So weâre in that super fun Sunday afternoon rush and this woman orders a salted caramel mocha. Her exact words. âA grande salted caramel mochaâ. There is one of those hour gaps where itâs just two people, so itâs just me and my barista, and he is trying to get through these drinks. Hers gets called out and she takes her sweet ass time getting it, but when she does, and mind you, I still have a line, she makes a face and says, âbut I wanted a frappuccino.â I excuse myself to the customer in line, and say, âIâm sorry, you ordered a salted caramel mocha?â She says, âYes, but I wanted a frappuccino. The menu says it comes as one.â And Iâm like, âYes, ma'am, but you have to tell me you want it as a frappuccino. Standard salted caramel mocha is a hot drink.â I kid you not, she gets this dumb look on her face and says, âSo I have to /tell/ you?â Like, yes bitch, I cannot read your fucking mind. Meanwhile, the two women still in line are patiently waiting, so I try to multitask, telling the complaining customer I will handle it in a moment and then taking their order. I remake her damn drink. Again, she takes her sweet-ass time getting it from the handout, and then tells me she wants the number of corporate, and that no, there is nothing I can do to make it better, because now she was late getting back to work.
There was fifteen minutes left in my shift. The worst part was that when the next SS came into relieve me, and I told him she might either call the store or corporate, he said she was right, because she shouldnât have had to wait. (She didnât she was on her fucking phone and was more interested in her texts than getting her damn drink, both times)
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