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Last year, sometime in May, I had someone ask me what I figured correctly would be the Dumbest Question of The Year. Specifically, this one guy asked me in all seriousness, "Is that Mount Gay Rum a rum designed for gay people to drink?" I think I have commented on that in here before.
Well, just last week I was commenting to some coworkers and customers that no one this year had yet come even close to challenging that for sheer stupidity, and I was rather surprised that there had been no serious challengers.
Well, that still remains as the dumbest question of the last year plus, but Thursday I dealt with a guy that was, without question, the Worst Customer of the Year...so far. (Hey, we got eight more months to go--anything is possible!)
So sit down, my friends, relax, and allow me to regale you with the Tale of Mr. Brazil.
It was not that busy a day, and I was behind the bar when these four people walked in. Mr. Brazil, clearly the leader of the group if for no other reason than he had the best command of the English language, was a 40-50 year old balding guy. With him were his friend The Beard, a guy about 10 years or so older than him, the Crying Toddler, and the Young Woman, who looked to be somewhere between 18-30 years old.
Mr. Brazil and The Beard each ordered a beer, which I dutifully poured them. Then the Young Woman ordered a beer, and I asked for her ID. And thus, ever so innocently, did it begin. You see, the Young Woman did not have her ID, having left it in the car. I politely explained to the Young Woman that I could not serve her without her ID. Clearly she had two options: go get the ID, or not drink. However, Mr. Brazil tried to convince me that there was a third option, that being for me to serve her without ID. I resisted the temptation to break into song, specifically the ID Song, as I don't think they would have found it as amusing as I would have. But I did explain to Mr. Brazil that, since the Young Woman appeared to be 30 or less, I could not serve her without ID. Mr. Brazil countered with the fact that I had served him and The Beard without seeing their IDs. "Ah, but you two do not look 30 or less." A fact he could not dispute. And then he said, "I understand that these are the rules and you have to work under them." Excellent! Someone reasonable who understands the situation. What a breath of fresh--"But she's 30." Wait, didn't you just SAY, not five seconds ago, that you understood that these were the rules that I had to work under? Sure, ignore me, I'm used to that. But now you're going to ignore your own words? What insanity is this, man?
Well, Young Woman, seeing that I would not budge, left, presumably to go get her ID. Leaving Crying Toddler with Mr. Brazil and The Beard, a situation that did not go over very well with Crying Toddler, who proceeded to cry and scream more. I'm not generally overly fond of people who bring their young children right to the bar, and these people in particular were beginning to really irritate me. Well, to deal with Crying Toddler, the two men did the sensible thing....shifted their party to the other end of the bar to play video games. Which, of course, did not stop Crying Toddler from crying. It did, however, allow the video games a chance to try to drown out her shrieks. Upon reflection, maybe that WAS a good idea.
Eventually Young Woman came back, with two older women and an older man in tow, none of whom spoke a word of English. Young Woman grudgingly handed me her driver's license, while clutching her passport tight. As she hands me the license, she tells me "It's expired." Silly tart. "I'm sorry, but I can't accept an expired ID. I can, however, accept your passport." Which she grudgingly handed over. Why she was so reluctant to allow me access to her precious passport, I have no ID. I had made no indication that I had plans of shredding it, lighting it on fire, or wiping my ass with it. I just needed to look at it so I could verify that she was of legal drinking age and serve her her fucking beer. She was, I did, and I did.
At this time, The Beard couldn't resist making jokes about whether or not I needed to see the IDs of the three new people, who were each a minimum of 60. Though he did not speak my language, nor I his, his indication was clear. Hilarious, sir. Truly witty. Something I haven't seen since, oh, a day or two before. Even in another language, he was a complete idiot.
"So what, Jester. Another ID story. How does that make the worst customer of the year?" Ah, my friends, this was but the opening chapter. Our saga continues....
MR. BRAZIL: "So, what is the best rum cocktail....rum and coke?"
JESTER: "Well, what is best is really subjective, sir. Different people like different things."
MR. BRAZIL: "Right, but in your opinion, what is the best rum cocktail...rum and coke?"
He seemed to have a thing for rum and coke, yet he was not ordering one, just trying to get my opinion, apparently convinced that rum and coke is the best rum cocktail. Well, it is the most POPULAR, but popularity does not always denote quality. (I'm looking at you, Cuervo, McDonald's, and every boy band throughout history.)
JESTER: "Well, personally, I like a nice sipping rum, just on its own."
MR. BRAZIL: "Oh, no no no."
JESTER: "But if that's not for you, there are many good cocktails--"
MR. BRAZIL: "Rum and coke?"
JESTER: "Actually, I rather like this one." And I indicate one of our specialty cocktails, which happens to be named after the bar. Mr. Brazil decides to surprise me and not order a rum and coke, but takes my suggestion and orders the specialty cocktail. Great. But I still don't like him very much.
While this is going on, I have been trying to determine what the three new people want to drink. Apparently, they want nothing. Eventually they ask for menus, but don't seem to want to actually order food. I am a bit confused by this, but then, I am being distracted by Mr. Brazil and his yammerings.
I bring the cocktail down to Mr. Brazil, and I can see he's been perusing our cocktail menu.
MR. BRAZIL: "You have caipirinhas?"
JESTER: "Absolutely."
MR. BRAZIL: "You know what they are, right?"
JESTER: "Yes, sir. The national drink of Brazil." A proud drink from a proud country that has much to be proud of, including great soccer teams, Carnival, and disturbingly hot women. Sadly, they also produced these people that are annoying me at the moment. And while some of them may be good at soccer, not one of them is a disturbingly hot woman.
MR. BRAZIL: "Do you know how to make them?"
JESTER: (deadpanning) "No, sir. I've worked here for four years and have never made a caipirinha."
MR. BRAZIL: (actually laughing at my joke) "What kind of cachaca do you use?"
JESTER: "Leblon."
MR. BRAZIL: "What?"
JESTER: "Leblon."
MR. BRAZIL: "What?"
JESTER: "Let me show you."
MR. BRAZIL: (said at the same time as my above statement) "Can you show me?"
So I go and grab the bottle of Leblon Cachaca. I show it to Mr. Brazil. He takes the bottle, looks it over.....and then tries to smell the liquor through the pour spout. Any intelligent person, upon realizing they can't really smell much through a pour spout, would have either (very politely) asked me to remove the pour spout, (politely) asked if they could remove the pour spout, or (rudely) removed the pour spout without asking. Mr. Brazil did none of these things. He merely continued to attempt to try smelling the cachaca through the damn spout. And he continued to fail to do so.
Now, I would have happily poured a small sample for these folks to smell or taste, had they asked me. Since they didn't, and I found myself liking them less and less with every passing moment, I did not offer.
So Mr. Brazil passes the bottle to Young Woman, who tries to do exactly what Mr. Brazil has been failing to do...smell the stuff through the spout. She achieves the same level of success, i.e., none. She then passes the bottle to The Beard....who (you guessed it), attempts to smell the liquor through the spout. These people must be related, because such blatant stupidity has to be genetic--wait, what the hell are you doing? Are you actually pouring the cachaca into your open hand to smell and taste? Seriously? Is that even vaguely acceptable in your home country? What the flying spider monkey passes for brain cells in that cranial bucket of yours?!?!?!?
Now, I am no longer surprised by anything anyone does, and this did not surprise me. It is something that, in 25 years in the food service industry, I have never seen. Nor have I ever even heard of such a thing. And while it did not surprise me, it did piss me off.
I grabbed the bottle out of The Beard's hand, telling him quite firmly, "You can't do that!" And I marched back down the bar, putting the bottle back in its place and then pulling my boss aside to tell him that I am within inches of throwing these people the fuck out. He asks why, and I briefly detail the story of the idiot pouring the liquor into his hand. The party can't hear any of this, but it is very evident that I am pretty damn mad.
When next I went down to their end of the bar, Mr. Brazil asks me how much he owes me for cachaca. No, no, I am not charging them for it, "but he has to know that he can't do that." No, he'll pay for it. No, that's fine, but he can't do it. Yada yada. At this point, Mr. Brazil is getting upset, and starts scolding me, telling me that I am not being very nice. Ignoring the glaring fact that his friend just poured liquor out of a bottle into his hand. I'm not being "nice"? I continue to politely but firmly explain to Mr. Brazil that that sort of behavior is simply unacceptable. And he goes from telling me I am not being nice to basically telling me that this conversation is over, and I am not to speak any more. Well, who the fuck made this guy King? Sorry, pal, but you are neither my father nor my boss, so you don't get to tell me when I can or cannot speak. Fuck off, asshole. I hope you get hit by a tour trolley when you walk into the street.
At this point Mr. Brazil says the first sensible thing since he and his motley crew walked into my bar: he asks for the check. Halle-fucking-luah. You're leaving. Fan-fucking-tastic. Let me get that check right away. The check, after the coupon they (naturally) had comes to $21. Mr. Brazil pays me exactly $21. I am not even vaguely surprised. Frankly, I am surprised he's not asking for me to comp his bill or take more off for their "trouble." They are paying the bill and leaving, and I really don't care about the lack of tip. Just get the fuck out.
And yet this was not the end. For as the party is leaving, Mr. Brazil has to get one last parting shot in. Now, his English wasn't that great, so I wasn't sure what he was saying, but he said something about Brazil being like China. HUH? What does that mean? "You know what it means." No, no I don't. Frankly, I'm not even sure what you just said. He repeats himself, and what I think he was saying was that Brazil, like China, is one of the major trading partners with the U.S., so I should be nicer to people from that country.
My brain struggles to wrap itself around that one. Because my government trades with your government, I need to be nicer. And by nicer you mean I should allow you and your friends to be complete raving idiots and behave in a completely unacceptable manner? Well, perhaps Mr. Obama needs to be nice to whoever the hell is in charge of your country (don't know, don't care), but as far as you and I are concerned, our commerce, all $21 of it, is now done. Over. Finished. Mercifully, thankfully, wonderfully at an end.
After he walked out, two guys who had been sitting at the other end of the bar and had witnessed the whole sordid affair from beginning to end just started cracking up, and one actually said he felt sorry for me.
Later, I told my boss that at some point, when he and I both had some spare time, I had to tell him the whole story.
BOSS: "Were they drunk?"
JESTER: "No, they were just stupid."
BOSS: "Where were they from?"
JESTER: "Brazil."
BOSS: "Ah. Okay then."
And thus ended the worst experience I've had with a customer in 2011, and several other years as well. Frankly, I hope he contacts the bar and complains. I would absolutely welcome that. Especially since I know that Boss would be on my side, and even the Owner would probably get a laugh out of the story.
*DISCLAIMER: Neither my Boss nor I are anti-foreigner or anti-Brazil. My Boss is in fact himself a foreigner, and was just making a crack. Personally, most of my dealings with Brazilians have been awesome. And they have some disturbingly hot chicks.
Well, just last week I was commenting to some coworkers and customers that no one this year had yet come even close to challenging that for sheer stupidity, and I was rather surprised that there had been no serious challengers.
Well, that still remains as the dumbest question of the last year plus, but Thursday I dealt with a guy that was, without question, the Worst Customer of the Year...so far. (Hey, we got eight more months to go--anything is possible!)
So sit down, my friends, relax, and allow me to regale you with the Tale of Mr. Brazil.
It was not that busy a day, and I was behind the bar when these four people walked in. Mr. Brazil, clearly the leader of the group if for no other reason than he had the best command of the English language, was a 40-50 year old balding guy. With him were his friend The Beard, a guy about 10 years or so older than him, the Crying Toddler, and the Young Woman, who looked to be somewhere between 18-30 years old.
Mr. Brazil and The Beard each ordered a beer, which I dutifully poured them. Then the Young Woman ordered a beer, and I asked for her ID. And thus, ever so innocently, did it begin. You see, the Young Woman did not have her ID, having left it in the car. I politely explained to the Young Woman that I could not serve her without her ID. Clearly she had two options: go get the ID, or not drink. However, Mr. Brazil tried to convince me that there was a third option, that being for me to serve her without ID. I resisted the temptation to break into song, specifically the ID Song, as I don't think they would have found it as amusing as I would have. But I did explain to Mr. Brazil that, since the Young Woman appeared to be 30 or less, I could not serve her without ID. Mr. Brazil countered with the fact that I had served him and The Beard without seeing their IDs. "Ah, but you two do not look 30 or less." A fact he could not dispute. And then he said, "I understand that these are the rules and you have to work under them." Excellent! Someone reasonable who understands the situation. What a breath of fresh--"But she's 30." Wait, didn't you just SAY, not five seconds ago, that you understood that these were the rules that I had to work under? Sure, ignore me, I'm used to that. But now you're going to ignore your own words? What insanity is this, man?
Well, Young Woman, seeing that I would not budge, left, presumably to go get her ID. Leaving Crying Toddler with Mr. Brazil and The Beard, a situation that did not go over very well with Crying Toddler, who proceeded to cry and scream more. I'm not generally overly fond of people who bring their young children right to the bar, and these people in particular were beginning to really irritate me. Well, to deal with Crying Toddler, the two men did the sensible thing....shifted their party to the other end of the bar to play video games. Which, of course, did not stop Crying Toddler from crying. It did, however, allow the video games a chance to try to drown out her shrieks. Upon reflection, maybe that WAS a good idea.
Eventually Young Woman came back, with two older women and an older man in tow, none of whom spoke a word of English. Young Woman grudgingly handed me her driver's license, while clutching her passport tight. As she hands me the license, she tells me "It's expired." Silly tart. "I'm sorry, but I can't accept an expired ID. I can, however, accept your passport." Which she grudgingly handed over. Why she was so reluctant to allow me access to her precious passport, I have no ID. I had made no indication that I had plans of shredding it, lighting it on fire, or wiping my ass with it. I just needed to look at it so I could verify that she was of legal drinking age and serve her her fucking beer. She was, I did, and I did.
At this time, The Beard couldn't resist making jokes about whether or not I needed to see the IDs of the three new people, who were each a minimum of 60. Though he did not speak my language, nor I his, his indication was clear. Hilarious, sir. Truly witty. Something I haven't seen since, oh, a day or two before. Even in another language, he was a complete idiot.
"So what, Jester. Another ID story. How does that make the worst customer of the year?" Ah, my friends, this was but the opening chapter. Our saga continues....
MR. BRAZIL: "So, what is the best rum cocktail....rum and coke?"
JESTER: "Well, what is best is really subjective, sir. Different people like different things."
MR. BRAZIL: "Right, but in your opinion, what is the best rum cocktail...rum and coke?"
He seemed to have a thing for rum and coke, yet he was not ordering one, just trying to get my opinion, apparently convinced that rum and coke is the best rum cocktail. Well, it is the most POPULAR, but popularity does not always denote quality. (I'm looking at you, Cuervo, McDonald's, and every boy band throughout history.)
JESTER: "Well, personally, I like a nice sipping rum, just on its own."
MR. BRAZIL: "Oh, no no no."
JESTER: "But if that's not for you, there are many good cocktails--"
MR. BRAZIL: "Rum and coke?"
JESTER: "Actually, I rather like this one." And I indicate one of our specialty cocktails, which happens to be named after the bar. Mr. Brazil decides to surprise me and not order a rum and coke, but takes my suggestion and orders the specialty cocktail. Great. But I still don't like him very much.
While this is going on, I have been trying to determine what the three new people want to drink. Apparently, they want nothing. Eventually they ask for menus, but don't seem to want to actually order food. I am a bit confused by this, but then, I am being distracted by Mr. Brazil and his yammerings.
I bring the cocktail down to Mr. Brazil, and I can see he's been perusing our cocktail menu.
MR. BRAZIL: "You have caipirinhas?"
JESTER: "Absolutely."
MR. BRAZIL: "You know what they are, right?"
JESTER: "Yes, sir. The national drink of Brazil." A proud drink from a proud country that has much to be proud of, including great soccer teams, Carnival, and disturbingly hot women. Sadly, they also produced these people that are annoying me at the moment. And while some of them may be good at soccer, not one of them is a disturbingly hot woman.
MR. BRAZIL: "Do you know how to make them?"
JESTER: (deadpanning) "No, sir. I've worked here for four years and have never made a caipirinha."
MR. BRAZIL: (actually laughing at my joke) "What kind of cachaca do you use?"
JESTER: "Leblon."
MR. BRAZIL: "What?"
JESTER: "Leblon."
MR. BRAZIL: "What?"
JESTER: "Let me show you."
MR. BRAZIL: (said at the same time as my above statement) "Can you show me?"
So I go and grab the bottle of Leblon Cachaca. I show it to Mr. Brazil. He takes the bottle, looks it over.....and then tries to smell the liquor through the pour spout. Any intelligent person, upon realizing they can't really smell much through a pour spout, would have either (very politely) asked me to remove the pour spout, (politely) asked if they could remove the pour spout, or (rudely) removed the pour spout without asking. Mr. Brazil did none of these things. He merely continued to attempt to try smelling the cachaca through the damn spout. And he continued to fail to do so.
Now, I would have happily poured a small sample for these folks to smell or taste, had they asked me. Since they didn't, and I found myself liking them less and less with every passing moment, I did not offer.
So Mr. Brazil passes the bottle to Young Woman, who tries to do exactly what Mr. Brazil has been failing to do...smell the stuff through the spout. She achieves the same level of success, i.e., none. She then passes the bottle to The Beard....who (you guessed it), attempts to smell the liquor through the spout. These people must be related, because such blatant stupidity has to be genetic--wait, what the hell are you doing? Are you actually pouring the cachaca into your open hand to smell and taste? Seriously? Is that even vaguely acceptable in your home country? What the flying spider monkey passes for brain cells in that cranial bucket of yours?!?!?!?
Now, I am no longer surprised by anything anyone does, and this did not surprise me. It is something that, in 25 years in the food service industry, I have never seen. Nor have I ever even heard of such a thing. And while it did not surprise me, it did piss me off.
I grabbed the bottle out of The Beard's hand, telling him quite firmly, "You can't do that!" And I marched back down the bar, putting the bottle back in its place and then pulling my boss aside to tell him that I am within inches of throwing these people the fuck out. He asks why, and I briefly detail the story of the idiot pouring the liquor into his hand. The party can't hear any of this, but it is very evident that I am pretty damn mad.
When next I went down to their end of the bar, Mr. Brazil asks me how much he owes me for cachaca. No, no, I am not charging them for it, "but he has to know that he can't do that." No, he'll pay for it. No, that's fine, but he can't do it. Yada yada. At this point, Mr. Brazil is getting upset, and starts scolding me, telling me that I am not being very nice. Ignoring the glaring fact that his friend just poured liquor out of a bottle into his hand. I'm not being "nice"? I continue to politely but firmly explain to Mr. Brazil that that sort of behavior is simply unacceptable. And he goes from telling me I am not being nice to basically telling me that this conversation is over, and I am not to speak any more. Well, who the fuck made this guy King? Sorry, pal, but you are neither my father nor my boss, so you don't get to tell me when I can or cannot speak. Fuck off, asshole. I hope you get hit by a tour trolley when you walk into the street.
At this point Mr. Brazil says the first sensible thing since he and his motley crew walked into my bar: he asks for the check. Halle-fucking-luah. You're leaving. Fan-fucking-tastic. Let me get that check right away. The check, after the coupon they (naturally) had comes to $21. Mr. Brazil pays me exactly $21. I am not even vaguely surprised. Frankly, I am surprised he's not asking for me to comp his bill or take more off for their "trouble." They are paying the bill and leaving, and I really don't care about the lack of tip. Just get the fuck out.
And yet this was not the end. For as the party is leaving, Mr. Brazil has to get one last parting shot in. Now, his English wasn't that great, so I wasn't sure what he was saying, but he said something about Brazil being like China. HUH? What does that mean? "You know what it means." No, no I don't. Frankly, I'm not even sure what you just said. He repeats himself, and what I think he was saying was that Brazil, like China, is one of the major trading partners with the U.S., so I should be nicer to people from that country.
My brain struggles to wrap itself around that one. Because my government trades with your government, I need to be nicer. And by nicer you mean I should allow you and your friends to be complete raving idiots and behave in a completely unacceptable manner? Well, perhaps Mr. Obama needs to be nice to whoever the hell is in charge of your country (don't know, don't care), but as far as you and I are concerned, our commerce, all $21 of it, is now done. Over. Finished. Mercifully, thankfully, wonderfully at an end.
After he walked out, two guys who had been sitting at the other end of the bar and had witnessed the whole sordid affair from beginning to end just started cracking up, and one actually said he felt sorry for me.
Later, I told my boss that at some point, when he and I both had some spare time, I had to tell him the whole story.
BOSS: "Were they drunk?"
JESTER: "No, they were just stupid."
BOSS: "Where were they from?"
JESTER: "Brazil."
BOSS: "Ah. Okay then."
And thus ended the worst experience I've had with a customer in 2011, and several other years as well. Frankly, I hope he contacts the bar and complains. I would absolutely welcome that. Especially since I know that Boss would be on my side, and even the Owner would probably get a laugh out of the story.
*DISCLAIMER: Neither my Boss nor I are anti-foreigner or anti-Brazil. My Boss is in fact himself a foreigner, and was just making a crack. Personally, most of my dealings with Brazilians have been awesome. And they have some disturbingly hot chicks.
, as they are wont to do, in lieu of these fine outstanding specimens of humanity...? 
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