There is something so cathartic when it comes to talking about people you hate.
To be honest, I think it’s what kept me in hospitality for so long. That, and my fear of having to get a 9-5, and the intoxicating temptation of free food and booze.
I worked in hospitality - in some capacity - for about 8 years. Starting as a delivery driver for Dominos, which you can read all about HERE, to working at an All American Shrimp Shack-turned-Cult, which you can read about HERE. However, the majority of the offenders on this list are from the trendy and beefy haven, Flat Iron Covent Garden.
Despite the often back breaking work, some of my fondest memories are collapsing into a dirty, sweaty heap after a long shift and cracking out some cans from the fridge behind the bar with the team. It was even better if someone had some leftover birthday Prosecco or some whisky concoction for a cocktail was going out of date.
We would laugh about the shitty customers we had encountered until the early hours, and it made us feel that tiny bit less alone and frustrated in what most hospitality or retail customers have to endure at some point. The gritted teeth smile. The ‘I’m gonna punch you if you don’t get out of my sight right now’ grin. The passive aggressive ‘you are a fucking idiot’ twitch of the eye. The 'Karen' alarm that explodes into your head when that haircut comes strutting towards you.
Some of the people I met at Flat Iron are still my best friends in the world, and (pre-COVID) we would spend many a booze filled evening screaming with laughter at customer stories and recreating sketches of stories we have heard a thousand times, but never get old.
You see, some of these villains are simply impossible to forget, even if you wanted to. I admit that they, over time, have been formed into caricatures of their former selves - a spindly, gangly, long toothed version of what they once were.
But that doesn't detract the fact that they are there in the first place… and I have noted the worst offenders down right here. All battling out for the ultimate title: The Worst Customer Ever.
Let's meet our finalists.
Coming in hot at number 10:
The Polite Complainer.
I’m actually weirdly fond of this guy and kind of feel bad he is on this list at all, despite him almost certainly not feeling the same way towards me.
He was ever so slightly softly spoken, dressed in a suit, out with his family for an after work dinner.
He had also fallen into the sticky trap of coming to the door in the late afternoon to ask how long the wait will be at peak time would be, only for us to tell him we really couldn’t give him a proper estimate. We would always say the same thing - come back about an hour and a half before you want to eat and that will give us a better idea. But he didn’t.
He came back much later hungry and half cut, and was not happy when I had to tell him that he had to wait 2 and a half hours for a table. Instead of the usual ‘Are you FUCKING joking?’ I was expecting, he was almost stoic; nodding and straightening himself up.
'I am going to make a formal complaint about you.'
'Okay.'
(silence)
'What’s your name?'
'Olivia.'
'Thank you Olivia.'
(silence)
'Have a nice evening.'
And with that, he left as quickly as he arrived.
I don’t think he ever did complain about me to be fair.
But he’s on the shit list for not listening to me in the first place.
I, again, kind of feel bad for putting here… but she is and I am affectionately naming her, at number 9:
Sickly Susan.
There she was, having dinner downstairs with 7 of her friends. They seemed perfectly fine, informing their waiter that they had just flown in from Hong Kong, and were having some steak before going back to their hotel.
Susan was sitting on the end of the table, and I noticed her a few times slowly sliding off her seat. I initially assumed that she was drunk, or a mixture of tired, jet-lagged. Or all three.
Nevertheless, I kept an eye on her as she turned more milky white by the minute.
I watched her gingerly walk past the bar on the way to the bathroom, and stopped my conversation with one of the chefs as she slowly started to black out and fall to the floor.
The chef, Rama, was a very muscular Brazilian and without a second thought had scooped her up in his arms. I ran over to help and see if she was okay… then it happened.
That scene in Little Britain. You know the one.
A projectile SHOWER of vomit covered both Rama and myself, whilst we looked at each other in complete horror. Without thinking, we both carried her towards the ladies bathroom, and a grief stricken Rama kindly left Susan in my care.
‘My care’ being me hurriedly scattering all the paper towels onto the floor and shoving the bin towards her whilst she, ASTONISHINGLY quickly, filled it with vomit.
I sat there with her, dead eyed, for what felt like hours on the floor; trying to clean both of us up (and routinely emptying the bin) to the best of my ability... whilst also explaining to other women trying to use the bathroom that this was not the best time and there was a disabled toilet right round the corner.
I started to wonder if her friends had even realised she’d gone.
After she left, supported by her group who sheepishly thanked me on the way out, I was offered a 10 minute break as compensation before closing down the restaurant.
I did eventually get a bottle of Prosecco for my efforts though. Which, if I’m honest, didn’t quite cover it.
Funny though - this started a tradition of giving staff bottles of Prosecco for their troubles. Customer made you cry? Prosecco. Had to stay until 2am? Prosecco. Slipped in the kitchen on some peppercorn sauce? Never mind the lawsuit… Prosecco!
At 8, and our first Karen of the series:
The Butchery Denier
The dessert at The Covent Garden Flat Iron is free ice cream. Yes, free. The more pedantic customers would point out it’s not actually free because you actually have to buy a steak in order to get it. I would just serve them the soft serve with a rictus grin and tell them how bloody clever they were for realising the T’s and C’s that we have clearly been trying to hide for years.
One woman, who we will call Helen, had another grievance to share with me whilst receiving her dessert, however.
Helen’s eyes, whilst I was asking her the lobotomy inducing same questions, ‘Did you enjoy your meal? What was your favourite sauce? Have you come far?' Had wandered to the left of me, where the pièce de résistance of the restaurant actually was, making the 10ft marble ice cream counter pale in comparison.
The Butchery.
Almost floor to ceiling glass windows, ornate tiling, industrial lighting… but most importantly Jordan, our resident Butcher at the time - in a crisply ironed shirt and designer apron - hacking the forequarter of a cow to pieces (in an incredibly nimble and experienced way, of course. He’s not Sweeney Todd.)
Helen’s neck slowly swivels back to me as I handed her the sweet treat.
‘That’s incredibly crude.’
'Oh yes, not always a pretty sight, I must admit.'
‘An actor, is he?’
I stop in my tracks. What?
'An actor. That’s quite a prop he’s handling there. Like something out of a Halloween fancy dress shop.'
The penny drops. This lady, who undoubtedly just devoured a juicy steak, thinks the butchery, butcher, carving tools, and the all important cow… is fake.
I mentally crack my metaphorical knuckles.
'Oh… no, no. That’s all real. That’s a real… butchery. He is carving the steaks for tonight’s dinner service.'
No other words necessary. Helen turned green, then onto her heel and strutted out onto the busy Covent Garden street. I look back at The Butchery with an undoubtedly aghast look on my face, whilst Jordan shoots me a confused smile.
Completely oblivious that he could clearly make a living at The London Dungeons.
7 is short and sweet, but still very much deserving of this list, is:
The WWE Heavyweight
I was hit on a lot at Flat Iron. I say with that with no sense of ego, because often, a wooden broom would have been hit on. Alcohol, mixed with desperately trying to get a table at times was the perfect concoction of inappropriate behaviour. Also, as soon as a group of lads or girls hit central London at the weekend, they suddenly become incredibly horny until they find each other and stagger home in an Uber.
Anyway, Basildon's answer version to Rocky Balboa and his mates were out on a mad one and were seemingly so sexually frustrated that they simply couldn't wait until they had eaten dinner to get their groove on.
And I just so happened to be literally the closest women in proximity.
After the swagger over and 'hey beautiful's etc etc', whilst continuing to be completely oblivious of the other customers I was trying to interact with, Rocky had become more and more Gung Ho about the whole 'flirting' thing and decided to grab me into an actual headlock.
So there I am hanging there, not even struggling. What's the point? It's 11.45pm and tbh I'm kind of tired, so a quick rest is welcome. One of those moments where you're thinking 'Wow, this man has me in a headlock. This is me. This is my life now.'
Eventually he let go and his mates ushered him back to the bar with a quick and bashful 'sorry'.
Anyway, we're married now!
At 6 is a couple of lads who I am affectionately (ish) naming:
Smash bros™
There is a theme running through all of these honoured nominees, and that is privilege. Mario and Luigi were no exception. They had evidently caught wind of the 'free ice cream dessert' at Covent Garden Flat Iron, and in their boozy, blurry, 11pm-on-a-Wednesday-night state, had decided that is was the ONLY thing that would satisfy their blood thirst for sweet confectionary.
So in they stagger, and we politely greet them and ask them if they would like a table for two. Mario looks up and tried desperately hard to focus on my eyes, then were swirling into my mouth, then out again.
His big old head then lurch towards the ice cream counter, and a sense of inevitability falls over the host team. We had seen this many times. Imagine - you are a bottle of Pinot down and wander past a brightly lit, marble ice cream counter in next doors window, covered in dark chocolate flakes. What do you expect would happen? It's a primal thing. And the monkey's were salivating.
'I'm really sorry, but the dessert is only for the customers eating at the restaurant. Would you like a table for 2?'
Luigi staggers out from behind Mario's swaying frame. I notice he has a half full glass of Strongbow dark fruits in his hand, sloshing around. I look at him and decide to bide my time.
'We want the ice cream' Mario slurs, like an overgrown Ape baby.
'As I said -'
Suddenly, Luigi loudly snarls - 'We want the FUCKING Ice Cream.'
I breathe. 'I understand that. I -'
But it was too late. Luigi had decided that enough was enough, and was going into full Ape-Hulk mode. The Red Mist had descended and I was powerless to stop it. He was suddenly transported back in time to when we was a child, and his Mum had told him that he couldn't have an ice cream from the van. Instead of wetting himself for attention, however, Luigi (now as a grown man) raises his arm up, and smashes his glass of sickly purple liquid onto the floor, showering us all in beer and glass.
Quick as a flash, one of the bartenders darted out from behind the bar and rugby tackles him out of the door and onto the pavement. I tell Mario to get the fuck out and on we go with the evening. Just slightly wetter.
Finishing up this Part is a quick list of short but sweet candidates that didn't quite cut the mustard story wise, but were memorable non the less. At 5:
The Highly Commended List.
The Italian family who were horrified that they couldn't smoke inside despite it being illegal since 2006.
The man who tried to smuggle his cat in in a rucksack.
The man who kicked off because we didn't have a spare chair (in a full restaurant) for his bag, even though there were coat hooks next to his table.
The group of friends that asked us to look after their miniature pedigree pug whilst they ate, and refused to understand why we couldn't just 'tie him up outside'.
The lady and her friend who were cut off from drinking and called my manager 'a fucking Nazi'
The man who threw his ice cream at his girlfriends face during an argument.
The guy who invited me to his 'Penthouse in Westminster' on Halloween, then when I declined called me a bitch and proceeded to bring in a different girl to the restaurant every Friday.
The middle aged couple who were (overheard to be) having an affair with each other, who were then caught in the toilets mid sexual act.
The women who changed her baby's nappy on the table during lunch service.
The group of business men in their fifties who got horrendously drunk, then refused to pay and mooned the waiter.
The completely hammered women who, some some reason, decided to sprint down a gridlocked Henrietta Street, and (accidentally I hope) smacked me so hard around the face as she flew past that I blacked out for a few seconds.
The YouTube 'pranksters' who filmed themselves covering the ladies toilet with toilet paper and smearing ice cream over the windshield of the parked cars outside.
I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the hospitality sector and the hilarity and blood curdling anger it can bring. I've had to split this into two parts to fully fit in all the gory details, so hold onto your hat for the next instalment.
You think this lot were bad?
You truly have no idea what level of fuckery is coming.
Bloody hilarious 😂😂😂😂