…at the one (Irish-y) burger joint in the first floor of a historic hotel, where I work now:
1) When I deliver a salad to a(n older) (white) couple, the lady looks at her salad and immediately asks me to bring out a side of ranch dressing, after saying dryly but somehow in-your-face, “There’s not much ranch on the salad.”
2) At a three-top of two (white) moms and their (developmentally disabled kid), the one mom requests more ice for her drink, and then adds, “This drink isn’t cold,” and later they ask me for two to-go boxes but don’t use the one, and when I give my spiel about how we can’t reuse it so do they want to take it with them or do they want me to throw it out, she’s like, “Oh, just throw it out.”
3) From these four (late 20s) (white) women sitting in the lounge area, including one in short short jean shorts and a t-shirt that’s too tight on her, one of them wants to know if we have this one cocktail with crème de menthe like she once had somewhere, only she can’t remember what it was, and so she asks me if I could get the bartender to put together those ingredients, and when I go to ask that of my one (middle-aged) (white) (remarried) mom coworker who’s the bartender on duty that night, she’s just bluntly like, “No,” and then she explains and says, “Because that would taste like toothpaste.”
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