Restaurant Workers Who Scored Sweet Revenge

off the menu thrillist
Jason Hoffman/Thrillist

Welcome back to Off the Menu, where we bring you the best and strangest food stories from my email inbox. This week, we have wonderful tales of delicious karmic vengeance inflicted upon deserving restaurant customers. As always, these are real emails from real readers, though names have been changed.

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." -- Roger Freeland

Never dare a Scotswoman holding a cheesecake

"In the mid-late '70s, my mum worked as a waitress in a variety of restaurants, including a couple of years as head waitress at quite a posh restaurant in West Yorkshire called Ingwood. There was a married couple who used to come in regularly for Sunday lunch, and the male half of the couple was a bit of a pain. For example, he'd regularly order the three-course set menu and then ask for two desserts and refuse to accept that if he wanted an additional dessert, he'd have to pay extra for it (because, as you would expect, the three-course set menu would allow each diner one starter, one main course, and one dessert). He'd do his best to browbeat the younger waitresses and my mum would have to step in and A) rescue them, and B) tell him no.

"One Saturday night the man and his wife came in for dinner. They had a lot to drink and he became louder and more of a pain. My mum, who is a feisty Scot who takes no nonsense from badly behaved Englishmen, told him to behave. He continued with his being a pain, and at one point in the evening, as my mum walked past carrying an entire black cherry cheesecake, she told him that if he continued his nonsense, he'd end up wearing the cheesecake. He started to goad her, daring her to smack him with the cheesecake, but she ignored him, not wanting to be sacked. A little later, the man told her that he had spoken to the boss, and got confirmation that if my mum had the balls to cheesecake him, the man would pay for the entire cheesecake and she wouldn't lose her job. Mum looked at the boss, who smiled at her. The man continued to taunt her with 'You don't have the balls to do it, I knew it' -- until an entire black cherry cheesecake hit him in the face and slid down, covering him in goo." -- Karen Hager

The Cement Mixer is the bartender's best revenge

"The best and easily worst job I ever had in the industry was the year I spent working as a bartender at a luxe boutique hotel and nightclub in Dublin, Ireland, at the height of the Irish real estate bubble (2004-05).

"One night, we had the entire English soccer team Sunderland staying in the hotel. God knows what they were doing there, especially because they weren't even Premiership at that point, they were in the Championship (kind of like AAA-baseball). But for whatever reason, there they were. And they were jackasses. These were a bunch of overpaid, undereducated kids from the English midlands, with more gel in their hair than brains in their heads, and on their arms were these women who… well, imagine if the TV show Absolutely Fabulous were rebooted as a gritty HBO tragedy. These women would star. By 5am, they were rowdy, noisy, and belligerent, and finally, other residents started calling down to reception to complain about the noise, and my night manager told me to get rid of them. But how on Earth do you get berserker-drunk pro soccer players to do anything they don't want to do? The answer is: chemistry.

"The Cement Mixer is the bartender's dirty bomb. It is a shot of Baileys, held in the mouth, then chased with a shot of lime juice. The trick, of course, is getting someone to actually drink this, because anyone with basic high school chemistry understands that you cannot mix cream and citrus -- they curdle instantly and spectacularly. But the lads of Sunderland FC did not have basic high school chemistry. I suggested to one of the players that he should play a great prank on his mates. He thought this was brilliant. And so I lined up on the bar -- on the house, of course -- half a dozen shots of Baileys, and half a dozen shots of lime juice. My accomplice passed them around. I told them how to take the shots -- it was, I said, a really popular shot in the USA -- and then, to my astonishment, they did it.

"The only other person I have ever served the Cement Mixer to described its effect as 'like having a pepperoni pizza microwaved in your mouth.' The worst thing about it is, even while the sweet-and-sour liquids are congealing and curdling inside your mouth, expanding too fast to swallow, it fuses your jaw shut (the 'cement' aspect), so you can't spit it out, either. There is literally nothing to do except stand there in revulsion and agony and wait for the reaction to play out, which takes like 30 seconds, while your friends (and friendly American bartender) laugh their asses off. By the time it's over, you are not the same person you used to be; you are a husk. A heaving, humiliated husk.

"They were gone five minutes later, and I never saw them again." -- Steve Amerson

Jason Hoffman/Thrillist

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." -- Carol Carpenter

We would call this venti-sized karma

"In 2003-2004, I was the assistant manager at a very busy (and now-closed) Starbucks on the Magnificent Mile in Chicago. This douchenozzle used to come in and treat everyone like shit. He wanted a venti Black Eye (drip coffee with two shots of espresso), but he wanted the shots on top AND he wanted the cup completely filled up -- as in, if there was a millimeter of space between the rim of the cup and the coffee, he wouldn't accept it. He also demanded the drink be double cupped. He would accuse us of messing it up the day before, i.e., it didn't taste good, you gave me decaf, etc. (Note: I never gave him decaf until after he started accusing me of doing it -- then I started doing it all the time. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.)

"But the fun didn't end there. After he got his coffee, he'd go over to the condiment bar, take off the second cup, fill it to the very top with half-and-half, and drink it. Sometimes he would do this more than once. And if the carafe was empty (even if it was him who emptied it, which is normally what happens when you drink more than 40oz of half-and-half per visit), he'd abuse the nearest barista until they went running for more. After he'd finish drinking his morning milk, he'd pour half the coffee into the second cup, then fill both cups up to the top with half-and-half and leave.

"I got transferred to the other Mag Mile store that summer and I was outside the store taking my break and smoking a cigarette, when Douchnozzle McHalf-and-Half walks up to me looking like he caught a pretty good beating. His eye was black and his lip was cut and bloodied. He told me that he was glad he ran into someone he knows because he had just gotten mugged and he needed to borrow a few bucks so that he could get home.

"I thought about helping him out because it would've been a nice thing to do, but then I realized that even as an assistant manager, I got paid like shit and I needed that money for cigs, weed, and beers. So I took great pleasure in looking him in the eye and saying, 'You always treat me and all my co-workers like shit and you expect me to help you out? Go fuck yourself.'" -- Larry Alcorn

Racism never pays

"When I was a lad, I worked at a tiny run-down barbecue shack in the sticks of the lesser Carolina. The food was pretty good, the management treated the staff well, and we had amazing regulars. Of note were the amazing handmade hushpuppies. Every meal came with two hushpuppies, and they were the most popular side ordered on top of that.

"One regular was a black man in his 40s (I'll call him Bill). In addition to being an all-around great customer, he was so consistent we would generally have his order ready for him and at his spot at the bar as he walked in the door.

"Before his arrival one day, four men came in, decked out in camo and smelling of doe urine (used by hunters regularly, but not supposed to be used on hunters). They plopped their smelly asses at a booth behind Bill's spot on the bar. When Bill got his food right after sitting down, they got unhappy.

"They pulled their waiter aside. The redneck foursome made clear that they were displeased with a man of color arriving after them and being served before them. In doing so, they called Bill a racial slur depressingly common to the area.

"The server let them know that he'd get their food up as quickly as he could and gave them a wink. He then proceeded to go to the kitchen and tell the cook (the owner's son) what they called Bill. The cook made a special batch of hushpuppies for them with a secret ingredient: shredded (unused) condoms. The foursome didn't seem to mind either way.

"The cook comped Bill's meal and told the foursome they should find another barbecue shack when they got to the register." -- Jake Masterson [Editor's Note: Normally I don’t run stories involving messing with a customer's food. In this case? I'm OK with it.]

A groom takes revenge on behalf of a server

"In high school, I worked under the table at a banquet hall a few towns over in Central NJ. For anyone that's worked in a hall where parties and weddings happen, you know that you often have to deal with over-demanding people. I never had an issue with a bride or a groom, as we'd try to make their day as stressless as possible, but man, did we have issues with friends or family of the wedding party.

"In one case, we had a 300-person reception with the works. That meant a long cocktail hour, every single sort of appetizer you could think of, an open bar, and the BEST main courses I've ever had. I was preparing myself for a long shift, but as usual it was fun since our staff consisted of about 15 guys aged 17-23 and two women in their 40s who made sure we didn't cause a mess. This usually meant that we'd fool around way too much, but in this case, our boss had made it very, very clear that we were to respect this wedding. Supposedly, they paid a LOT and were family friends.

"Party starts, cocktail hour begins and ends smoothly. Salads and drinks are served flawlessly. Party is going off without a problem. When it's time to get the main courses selected, my boss asks me to take specific care of the tables consisting of the family of the bride and groom. This wasn't a big deal, as I loved my job and I had done this plenty of times.

'YOUR PLATES DON'T LOOK CLEAN, YOU FAT FUCK. SIT BACK DOWN.'

"I start asking whether they want steak, chicken, or fish. Bride and groom are set, parents of the groom are set. Then I approach the end of the table, and I know I'm in for trouble. This guy is the older brother of the groom, and he is very much under the impression that he could have and request anything he wanted, since 'his brother was paying for it all anyways.'

"When I ask if he wants filet mignon, chicken, or salmon, he looks at me and says, 'I'll take them all.' I then very casually and patiently explain that he can choose one plate, as that was what was paid for for each guest.

"'I'll have them all, thanks.'

"Again, I explain how I literally cannot take an order for all three plates. That very much does not fly, because he chooses to call me a 'fucking little shit who should do as you're told,' since 'his brother was paying for it all anyways.' He and a few of the guys proceed to laugh at me as I walk back to the kitchen, both on the verge of strangling him and breaking down.

"A few moments pass, and the groom walks in and asks for me. He asks me to explain what had occurred, and then tells me to order the three plates for his brother. He also asks me to go get him before we start handing out the food. Once the food is plated and ready to go, I grab the groom and he asks me to retrieve the plates. I follow him through the crowd and am instructed to place the plates down in front of his brother.

"I was not prepared for what was about to happen.

"The groom proceeds to roast his older brother in front of the whole reception. It went something along the lines of: 'YOU FAT FUCK. ALL YOU DO IS EAT. YOU WANT TO GIVE THIS GUY S**T? FINE. NOW I WANT TO SEE YOU EAT THESE THREE PLATES, AND THEY BETTER BE F**KING CLEAN BY THE END OF THE NIGHT. DON'T YOU DARE GET UP UNTIL YOU'RE DONE.' I must have smiled so hard, because the groom shakes my hand and thanks me.

"The party goes on, and to makes things even better, anytime the groom's brother would get up for any reason, the groom would grab the mic from the DJ and scream, 'YOUR PLATES DON'T LOOK CLEAN, YOU FAT FUCK. SIT BACK DOWN.' This went on for a few hours.

"Fast-forward to cleaning up after the party, and the groom's brother was STILL eating. We were instructed to clean around him and not leave until he was done. The party started at 6pm and it was now 2am, and he was still trying to shove all the [now-cold] food in his mouth without vomiting. He finally finishes and the groom calls me over and makes his brother apologize. At this point I'm happy as can be, but IT WASN'T OVER. The groom forces his brother to tip me. When the brother pulls out $50, groom calls him a 'cheap piece of shit' and forces him to hand over another $50.

"This was the best worst day on the job I ever had." -- Mario Lavagetto

Do you have a restaurant, home-cooking, or any other food-adjacent story you’d like to see appear in Off the Menu (on ANY subject, not just this one)? Please email WilyUbertrout@gmail.com with “Off the Menu” in the subject line (or you can find me on Twitter: @EyePatchGuy). Submissions are always welcome!

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C.A. Pinkham is a guy who makes inappropriate jokes about Toblerones on the internet. Follow him on Twitter: @EyePatchGuy.
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