drinks...and so it begins.

"WAIT!" says Ice Queen, reaching across the table and grabbing the kid cup. "What's this?"

"Oh, uhm....lemonade?"

At this point the kid dissolves in a tiny tantrum: slapping her hands on the table and proclaiming far and wide that she was a big girl. Mom gives me a withering glare as her kid sobs and says, "She wants to be a big girl like Sissy! She needs a big girl lemonade!"

"Oh...I see. Well, those mugs are solid glass and pretty heavy, and..."

"I KNOW my child, and my child KNOWS how to hold a glass!"

Hopefully better than she knows how to hold crayons and crackers, judging by the litter around her booster seat. I bow out gracefully and bring out a mug (after which I bow out less gracefully to totally replace the whole fucking lemonade, as the original was "much too hot.") I turn to check on the neighboring table, but my inquiry is lost in the sudden thud and shrieks behind us.

I turn to catch Mom flying up out of her seat, now remarkably lemony-fresh! She plucks at her drenched silk shirt and shouts about how its ruined, and that her daughter's glass was much too heavy for a toddler.

Wait...I've heard this before.

I immediately quit the scene to bring out towels. Mom is busy shooing her children out of the chairs and sharing helpful tidbits such as "Make sure you clean it with hot water or it will STICK!" and "You should never give a baby a glass that heavy!"

Great ideas ma'am, I'll write corporate.

I finally get them settled back in, assure her that "No ma'am, I will not forget to bring out your food," and head back to the kitchen. I decide against telling them that I would have sold my organs to gypsies for the honor of forgetting about them.

Food comes out, everybody's...not happy, maybe placated? Mom moves to sit beside the toddler and give her sips out of her own water...while holding the goddamned glass, might I add. Alright, now we've got some semblance of normality...Mom seems almost content as she finishes eating, and thanks me for the first time all meal as I pick up their plates. I drop the dishes off in the kitchen, then come back for another round of the section.

Baby's still a big girl, Mom's glass is on its side, a fine finger of water is tracking determinedly across the table and down to the husband's lap. Good thing it wasn't sticky, cause I doubt he'd take kindly to her hot water suggestion. I go again to offer towels, but they beat feet for the door before I have the chance. I clean the water up anyway, gingerly peeling the drenched ones off the table. 3 dollars and some change (none of it silver) on a $40 bill.

I try not to judge my guests on tips, truly I do, but Sweet Lemony Jesus lady, your baby's wearing goddamned Gucci.

--DabblesInDirewolves

From pattyG80, Tales From Your Server:

Years ago, I had a pretty low end job serving at pizza hut and we used to have an all you can eat pizza buffet. (I know, my stomach hurts thinking of it). We used to have this pasta casserole we'd serve. Basic stuff - Rotini, marinara, mozzarella.

Anyways, this one lady would come in every day, and she'd stay for the entire duration of the buffet. She would only take from the pasta casserole, load up her plate and go sit down. She'd then lift individual pasta noodles over her head, visible above her empty booth, and lick the the sauce off each noodle and place the clean noodle in another plate. She would proceed to do this to plateful after plateful of pasta, licking the sauce off. I think she would go through 8-10 full plates if pasta this way and the tray was constantly empty because of her noodle licking. Also....she used to wave her arms around like she was dancing... Eventually, and I mean a couple years later, she was banned from the restaurant because her behavior became increasingly erratic.

Edit We did offer her a bowl of warmed up marinara sauce on many occasions. She always refused.

--pattyG80