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This one's from a while back, but I remember it pretty darned clearly.
This was when I worked at a tiny little cafe` on the main street in a tourist town...not a big place, but most of the stores were very high-priced clothing or souvenir outlets, selling gold-enameled beer mugs and other very German items, or some very high-dollar restaurants. Compared to those, our little cafe` was a very meek, humble place... just a tiny little building wedged between a barbeque place and, if I recall correctly, a health food store, with some wisteria vines growing up the lattice on the front, only about five people working there (usually only three at a time) and the owner lived upstairs from the shop, and his overweight cat often came down to greet visitors and try to sneak someone's coffee, because Muffin loved coffee for some reason. I called her Muffintop because she was so fat.
We had a pretty limited selection, what with being so small and only having two cooks (a baker, who made the muffins and stuff, and a regular cook who did the breakfast dishes, and all of us would help with simple things like waffles) so our deserts were limited to peach cobbler, and a few flavors of Breyer's ice cream. One of the flavors we had was homemade vanilla, which was listed at the top of the chalkboard. Now, some of you may not know this, but homemade vanilla is a flavor that is slightly sweeter (and, if I'm not mistaken, creamier) than regular vanilla, which makes it taste a little more homemade than the typical vanilla. However, with that being listed at the top, sometimes people thought it meant all our icecream was actually homemade, and would ask me about if we made it in the back, or if we could make it with soy, ect., and I'd explain that it was a flavor, and none of the icecream was homemade.
Cue a very loud, obnoxious SC storming in, yakking away on her cell phone, bringing in a swarm of noisy children who got into everything (one nearly broke the glass jar we keep scones in, and another upset a bag of coffee beans that hadn't been sealed yet) and of course she didn't keep an eye on them, or the storm of chaos they proceeded to create...instead, she just rammed her way up to the counter (Mind you, this shop was TINY, so the presence of more than four or five people at a time in the front room was nearly claustrophobic), glanced at the menu, and took a break from cussing out whoever was on the other end of the phone conversation to demand ice cream for the screaming children wrecking the cafe`. I asked what flavors she wanted, to which I never got a reply, but she looked around and said that she didn't see anything to make ice cream in here with, so where did we make it? I shook my head and explained, patiently as always, that the icecream isn't homemade, it's a flavor that's CALLED homemade.
This explanation clearly didn't satisfy her, as her face started darkening to the furious red that signals many a poor wage-slave's doom. She took the totally rational route of proceeding to bellow at me that I was personally responsible for the mistake, and how dare I write on the board that it was homemade if it wasn't, and clearly I was just trying to deceive her (Oh, how clever she must be, to catch me in my deception after I flat-out told her that it wasn't actually homemade!) and probably poison her kids with that horrible chemical filled drek that ice cream companies produce, and how she was going to sue me personally for the terrible trauma that I had caused her, and for trying to poison her poor little innocent angels who were destroying the store and causing destruction she had no intention of reimbursing us for!
She ended up storming out with her swarm after yelling at me for about ten minutes, about how she was going to bring in lawyers and how dare I, corporate poison, yadda yadda. There was a moment of silence after she left, as the regulars, the cook and I registering what had just happened. Then one of the regulars started snickering and went back to the fanfics he was writing on his laptop, and we all got on with our lives after a rueful shake of the head.
Of course, I never heard from her lawyer, but I didn't expect to.
This was when I worked at a tiny little cafe` on the main street in a tourist town...not a big place, but most of the stores were very high-priced clothing or souvenir outlets, selling gold-enameled beer mugs and other very German items, or some very high-dollar restaurants. Compared to those, our little cafe` was a very meek, humble place... just a tiny little building wedged between a barbeque place and, if I recall correctly, a health food store, with some wisteria vines growing up the lattice on the front, only about five people working there (usually only three at a time) and the owner lived upstairs from the shop, and his overweight cat often came down to greet visitors and try to sneak someone's coffee, because Muffin loved coffee for some reason. I called her Muffintop because she was so fat.
We had a pretty limited selection, what with being so small and only having two cooks (a baker, who made the muffins and stuff, and a regular cook who did the breakfast dishes, and all of us would help with simple things like waffles) so our deserts were limited to peach cobbler, and a few flavors of Breyer's ice cream. One of the flavors we had was homemade vanilla, which was listed at the top of the chalkboard. Now, some of you may not know this, but homemade vanilla is a flavor that is slightly sweeter (and, if I'm not mistaken, creamier) than regular vanilla, which makes it taste a little more homemade than the typical vanilla. However, with that being listed at the top, sometimes people thought it meant all our icecream was actually homemade, and would ask me about if we made it in the back, or if we could make it with soy, ect., and I'd explain that it was a flavor, and none of the icecream was homemade.
Cue a very loud, obnoxious SC storming in, yakking away on her cell phone, bringing in a swarm of noisy children who got into everything (one nearly broke the glass jar we keep scones in, and another upset a bag of coffee beans that hadn't been sealed yet) and of course she didn't keep an eye on them, or the storm of chaos they proceeded to create...instead, she just rammed her way up to the counter (Mind you, this shop was TINY, so the presence of more than four or five people at a time in the front room was nearly claustrophobic), glanced at the menu, and took a break from cussing out whoever was on the other end of the phone conversation to demand ice cream for the screaming children wrecking the cafe`. I asked what flavors she wanted, to which I never got a reply, but she looked around and said that she didn't see anything to make ice cream in here with, so where did we make it? I shook my head and explained, patiently as always, that the icecream isn't homemade, it's a flavor that's CALLED homemade.
This explanation clearly didn't satisfy her, as her face started darkening to the furious red that signals many a poor wage-slave's doom. She took the totally rational route of proceeding to bellow at me that I was personally responsible for the mistake, and how dare I write on the board that it was homemade if it wasn't, and clearly I was just trying to deceive her (Oh, how clever she must be, to catch me in my deception after I flat-out told her that it wasn't actually homemade!) and probably poison her kids with that horrible chemical filled drek that ice cream companies produce, and how she was going to sue me personally for the terrible trauma that I had caused her, and for trying to poison her poor little innocent angels who were destroying the store and causing destruction she had no intention of reimbursing us for!
She ended up storming out with her swarm after yelling at me for about ten minutes, about how she was going to bring in lawyers and how dare I, corporate poison, yadda yadda. There was a moment of silence after she left, as the regulars, the cook and I registering what had just happened. Then one of the regulars started snickering and went back to the fanfics he was writing on his laptop, and we all got on with our lives after a rueful shake of the head.
Of course, I never heard from her lawyer, but I didn't expect to.
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