“I thought I knew what ridiculous was, until this day.” -Strong Bad
I made one last effort to steal victory from the jaws of defeat:
“Sir, I can get you a new coleslaw, I’ll even make it myself.”
“NO, the petty man replied sharply,” that’s not good enough.”
I sighed then walked away to get the manager.
***
Coleslaw is disgusting. It’s the Liver and Onions of side dishes. I don’t recommend it, rarely ate it, and never liked it. Having to dump its gooey contents from a huge, gross vat didn’t help. In a world of salads, fries, rice, and mash potatoes, I’ve never understood the decision to choose coleslaw. “How could someone actually like this shit,” I’d wonder constantly. Then again, some people still like communism.
It was Friday night at my least favourite bar job. Unfortunately, it was also the best paying job via tips (if only due to pure volume as the clientele were the cheapest I’ve ever served). It was busy but not much more than usual.
I was working with Adrienne, a cute redhead bartender close to my age. She was solid and only one of two bartenders I liked working with during my three year stint. Otherwise, we went through more bartenders than Activision pumping out Call of Duty titles. Anyway, Adrienne was friendly, though no-nonsense, worked hard, and never caused me trouble.
We alternated between taking tables in the lounge and both made our fair share of drinks. This was good because there’s countless lazy, selfish bartenders who often only make drinks for their customers, while their coworkers drown in the weeds. I’m unsure who else was working but it was my first year there, we had a decent crew, and the place hadn’t turned toxic… yet.
A couple, probably in their early 50s, was sat in one of the booths. Based on their appearance and mannerisms they appeared to be upper-middle class, thus likely to tip better than our average customers. As it was my turn I approached them, began the grind that is every customer cycle, and got a drink order.
My first impressions were positive. They were professional, polite, and didn’t ask annoying questions. I relaxed and assumed they’d be an easy table.
But I was wrong.
***
One of the biggest frustrations of the restaurant industry is you can literally do everything right (or 99% right) and still get chewed out and no tip. Like strict Asian parents who expect perfect grades some customers want the moon and a 95% success rate is expected (but rarely thanked).
You can be the most friendly, professional, and competent server. The drinks, food, service, even atmosphere, can be near perfect. You can master every mod, charm them to death, and surprise people with a free drink and dessert. But all it takes is one mistake (real or imagined) for some to dismiss all of this and turn rogue. Suddenly, it snowballs into fake complaints, exaggerations, and in corporate places at least, to appeasement via comps, GCs and unmerited apologies.
I’ve seen dumb, petty complains derail seeming normal tables that would probably have surprised Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsay.
At my favourite restaurant some idiot said her steak tasted too “lemony.” When the GM reminded the lady we gave the lemon with the salad (not the steak) and saw her squeeze it over the hunk of meat she flatly denied it. Fortunately, our manager didn’t suffer fools and said “good” when the woman said she wouldn’t be back. Because the customer isn’t always right, they only have rights, and good leaders know when to fire toxic clientele.
Another time a similarly misbegotten individual motioned my friend Mason over to comment on his wings. When the man complained the suicide (as in very, very hot) wings “are too hot” Mason was dumbstruck… for about 0.68 seconds. Then he laughed in the idiot’s face and walked away. Had it been me I would’ve brought the gentleman a pint of milk, laced with a chemical compound strong enough to sterilize him (to spare future generations).
One common complaint, which I’ve been lucky to avoid, is when women get uptight and deny servers tips because they called their table “guys.” It doesn’t matter if there are men in the group, if it was a one-off, or even if the server apologizes. This complaint is the refuge of thin-skinned, old hags that take their misery out on hospitality staff. I can only imagine how many similar complaints are spawned by the crusade over pronouns (especially against individuals like me who often can’t even remember peoples’ names).
As usual, Bryon had the most comical example of a dumb complaint. During a busy lunch hour (because that’s when shit like this happens) a crazy guy came in and asked to see the manager. According to Bry the exchange went something like this:
“How can I help you sir?,” Bryon began.
“Why do you re-use your garnishes?,” the man said accusingly.
“Sir, what are you talking about, we don’t do that…” Bry responded in a diplomatic tone the fool didn’t merit.
“Last time I was here the bartender took limes from used glasses and put them on new ones,” the dumbass repeated himself.
“Sir,” Bryon started as he held back laughter, “that makes no sense. It’s unsanitary and not even cost-effective. The health code people would be all over us. And customers would notice squeezed lemons and limes on their glasses.”
“I saw it, I swear!,” the man went on.
“And when was this and which bartender was it?,” Bryon decided to indulge the idiot’s conspiracy theory.
“Uh… last week, I don’t remember who it was,” the nut job wouldn’t shut up.
“Uh, huh… sir trust me, we don’t re-use our garnishes,” Bry responded.
“Yes you do,” The man doubled down.
“Sir, the only time in history a restaurant re-used garnishes was in Paris in 1946 after World War II, when it couldn’t get fruit from the Belgium Congo,” Bryon finally gave the moron a taste of his own medicine.
“You made that up!,” the fucker said with sincere outrage apparently.”
“Well SO DID YOU!,” Bry finally snapped before walking away to do something actually productive.
Yes, some customers are actually this stupid and annoying. It’s rarely entertaining and never glorious but there it is. Because hope for our species rarely survives contact with human beings if you’ve bartended for more than six months.
***
But the dumbest complaint, in my 17 years (or half a billion seconds) of bartending, was the coleslaw that shouldn’t have been.
Because if the couple in their 50s were great for the first part of the evening, things declined after they got their meals. I don’t recall everything they got but the man had a steak and coleslaw. It’s likely he also had a side of mash potatoes or at least fries because simply having steak and coleslaw (even at a run down place like this) would’ve been extremely cringe.
Anyway, after giving the table a few minutes to begin their meal I came by for a quality check to see how everything tasted. The woman was very pleased with her meal and while the man seemed content enough I felt something was off. But as he said nothing and I had a million other things to do, I didn’t act on my instinct. Less than five minutes later he waved me over excitedly. As I approached him with the fake smile I’d learned to master I wondered what was wrong.
“Is there anything I can do for you sir?,” I asked.
“I have a complaint,” he said something like this.
“Okay, what is it?,” I said professionally as discontent built up inside me. After all, I’d just done a quality check.
“It’s about the coleslaw,” he enlightened me, “it’s the worst I’ve ever had.”
There’s nothing more annoying than a customer saying “this (insert whatever) is the worst (insert whatever) I’ve ever (insert whatever). Statistically, it’s very unlikely unless they’ve only gone out to eat less than a dozen times. That’s the problem with the hospitality industry: Too much of it is based on emotions and however people feel on any given day.
Anyway, the man described why the coleslaw (the bastard child of side dishes) wasn’t up to par but it’s likely I tuned it out. Because if I had too lose one of my senses it would definitely be hearing, as 99% of things that annoy me about customers come from their mouths. When it was my time to talk I probably said “okay, is everything else okay sir?” This was partially to see if the complaint would snowball into further grievances, but mostly to highlight how I’d given him a level of service most bartenders are too lazy to bother with.
“Yaa,” he said without hesitation.
“Is the drink okay, is the service fine… was the steak cooked correctly?,” I asked to subtly challenge him for using the “this is the worst (whatever) card.”
“No everything is good,” he said evenly enough, “the coleslaw just sucks, it’s the worst…” he went on more bluntly.
“Okay,” I replied, “…can I get you a new coleslaw, I’ll even make it for you myself,” I said in a last attempt to steal victory from the jobs of defeat.
“NO, the petty man replied sharply,” that’s not good enough.”
“What do you mean?,” I said after being genuinely taken aback.
“I DON’T WANT another coleslaw,” he raised his voice, “I want to see the manager!”
Realizing there was nothing more I could do, I went to find the manager. Given it was busy and I was beyond exhausted, I merely pointed to the table, said the man didn’t like his coleslaw, everything else was perfect, and he wanted to talk to him. I can’t remember if my boss laughed in disbelief or was disgusted by the silly complaint, because I didn’t stick around to see his reaction. Instead, I accepted the table was a lost cause, focused on other customers, and limited my interactions with the couple to the minimal standards my profession demanded.
I don’t recall all the following sequence of events but the manager apologized for the mediocre goop that was coleslaw. Then he comped it from the bill, gave the man a gift certificate, and I died a bit inside. The rest of my engagements with the table were polite and professional but never friendly. That how I’d usually treat unreasonable or petty tables. Because customers can’t complain under such circumstances but get the hint you don’t like them once you withdraw small talk and your previously warm disposition.
***
Anyway, they soon left and gave me a mediocre tip because while it wasn’t small enough to be bitter about, it wasn’t worth the 95% service I gave them. It doesn’t matter, it was just another example of how petty, cheap, and frankly unpleasant the clientele at my worst restaurant could be. To get even $100 in tips a night you had to hustle and often bend over backwards, since the tip percentage per customer was below 10% (and that’s being generous) no matter what you did.
Because at my next job I’d regularly have less than half the customers and gross sales per shift and still got as many tips. Even better, the food was of a higher caliber and we never served coleslaw.