I'm guessing
we are going to get a lot of the mcevil 'special sauce' wanking urban legends posted here. I once sent out an order of curly fries which had a daddy long legs fried into the bottom of one of them. Arrogant customer did not notice.
( HelloIamAdam and Adam is my name, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 12:00, Reply)

Health and Safety? you are having a laugh
ah the joys of small "family run" restaurants

Having done 2 year of evening catering college (G&G Professional Certicate and Diploma courses), I decided to take my hands into the big bad world of professional catering. Thanks to a friend's beady eye spotting a "cook wanted" sign in a local pizza and pasta place I picked up a one evening a week cook's job, basically freeing one of the owners up to have an evening off.

Italian food by English people - who had started the restaurant 15 years ago when the husband (nice man) got cancer and they couldn't continue with their secondhand furniture business (no heavy lifting).

Now it always scares me when I see these people on telly who sell everything and move to Spain to open an restaurant with NO experience of restaurants apart from sitting in one ordering egg and chips, sadly with these people their hearts were in the right place but their soup was out of a tin and their filled pasta frozen.

The walls were terracotta (Orange) and shelves filled with "amusing" bric-a-brac, nothing matched, and the cellar/party room (which would have been a great space if looked after) always smelt of damp. They barely advertised and so the Wednesday would be a few regulars, "friends" of the owners who ordered weird options because they could being "friends of the owners" - the owners hated them but regular cash is regular cash and the ongoing gossip of their torrid love lifes kept us amused.
The only day I ever saw a full restaurant was St Valentines Day for which I was asked to do a shift, which was worth it again for couple watching.

So lets just say, things were a bit slack including the health and safety plans so I was to discover, when the ancient old industrial pizza oven showed me when it dropped the metal bar which stops hot air escaping upwards when the door is opened, did I mention it was a tad hot? onto the top of my right hand as I was reaching to get a tray of garlic bread out of it.
I had to lift the thing off as it was too heavy to move just with one hand, no gentle flick off, so it had more time to burn through my skin, now having done my course, one of the things I was taught was burns = cold water for at least 10 minutes however was I was to find out from the wife (menapausally evil) that in HER kitchen, garlic bread came out of oven first and served, (taking putting the customer first to new extremes) before you could tend your needs and employer care consists of asking "does it still hurt?" 30 minutes later while I am still holding my hand under a running cold tap, sadly (due to the pain, honest) I replied "YES IT FUCKING DOES"
She looked slightly shocked and then complained that she would now have to do the washing up now as I said I couldn't put in my hand in hot water (yes I was a one person entire kitchen staff on those days - well she had to do "front of house")

Result: 2 and a half inch blister, followed by it turning into a blood blister and then bursting and leaving me with several weeks of a bandaged hand, typing hurt, moving my mouse hurt, everything I did with my hand hurt which didn't help with my daytime office job.
I now have, nearly 3 years later, a nice scar.

(They sold up a year and a half ago to retire and the place was taken over and is now often spilling customers out of the door, they get so full - I wonder why?)
( Not just a hatstand inflamed in the membrane inflamed in the brain, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:57, Reply)

Xmas cheer
Maybe I’ve always been a grumpy old man, maybe life has forced me into this role.

In 1991 I was bar supervisor (wow) at a Toby Grill in Yorkshireland. It was a stop-gap job until something better came along. After four months, the pressure was beginning to tell, I had a wife and a 4-year old daughter and worked most evenings and every weekend, especially bank holidays. The regulars were all wankers in the way that only regular drinkers at a Toby Grill in Yorkshire can be.

Christmas was coming and the punters were getting pissed. We had muzak on a looped tape that was playing the usual Xmas schlock. I’d been on since 11 am with a couple of hours break in the afternoon, it was now quarter past 11 at night and I wanted the punters all to go home, when suddenly…’Mull of frigging Kintyre’ came on for the fifth time that session. Now, some of you might not know the song, some may fondly remember it as part of the backdrop of your youthful Xmases, as for me, I was a punk in 1977, and hearing that bagpipe-a-shite virtually non-stop over Christmas/New Year 1977/78 was HELL. So I ran to the tape machine and hit the stop button.

Silence for maybe a second, then chief regular’s wife at the bar shouts “Oi, what happened to the music, I was listening to that.”

“Well,” I said, remaining very calm, “It’s well after 11 and I can’t take this music any more tonight, so it’s staying off.” As I said, calm – don’t forget, I was sober as I had to drive home after work and tired. They were all very pissed. The punters start shouting at me to put the fucking music back on, I politely refuse. Then, the manageress came out of her office.

“Oy, Pat, Che’s turned the music off and won’t put it back on!” Pat immediately put the music back on. I walked round the bar, grabbed a pool cue, came back around behind the bar and beat the tape machine to scrap while everyone watched jaws open. I climbed up on the bar, dropped my trousers, pushed bum in Pat’s face and told her to stick the frigging job up her flabby arse and marched off into the night.

…well, no, I didn’t. I stormed out the back and smoked two fags. Came back in when the music had stopped.

Not funny really, just bitter and twisted. I AM Mr Biswas.

So sorry.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:56, Reply)

Job seeker
Not me but a friend who used to work for the
DHSS in the late 80's. A new applicant had to
sign on after getting the sack from his
previous job. Working for British Rail on-
train catering/buffet bar. Many letters were
sent off asking for a reason from BR as to why
this gentleman’s job had ceased to be. Letter
after letter was ignored and the guy still
hadn't managed to sign-on. So the DHSS
apparently get a little more demanding and
finally get a reply. He has been caught
tossing-off into the egg mayonnaise filling
for commuters tasty snacks. Who said eggs have
no protein? I've NEVER eaten egg mayonnaise
since I heard that.
( kirkbear2, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:52, Reply)

Working in the Covent Garden area...
Was head bartender in an establishment on the Strand back in the early 90's. Anyway, twas a fellow workers birthday booze up down the Roadhouse (fucking shithole) with staff from numerous establishments making it down for the cheap happy hour beers, before going on to Los Locos (another shithole) to pick up any available females. Unfortunately Tony, our erstwhile Northern Irish bartender had to work, and wasn't particularly happy about this. Cue his calling one of the tabliod rags with a bomb threat (making up a password, think it was girraffe or something similarly inane). 1 hour later Tony's down the pub- the Strand is closed, both the Savoy and the Strand Palace are evacuated- along with every bar and shop from Charing X up to Aldwych. Probably cost the area a fucking fortune, but hey we all had a good night, and if memory serves Tony shagged one of the receptionists from the Savoy- so it all worked out fine.

Apologies for length- its genetic.
(Mr. Ploppy, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:47, Reply)

When I was working in Trinidad
on a oil drilling related ship, our cook was partial to the local 'erb ( and so where we) but the company we worked for had a draconian alcohol and drug policy, being that they would randomly raid the ship and take urine samples from the crew. With this being the threat, the cook decided to introduce a new herb to his dishes so that all the crew would have tainted piss.
When the shore superintendant did a raid, he took samples of 10 crew, which turned positive, then they complained that it must have been a faulty reading, so he sampled more of us, including the Captain and that turned positive. So he concluded that the testing kit was at fault and would have to order more from the US, which would take several weeks, and by that time we would be safely back in Blighty. The cook did make some exceptional cookies for the special few of us on board.
( frogdog Fuck Your Holy Leaders, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:43, Reply)

Not me, my friend Tina...
... worked as a cleaner in her boyfriend's mum's cafe. Shit wage and boring job, so she wasn't keen, but she was practically part of the family so she didn't complain.

On her last day (her and her boyfriend broke up) working, she was just about to go take an early finish, when she was sent to the bloke's toilets. Some guy's food had disagreed with him. And he missed the toilet. Possibly because his food was exiting from both ends, and the toilet bowl couldn't really cater for both orifices.

She's glad she left :)
( Kittenpants, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:37, Reply)

Steak
When I was a wee teen, I worked in one of those roadside restaurant places, you know the big happy face with his hand in his mouth. Well it was closing up time. nearly all cleaned down, just waiting to go home after we have finished cleaning, when this guy walks in, sits down and orders a steak, all the staff are like bollocks, this is 5 to 11 and we want to go home. Well I cooked the steak, put a lot of effort into it and it was perfect one of the best I had ever cooked. It goes out to the customer, 2 mins later its back, the bastard ahs complained, stringy, to tuff etc. Well i think bollocks to you and get another steak out, and my collegues and I proceed to abuse this steak, kicking it around the floor, throwing it into the scrap bin, fag ash, the list goes on. Qucik dip in the fryer and then on the grill to cook. Steak goes out looking the worse for wear. We all sit there watching him tuck in, expecting him to stand up complain again and storm out. The bastard eats it all, and then says can I speak to the chef, I wander over and he says 'thats one of the best steaks I've had in a long time' and gives me a 5 pound tip the stupid bastard. The moral never complain in an eatery. I sure don't.

Apols for length and tenderness
(Globalnote, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:19, Reply)

I don't know if it counts,
but rather than telling the story, there is plenty to imagine about the following:

I once found not less than GINGER PUBES in my taboulé salad from Waitrose.

Thanks Jamie, you shouldn't have.
( liverbird, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:18, Reply)

Whilst working for a holiday company,
one complaint we'd received said that they had decided to have some muesli from a hotel's restuarant. When they were about to eat it, they noticed something moving. There were maggots crawling out of the raisens.

When they complained to the staff, they immediately took away the tray of muesli from their buffet and fresh new tray was served later.

The last line of the complaint noted they had seen one of the waitresses carefully studying the new serving of muesli and "poking it with a wooden spoon."
( Edd: The Unfunny Try-Hard Edgelord, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:17, Reply)

Elephants Leg
A friend who worked in a kebab house showed me how the elephants leg of kebab meet is put on to the spit.

As the meat was frozen the precut hole was full of ice and not quite as square as it needed to be. Claiming it to be "the only way" he proceeded to pogo around the back yard until the spit was most of the way through...
( mazurka wants two's up on your mum., Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:16, Reply)

Legless....and the leftwing omelette
The reason you didn't get looted and pillaged was that the Hells Angles are a very unusual chapter of Earl Grey drinking, kitten rescuing, charitable bikers. Although they will kill a prospect for adding sugar or smuggling English Breakfast into the clubhouse.

Anywaaay, late 80's, largish hotel/restaurant outside Edinburgh. Malcolm Rifkind MP (oor Malkie) having a meal out, possibly asking in bewilderment why his constituents had told him to 'get tae fuck' after the introduction of the Poll Tax.

Malkie sends back his omelette (tight fucker) due to being cold/otherwise manky. The chef, not a fan of the Tory mob, and also a sweaty, greasy, skanky mess after a full kitchen shift,whips out his (allegedly) extremely crusty pink spatula, inserts into meal, has a good wipe round, re-heats, tidies up a bit and 'service!'.

My elected representative (not by me) scoffed the lot. I still can't watch him being interviewed to this day without a mental picture popping up. I may be traumatised for life by the question 'was it a cheese omelette??'

BTW omelettes are good for this as the egg solidifies around the pubes so they aren't so obvious.

(Don't try this where chilli, horseradish etc has been used in the dish as you'll end up in last week's qotw)
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:07, Reply)

Glass of Wine Sir/Madam
Yes dont bother having a drink when you walk into a shop, i know what happens.



p.s. rhyswynne you robbed me blind at the attraction you work for!
((((InfraSound))) SUNN0))) > YOU!, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:00, Reply)

When I was twelve I had a job in the Queen's Royal Kitchens
in the AMF Bowling wing of her secret palace in Netley. It was my job to sew the lettuce together with fine strands of cucumber so that they formed an aesthetically pleasing basket for the braised swan heads.
Anyway, one day we had run out of cucumbers for me to turn into a fine twine. Ordinarily this would not be a problem as I would merely use cress staples until the next delivery of cucumbers came via the Royal Supermarket Palace Delivery Service, which in reality was just a line of mice in little silk suits trained to pop to the Coop. However, on this occasion, we had Groucho Marx and Boris Yeltsin coming over to discuss the Queen's plans for a plutonium powered motorcycle to get her around the world faster so she could fight crime more effectively.
Needless to say, getting my hands on a cucumber was imperitive. After hours of fruitless searching, for a cucumber is actually a fruit, it emerged that I had in fact been dreaming and my 747 had been hijacked by religious types who were planning to crash us into the Sydney Opera House. Imagine how I laughed when the stewardess; a young Felicity Kendall, offered me a cucumber sandwich.
My laughter soon turned to tears though. Felicity insisted that I accompany her to the luxury 747 penthouse suite where she stripped naked and got me to lick chocolate spread off her cunt. All was going well until track six from Peaches' 2006 album, Impeach My Bush came on the radio and inspired Felicity to make me have gay sex with a panic stricken Johnny Depp.

To this day I have been unable to work in a kitchen again. Or eat cucumbers.
( baldmonkey a frothy foul-smelling vaginal discharge, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 11:00, Reply)

probably be loads like this.
years ago I had to Waiter On in the officers mess, something anyone in the forces knows is a right pain in the arse. one of the young officers thought he was at some private members club in the days of the British Rajh in India, snapping his fingers for service, talking in an exagerated posh voice, groping the waitresses (yes there are women in the army too)etc. So he got the full treatment of semen in his food, dicks dipped in to his drinks and even one of said waitresses tampons being squeezed out in to his soup. stuck little prick was sick as a dog the next two days and even got fined by the C.O. for being unable to soldier due to self inflicted injury, everyone put it down to a hangover.
the two best things about waiting on were seeing the officers doing things they shouldn't, it's hard for anyone to bollock a man who has caught him and another officer spit roasting the doctor (it was a female doctor)and the free food and drink, regimental dinners are like banquets. anything that isn't eaten is thrown away so the waiters tend to live like kings on smoked slamon, pheasant, goose etc. and the number of open bottles of port, congac, champagene looking for a good home is amazing.
on second thoughts waiting on, not such a pain.
(the tartful splodger, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:59, Reply)

I worked in the pub trade/catering
for many years. 'Tis true, the alcohol/drug induced debauchery that goes on amongst staff is amazing. (It's the hours gov'ner honest)

In larger pubs that have accomodation for the staff it's even worse. Oh how I remember the days of two different ladies on one night. Gosh that was a while back.

One story invovled me and the haed chef (I was the second chef at the time) looking at the wrong date in the diary and thinking that we only had half a dozen people booked in that night for food (it was usually dead during the week) so off we went to smoke a couple of joints. More than a couple later a very panicked waitress informs us that we had got the day wrong and we had over 60 people booked in. Have you ever tried cooking many different meals for many different people when you can harldy even stand up? It went really rather well though, no one complained as some people got the dessert twice and were amused by the "two very jolly and friendly chefs" that kept popping from the kitchen to chat.
( Hankster, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:58, Reply)

While working at Legoland
The amount of Muslims who came up to me and yelled at me for selling their kids hot dogs that contained pork! Shock horror, sausages, with pork in them!?!

Firstly, I'm sure it was the parents that gave these kids the money to buy the hot dogs, secondly, how is it MY fault I don't tell every customer who looks like a Muslim that Hot Dogs contain pork? I dunno...

The best part for me came when a parent was screaming "is there pork in it?" and I calmly said, the hot dogs are made from Pork, Chicken and Turkey (or so the packaging said), she then spent 10 minutes telling me to sell her a chicken one... despite all my protests stating that they were a mix of the three meats. Ah well.
(I R Advertiser How can you live like this you're out of control?, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:56, Reply)

Used to Work in A Cafe
North Wales Tourist Attraction, not saying which one, but it rhymes with Melsh Fountain Poo.

Anyway, over the course of a summer, this is what I know happened:

The boss at the time hired ppl based on looks (before you ask, I was already there), ended up rogering one of the skanks he hired from Rhyl. She had pubic lice. At the end of the summer, 10 of the staff there had them too.

Useless cunt workshy spent the whole day getting stoned and telling people to fuck off. Including his 4 year old daughter. That's if we see him. Usually he'd come in for an hour, talk about his x-box, slag off his daughter, smoke a joint, then went home.

Joint smoking was a theme, with regular fag breaks replaced with joint breaks.

Staff member wanking in the mash potato, and pissing in the fanta.

chicken nugget fights at midday, when everybody was there.

Throwing of food to the tigers, one of which choked on a chicken bone and died.

Somebody found a used condom in the soup

Now, I'm not trying to paint me out as a saint (I wasn't), but that was too far. Usually it was just four of us running the cafe on our own when there should be 6.

Luckily, that was around mid 90's, boss got fired, myself, brother and two other relatively normal people kept our jobs, everybody else was sacked. The girl in charge now is awesome, and actually does a decent job of running it (though I've left now)

Fucking hated it.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:50, Reply)

McShit
I used to work under the golden arches, the shame, the shame. There are many horror stories about McDonald's, however I never saw 'special sauce' being put on burgers. There was the usual thing of it being busy and so dropped food was still sold because the manager didnt want people to be waiting too long. The bin area was disgusting also, grease and grime built up to a level that the smell could cause vomiting when nearby on a hot day. Lovely
( JimmyD I let my best ideas go to waste, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:46, Reply)

I once convinced a gaggle of Dutch ladies
that the reason I could chop onions without crying was that chefs have their tear ducts removed when they turn professional in the UK.

I have it on very good authority that a certain internationally-famous restaurant related to plump mallards may allegedly be responsible for at least 85% of illegal trade between the UK and Colombia.
( Flapjack I spay a little mare for you, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:42, Reply)

my mum used to own a cafe
and as a favour to her very good friend she gave said friends daughter a job, nothing taxing or overtly disgusting as they all took turns doing the various tasks that go on in a greasy spoon (washing up, preparing stuff, cooking, taking orders).

the girl hadnt been working there for more than a few weeks when she decided it wasnt for her (perhaps because she was a lazy work shy hippo) and handed her notice in.

now i hadnt been into the cafe for a while so the girl had never met me before but on her last day i popped in for some free grub (one of my favourite perks ever!) and she was working on the till, it was also just at the tail-end of the lunchtime rush so rather than get under everyones feet out the back i sat down until it was a bit quieter.

well the girl who was leaving obviously didnt know i was the son of the owner of the cafe as in plain sight of me and the other customers she shamelessly opened the till and stuffed all the notes in her apron and then went and told my mum she wasnt feeling too well so she's going to leave a bit early now the rush has died down.

my mum followed her out from the kitchen to the door saying how she hopes she feels better and that she enjoyed having her work there and to give her best to her mother for her. well the girls face was a picture when i stood up and went "hello mum, oh did you know she's just filled her apron with all the takings from the till?".

funnily enough my mum and her friend aren't friends anymore.
( HatBeard, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:40, Reply)

Many, oh so many
I've worked in many, many bars and restaurants in my time, but the best stories come from six month (count them!) at McDonalds in Barnet back in 1981 when I was 18. For the last three of these I was one of the 'night closers', i.e. we turned up at 11pm and spent the time til 6am cleaning the whole place. Some horrible jobs like emptying the recepticles for fat and bits stuck on the grills where the burger flippers scraped all the scum.

Anyway, I worked with three other guys: Pete, a West Indian burglar by trade, Dave, the laziest slob in north London (once spent four hours kipping in cupboard because he'd been on the pish all night) and Pio who was from Goa and had limited English.

Bit of background, the managers went home at around 11.30/12.00 once cashing up was done and didn't come back til 6am. Anyway, one night we were having a bit of fun, chucking stuff around etc. when nasty Dave did something to me a bit OTT, can't even remember what it was, but, as luck would have it we were in the pot wash area, and Dave was down at the end of the room. I totally lost my rag and turned the very hot, very powerful power hose on him, blasting him for a good ten seconds right in the chest.

If you want to picture the scene in your mind, think riot police using a water cannon on a poor demonstrator. That fricking showed him.

One other night, we'd spent til 4am playing cards in the staff room, leaving two hours to do a six hour job. When Roger the manager (also of W.I. origin, and thought he was something because he was McD store manager) turned up at 6am to see us hard at it, he said to Pete: "Hey man, what the hell happened?", Pete said "Oh, we just couldn't get it together", to which Roger said "O.K. man." twat.

Lastly, (for now anyway), it was a cold, cold night, snow lay thick on the ground. Pete had decided that he wanted one of the McD highchairs for his little girl. He also wanted some napkins, but these were kept in the locked storeroom. So...up he went in goods lift, which was about four foot cubed, down he came with about 5,000 napkins. Next he took apart a highchair and packed the lot in a black bin bag. Then he nipped off home to drop them off. As luck would have it he was stopped by the cops - no idea why, a young black guy with a huge black bin bag over his shoulder going up Barnet High St at 3am. Anyway, he told them he worked at McD and was taking the highchair home to fix it, as it was broken. They probably couldn't think why the fk he would want to nick one, so they let him go.

Aah, happy days. Mind you, six months spent eating McD food, 3 months virtually without seeing daylight, sleep patterns shot to cock...I got a passport photo done at the end as I was off round Europe and my complexion was green, with blothchy red bits.

Nuff for now...in a seseme seed bun.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:39, Reply)

Sunday Lunch
Worked at a pub for ages, when I started there was a chef who was a little dodgy.

I was in charge of washing up and so was throwing out any leftovers that came back to the kitchen uneaten.

Well one Sunday it turns out that not enough veg had been preparied. So one lucky customer got some leftover veg from the bin.


My excuse at being new to the job good enough?
( Thickey, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:35, Reply)

Hell's Angels
I used to work the occasional weekend for a friend of mine who ran a veggie catering stall - I was the cook.

One year we paid a fortune to trade at Glastonbury and one fine summers even we setup stall and started trading. Business was brisk (how I'll never know. Veggie burgers taste like shite) and we soon had a rather large queue.

Then there was a disturbance at the front of the stall. A large mob of hairy-arsed Hell's Angels had turned up and muscled their way to the front of the queue.

"Oh shit" I thought. "They're going to rob us, smash the stall up and demand protection money. We're fucked"

Seeing that I was the biggest bloke on the stall I felt duty bound to deal with these rapscallions myself. I stepped to the front of house and looked at them, quaking inside, sure I was due a beating.

"Can I help you?" I asked the leader expecting the reply "Give us all your women and money and we'll let you live"

"Err - can we have 12 cups of Earl Grey please" says the leader, a dead-ringer for the Missing Link profferring a 20 quid note.

WTF? Hells Angles and Earl Grey?


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:34, Reply)

Looming psycho cook
At a pub I worked at many years ago, the cook was a proper 'Fetch The Big Net' candidate. Too spindally-tall, mad stary eyes etc.He used to empty out the UV fly catcher thing on the wall and use the contents as a 'special ingredient' Nasty. I once saw him serve a portion of dirt with some new potatoes....
(silencio ....Fetch the Big Net...., Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:34, Reply)

Have to agree.
I worked in a bar when I was a student. Even though the chef was married with kids I went with her on regular occasions. Every body was shagging everyone else and it was all very incestual. It all blows up in the end though and everyone falls out. Helps to keep the staff turning over I suppose.

It's a very similar story with any girl that starts work in a 'local' pub. She'll soon end up going out with each of the locals before one gets her up the duff or she leaves for better things.

Such is the way of life...........................
( Evil Bastardo, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:31, Reply)

BEEF!!!!
Working as a sandwich/catering delivery man in Sydney I discovered where they stored the good stuff in the kitchens. So I would frequently hide away in the store room to make myself a rare beef and horseradish sandwich... Mmmm...

I must have got carried away with my inch thick filling of the tenderist beef ever as an hour later cue head chef (a nutter with a big knife) threatening the dishwasher kid who he accused of eating "all the f*cking beef" leaving not enough for a large order for big bank customer....

I decided to make myself scarce before the closet homo waved his knife at me.

Crap story I know but how fun can a kitchen be?
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:31, Reply)

Caught on the McJob
At the McDonalds where I used to work *cough.. Altrincham..* There was a large freezer room in the back area upstairs.
The freezer room was within a larger room used for storing stock such as burger boxes etc., so anyone working there would have a lot of privacy.
As of course was McDonalds tradition at the time, the cleaning staff were a couple of pensionable ladies.

You can see where this is going can't you?

An enterprising co-worker had developed a routine of making sure the soft drinks were well stocked - cola, fanta, hand shandy etc..
That's right, he was McWanking in the freezer room.

We don't really know all the details of what happened, but the screams of dear old Rose, the poor little old lady who was confronted by the arctic snake, will haunt me to my dying day.


And no, I don't know why she was going in there either - hopefully she didn't have something similar in mind...
(dahogga is exiting stage left, pursued by a bear, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:31, Reply)

second
second

woo pop

EDIT: I used to manage bars and nightclubs and acted all Peter Stringfellow for many a year. Drinking heroic quantities of JD and generally living it up.

However, I felt it wasn't the greatest career choice, and decicde to get a proper job. So a year or so away from the bar, I get asked to help out on the bar, free beer and women methinks, so I agree. Problem being I was at a BBQ all day, and was hammered when I got there at 10:45 ( 15mins late, good start) I then preceded to steam into a whole spectrum of drinks, and by 1130, I was gone. I dont remember a thing. Apparently there was comedy dancing, walking around behind the bar with my cock out, smashing of glasses, and a wee bit of falling over, and lots of ignoring customers and generally being a twat.

They paid me.

HAAHAHHAHAHAH
(col2e, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:18, Reply)

First!
Sorry, I have never worked in a kitchen or restaurant.

*hides tail between legs in shame*

Mod Edit: So the correct thing to do is...?

EDIT: No, hang on: I have a story!

***********

It's not me but a woman I used to live with/work for as an au pair who told me this: in her young years, she used to be an air stewardess and often had to deal with rude/aggressive/irritating passengers - as you do.
But one fine day, one of those horrible customers, a fat, greasy and dribbling bastard - one of those who pinch air stewardesses' arse and still think it's funny - who always found something to complain about, ordered a steak.
Of course the steak wasn't cooked to his expectations (on a plane) so he sent it back.
He eventually got what he wanted, or so he thought, and with a smile, but the chap might or might not have tasted something funny as the steak had been carefully and thoroughly wiped around the toilet seat prior to serving.
( liverbird, Fri 21 Jul 2006, 10:15, Reply)