When I was just-barely twenty one, I began working for a popular, internationally known and franchised sandwich shop. The particular one I worked in was also, conveniently, located inside a grocery store that, while being one of the most profitable companies in the history of that mattering, is also known for its more ridiculous patrons. So, it only made sense that occasionally, bizarre things happened. Mostly those bizarre things involved silly outfits and the occasional creeper commenting on how well an employee made a sandwich and then asking for that employee's phone number. However, this one is special to me, because it also illustrates an important lesson in dealing with "the public."
It was a fairly normal evening at the sandwich shop. I was still, more or less, a trainee, learning the ropes on night shift. We closed fairly late compared to a lot of other restaurants in the conservative Southern college town I called home. I was just draining the tea urns so that they could be scrubbed-out for the next day when a most curious individual graced our threshold. Had she been standing, she would have stood at around six feet tall, but instead, she rode one of the store's complimentary mobility assistance devices, a noble grey steed that hummed cheerily at her behest. Her voluminous backside spilled over the sides of the ample seat of her steed and her contact-enhanced amber eyes glared wildly in contrast with her ebony skin. Her ears and eyebrows were bedazzled with long rows of metal studs while a chrome ring hung from her nose like a bull. I turned to greet her with a, "Welcome," and "How may I help you?"
"I ordered two of your full size meatball subs earlier, and they weren't fresh," the woman declared.
I apologized, and asked her if she would like to speak to my shift leader. I fetched my coworker from the kitchen, where she was doing dishes, and on the way back to the dining room, explained the situation. When we arrived back at the front of the store, my coworker calmly asked the woman what her complaint was.
Again, the woman declared, "I ordered two of your full size meatball subs earlier, and they weren't fresh." My coworker apologized, and asked if the woman had the receipt from the transaction so she could issue a refund.
The woman sat back and lowered her chin slightly for a moment before raising it defiantly and declaring, with a scowl, "No, my niece was the one who got the sandwiches for me. Can't you just make me fresh sandwiches?"
My coworker and I looked at each other warily. The number one issue at our store was food cost. The owner of our store, an investor who owned most of the locations of this particular franchise within a 50 mile radius, had a laser focus on his bottom line, and so, we were always being chided by our manager for placing one too many tomato slices on a sandwich or not spreading-out the lettuce more. To that end, the notion of making two sandwiches, ostensibly for free, was out of the question, even if it was what the customer wanted. We would try to call our manager, we told the woman, and while my coworker manned the phone, I set myself to continue cleaning the store, partly so we would not fall behind and have to stay in the store later than necessary after close, but also to escape the death glares of the woman riding the Rascal.
Minutes passed like hours, not in the least because every 60 seconds or so, the woman on the Rascal inquired, with increasing anger, "Ain't you got your manager on the phone yet?" to which I would reply, "My shift leader is in the back on the phone with her right now." The woman began to pace atop her glorious steed, making figure eights in the dining room, and all the while glaring at me as though she were mere moments from rising up and shanking me with her car keys.
Finally, my coworker emerged from the office, walked up to the woman, and declared, in the way all service workers do when explaining a policy they know will displease a customer, "I'm sorry, but unless you have the sandwiches from earlier and a receipt, there's nothing we can do but apologize."
The woman's nostrils flared, and her knuckles whitened around the steering wheel of her steed. Her lips pursed before she declared, "You're both useless," before speeding out of the store.
The whole situation had been fairly bizarre, but we concluded that odds were, she was probably trying to just get a pair of free sandwiches. I posted on facebook about the strange encounter, but thereafter we closed the store like any other night.
A few days later, I was visiting a friend of mine who worked in another store of the same type in our town. I told him about what happened.
"What did she look like," my friend asked. I told him, and he began laughing. Curious, I asked him what was so funny.
"Oh, that's the Sandwich Bandit," he said, "She tries to pull that story every time she sees someone who looks new... it's always meatball sandwiches, always purchased by her niece, and always more than one. She's tried it on me a few times, and always when we're busy, hoping I'll just give her food to avoid a scene. She probably won't come back though. Like I said, she only tries it with new people, so you should be fine now."
Two weeks later, as I was cleaning the sandwich line and refilling bins of vegetables, I was surprised to see, gliding over the threshold, none other than the Sandwich Bandit. I greeted her as I would any other customer, hoping she was just in to get food and pay for it like any other customer. She glared at me, her nostrils flaring, and declared, "I sent my niece in earlier to get three full size meatball sandwiches--"
"You can stop there ma'am. Let me guess, they weren't fresh?"
"No. They weren't."
I smiled, "Well, ma'am, do you have a receipt?"
"No."
"Do you have the sandwiches?"
"No."
"Well then, ma'am, just like we told you when you came in two weeks ago and it was two sandwiches--"
"I couldn't have come in here two weeks ago. I was out of town."
"Ma'am, if you want, I could go get my phone, pull up facebook, and show you exactly which day you came in. I posted about it on facebook so my friends would know our refund policy."
I could feel the burning contempt the Sandwich Bandit felt for me at that very moment. It filled the air. Sharply, she snapped, "Let me go get my niece." Then, slowly she backed out of the store, glaring at me all the while, her Rascal beeping like an eighteen wheeler.
She never came back.
It was a fairly normal evening at the sandwich shop. I was still, more or less, a trainee, learning the ropes on night shift. We closed fairly late compared to a lot of other restaurants in the conservative Southern college town I called home. I was just draining the tea urns so that they could be scrubbed-out for the next day when a most curious individual graced our threshold. Had she been standing, she would have stood at around six feet tall, but instead, she rode one of the store's complimentary mobility assistance devices, a noble grey steed that hummed cheerily at her behest. Her voluminous backside spilled over the sides of the ample seat of her steed and her contact-enhanced amber eyes glared wildly in contrast with her ebony skin. Her ears and eyebrows were bedazzled with long rows of metal studs while a chrome ring hung from her nose like a bull. I turned to greet her with a, "Welcome," and "How may I help you?"
"I ordered two of your full size meatball subs earlier, and they weren't fresh," the woman declared.
I apologized, and asked her if she would like to speak to my shift leader. I fetched my coworker from the kitchen, where she was doing dishes, and on the way back to the dining room, explained the situation. When we arrived back at the front of the store, my coworker calmly asked the woman what her complaint was.
Again, the woman declared, "I ordered two of your full size meatball subs earlier, and they weren't fresh." My coworker apologized, and asked if the woman had the receipt from the transaction so she could issue a refund.
The woman sat back and lowered her chin slightly for a moment before raising it defiantly and declaring, with a scowl, "No, my niece was the one who got the sandwiches for me. Can't you just make me fresh sandwiches?"
My coworker and I looked at each other warily. The number one issue at our store was food cost. The owner of our store, an investor who owned most of the locations of this particular franchise within a 50 mile radius, had a laser focus on his bottom line, and so, we were always being chided by our manager for placing one too many tomato slices on a sandwich or not spreading-out the lettuce more. To that end, the notion of making two sandwiches, ostensibly for free, was out of the question, even if it was what the customer wanted. We would try to call our manager, we told the woman, and while my coworker manned the phone, I set myself to continue cleaning the store, partly so we would not fall behind and have to stay in the store later than necessary after close, but also to escape the death glares of the woman riding the Rascal.
Minutes passed like hours, not in the least because every 60 seconds or so, the woman on the Rascal inquired, with increasing anger, "Ain't you got your manager on the phone yet?" to which I would reply, "My shift leader is in the back on the phone with her right now." The woman began to pace atop her glorious steed, making figure eights in the dining room, and all the while glaring at me as though she were mere moments from rising up and shanking me with her car keys.
Finally, my coworker emerged from the office, walked up to the woman, and declared, in the way all service workers do when explaining a policy they know will displease a customer, "I'm sorry, but unless you have the sandwiches from earlier and a receipt, there's nothing we can do but apologize."
The woman's nostrils flared, and her knuckles whitened around the steering wheel of her steed. Her lips pursed before she declared, "You're both useless," before speeding out of the store.
The whole situation had been fairly bizarre, but we concluded that odds were, she was probably trying to just get a pair of free sandwiches. I posted on facebook about the strange encounter, but thereafter we closed the store like any other night.
A few days later, I was visiting a friend of mine who worked in another store of the same type in our town. I told him about what happened.
"What did she look like," my friend asked. I told him, and he began laughing. Curious, I asked him what was so funny.
"Oh, that's the Sandwich Bandit," he said, "She tries to pull that story every time she sees someone who looks new... it's always meatball sandwiches, always purchased by her niece, and always more than one. She's tried it on me a few times, and always when we're busy, hoping I'll just give her food to avoid a scene. She probably won't come back though. Like I said, she only tries it with new people, so you should be fine now."
Two weeks later, as I was cleaning the sandwich line and refilling bins of vegetables, I was surprised to see, gliding over the threshold, none other than the Sandwich Bandit. I greeted her as I would any other customer, hoping she was just in to get food and pay for it like any other customer. She glared at me, her nostrils flaring, and declared, "I sent my niece in earlier to get three full size meatball sandwiches--"
"You can stop there ma'am. Let me guess, they weren't fresh?"
"No. They weren't."
I smiled, "Well, ma'am, do you have a receipt?"
"No."
"Do you have the sandwiches?"
"No."
"Well then, ma'am, just like we told you when you came in two weeks ago and it was two sandwiches--"
"I couldn't have come in here two weeks ago. I was out of town."
"Ma'am, if you want, I could go get my phone, pull up facebook, and show you exactly which day you came in. I posted about it on facebook so my friends would know our refund policy."
I could feel the burning contempt the Sandwich Bandit felt for me at that very moment. It filled the air. Sharply, she snapped, "Let me go get my niece." Then, slowly she backed out of the store, glaring at me all the while, her Rascal beeping like an eighteen wheeler.
She never came back.
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