A few months ago there was a situation at the restaurant I work at. We came to call it ticketgate. Our system is built around either receiving a sign to "mark your order" or having your name taken if the food is going to be to go (you know, so we can call it out). These titles, be they name or sign, go into the POS and are printed at the top of every ticket. We get a little... creative sometimes. "Hot Messica" for the Jessica that seemed to have done her make-up in the car, with her eyes closed, or "Martin, I hate" for that guy, Martin, who is a fucking prick every single time he comes in. It was this ticket that made it over the counter and was brought to my manager with the question: "What is this?" by Martin, himself, I hate. To clarify, though I agree with the sentiment, I didn't write the fateful line. I'm smarter than that, and I wouldn't have let it get across the counter, but it did. The dust settled, tongue lashings were handed out, threats were made, and the fun of creative naming became a thing of the past. Then Martin brought it back up, just the other day. Why? I'm not sure. He's just that type of bitchy wheel who wants all the grease for himself. I was warned that he was going to be coming in on one of my night shifts, so I was prepared to hand out the tip top service that I know he so requires- desires- however. You know the person that only clarifies a specific need once it's already fucked up? That's this guy- every single time. I went out of my way to ensure that everything was correct, and was made to his specifications (which I pulled out of him like so many rotten teeth). I hand delivered his food, bagged and ready just the way he wanted it. Good job, right? He complained to my GM that I was "pandering" the next day. I give up. I fucking hate you, Martin.
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