Give someone an inch and they’ll take a yard: 2 (London)

On my way from the South Ken(sington) Tube station to the V&A (the Victoria and Albert Museum), I decided to pop into this art-book shop en route for a quick browse.  

At the counter were two men: one behind the counter, one in front.  There was a huge stack of carpet auction catalogues on the counter, each one only about ten or 12 pages, with beautiful photos and a brief description.  

The man in front of the counter was counting them:  1, 2, 3, …

Assuming he was staff, I asked the counting man, “How much are they?”  He said, “75p,” and carried on counting.  Even for 1985, 75p was very cheap — I could treat each one as a mini-art book to look through on rainy days.

I asked, “Can I buy them?”  The counting man said, “OK, you can have one.”  I said, “I want the whole lot.”  He stopped counting, and said, “No, you cannot have the whole lot.  I’ve just bought them, so I’m already very generous by letting you have one.”  Oops.

(London, 1985)

What I say to customers: 04 (London)

I’ve been giving food to one of the doormen (Jamaican, in his 50s) at the pub where I work.  Let’s call him Terry.

Sometimes it’s milk at the end of the day (which would’ve been chucked down the drain otherwise) for his breakfast cereal.  Sometimes it’s uneaten food — our portions are very generous, so customers often fail to finish the whole lot, or they order too much and don’t want a doggy bag for the rest.  

(One regular customer, a Bulgarian doorman at a hotel in central London, once offered me some of his pizza, saying he couldn’t finish it all, so I said, “Thank you, but can I give it to homeless people at the church instead?”  Sure enough, he left half the pizza neatly sitting on the plate, and made sure I was the one to collect his plate.  So sweet.)

I also give Terry red shiny apples that I buy from the roadside stalls near the pub.

He, in turn, offered me some fresh dates one day last year.  I asked, “Are you married?  I cannot accept dates from you if you are,” which creased him up.

Last week, Terry brought another batch of fresh dates, saying it’s the start of the season now.  They are so scrumptious that I couldn’t wait until my shift was over, so I popped one into my mouth.  An African couple, also regulars, spotted my bulging cheek, and asked, “What are you eating?”  I said, “I’ve just accepted some dates from the doorman Terry, but it’s OK, he’s not married — I’ve checked.”

They fell about laughing.

(London, 2019)

What I say to customers: 03 (London)

My pub branch gets quite a wide range of customers.  

Apart from homegrown ones, we regularly get (alphabetically) Albanians, Brazilians, Bulgarians, Colombians, Cypriots, Greeks, Hungarians, Italians, Lithuanians, Polish, Portuguese, Romanians, Spaniards, Turks, plus lots of Africans and West Indians, with the occasional Belgian, Czech, Dutch, Finn, French, German, Norwegian, Slovak, and Swede thrown in.

I always ask them how to say “thank you” in their language, and use it on the next lot I come across, which invariably surprises them (especially given my Oriental looks) and pleases them no end as well.

One day last year, two men sitting at the wall looked fierce and even slightly grumpy.  When I found out they were from Bulgaria and said “Благодаря ти” (“thank you” in Bulgarian) to them, their faces absolutely melted into broad smiles.  For the rest of the evening, every time I walked past them, one of them would hail me heartily with “Благодаря ти!” and a big enthusiastic smile.  (I now think they looked forbidding because they couldn’t speak much English, so they were a bit nervous.)

Because I don’t always remember if I’d met a group before (yes, Westerners can all look the same to us Orientals as well), I sometimes end up asking the same lot where they’re from.  One group of Albanians has now taken to going straight into saying “faleminderit” (“thank you” in Albanian) to me to save me asking them where they’re from.

(London, 2018)

What I say to customers: 02 (London)

The friendliness of the customers (even the new ones) at my pub branch is demonstrated by their offering their food to them when I serve up their order:  “Do you want some?”

My response:  “No, I don’t want some, I want ALL of it!”  It always makes them laugh.

(London, 2016–2019)

What I say to customers: 01 (London)

The customers at the Wood Green branch of the pub are about 60% to 70% regulars, so every shift of mine feels like attending a party where I know two-thirds of the guests.  

They tend to remember me more than I do them — since they only have me to remember whereas I see hundreds of faces each shift.  How I know they know me is from the way they greet me:  most warmly, like an old friend, with an extra bright smile, with some even actually remembering my name.

I’ve now learned to hide the fact that I may not have remembered having met them before, by adopting a set phrase that applies to both regular customers and newcomers:  “Hello!  Good to see you!”

(London, 2016–19)

How to foil selfish behaviour (France)

The English son-in-law would strategically position himself in the middle of the long dining table during a dinner party (often of 10, if not 12 or 14, people), so that food that gets passed down the table would go past him.  

He would also hog the red wine, his preferred tipple, putting it in front of him.  On one occasion, he even wrapped his hands around the bottle and said to everyone present, “This is MINE.  You can have the white wine, but this is MINE.”  I had to bite my tongue each time.

At one of these dinner parties, I was unfortunate enough to be seated opposite him — in the middle of the long table.  

On my right, however, was his French father-in-law, so I decided to have some fun.  

I grabbed the bottle of red wine and offered it to the father-in-law, who accepted with great enthusiasm.  I poured the father-in-law a full glass as the son-in-law looked on helplessly, then absent-mindedly forgot to put it back in front of him, leaving it by the father-in-law instead.  

When the father-in-law had finished the first glass, I offered the wine to him again.  

In this way, I polished off the whole bottle of his precious red wine for him.

(France, 2011/12)

The little helper (London)

I’d already clocked out for my shift but was approached by an old black lady (in her 70s??) with two walking sticks and a little boy (of six?) standing a few feet away, asking, “Is there a free table?”  

Self-service is in place for a lot of things at my pub (finding a table, fetching the condiments), but I almost never say no to a customer who asks, unless I was desperately trying to deliver a dozen dishes and there was a long queue of other dishes waiting to go out.  And certainly not to an old lady with two walking sticks.  As I’d already clocked out, I suggested, “Maybe you can look around and see if there’s one somewhere.”  She pointed her chin at her walking sticks and said, “How can I with these?  The others are parking the car.”  I asked, “How many people are you?”  She said, “Four.”  I spotted two single tables on The Stage (the section three steps up from the main area) and said, “There’re two tables there; you’re welcome to put them together.”  She said, “But there are no chairs.”  At which point, I decided to pitch in and help her, never mind the fact that I was already off-duty.  

I marched up to The Stage, pulled the two tables together, asked her to stand by them so that no one else could come along and take them, while I went in search of some chairs.

I thought I’d involve the boy, partly to give him something to do, and partly to train him to take an active part in things, not just hang around and let the grown-ups do everything for him — yes, a teacher is never off-duty!  Presenting it as a game, I said, “Come and help me track some chairs down.”  When we found one, I dragged it along the carpet on its hind legs until I got to the steps, then asked the boy to help me lift the chair up the three steps, saying, “Be very careful, slowly now,” counting aloud, “One, two, three” as we carried the chair up the steps.  Placed the chair down, said to the boy, “Right, that’s Chair Number One done — that’s for Grandma.  Three more to find.  Let’s go!”  

I repeated the whole process for the next two chairs, then said to the boy, “Now, the last one is for you.”  This was, again, to let him know that being the youngest, he comes last, and that all the previous work was done for his elders before he could start thinking about himself.  I said, “Since this one is for you, you can choose the colour, the shape, and the size!”  Our movable seating comes in three different forms:  round stools, normal height chairs, high chairs (see blog What pub customers say: 1), all — excepting the round stools — upholstered in different fabric in different patterns, some with wooden seats and backs.  

I pointed at a low, round stool, because it was his height and size, but his eyes were on the high chairs lining the wall, “I want one of those!”  I said, “Are you sure!?  You’ll be way above the table and way above the rest of the group!”  He nodded in excited anticipation — I then realised that it was precisely the novelty of it that was the attraction for him.  

By the time we carted one of the high chairs to his table on The Stage, the rest of the group (a couple, presumably his parents) had arrived, so I said to them, “He wants to look down on the grown-ups!” which made them laugh.  We put the high chair at the head of the table and he clambered on excitedly.  I thanked him for his help, and asked for his name.  He said, “Hunt.”  I said, “Wow, so I found the right person to help me track down some chairs!  You’re a chair HUNT-er!”  He looked so chuffed.  

On my way out of the building, I stopped by to check that everything was all right, then asked the boy, “Are you still happy with your throne chair, Your Majesty?”, bowing deeply.  He beamed from ear to ear.  Everyone laughed.

(London, 2019)