I responded to Netta's post about frequent travelers who make life difficult for hospitality staff, and realized I, too, have some stories from the service-industry trenches. Here is the story of Bo and his bagel.

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Once upon a time (okay, 1990), I worked at Tony's Coffee in Bellingham, WA. Loved it. Hundred-year-old building with soft wooden floors and an amazing carved oak bar that had been brought 'round the Horn. Hippie haven and yuppie slum all in one, Tony's was a happening, but way mellow place.

Except when Bo walked in. Every effing day.

I never quite figured out what Bo did that allowed him a daily mid-morning saunter into Our Little Place. He was rumored to be independently wealthy. Some accounts had him pegged as a freelance photographer. Okay, whatever. He was still (as my New Jersey tiny mom says) a hop in the butt.

"Yeah, I'll have a garlic bagel, lightly toasted, with butter." (Like yesterday's and every other day's? I wonder.)

"Sure thing." I smile, ring him up, touch his filthy money, give him his change, and head to the toaster.

If I were smart, I would have prayed or spun healing incantations. Instead, I just sighed and toasted the bagel.

Upon delivery of what was apparently to Bo the Holy Bagel of Antioch, I would be met with any of the following, all delivered in a voice that clearly emphasized Bo's conviction that I had a dodo-sized brain:

"It's too well done."

"This isn't toasted enough."

"Where's my butter?"
"That's too much butter."

"This bagel looks small."

(In your best Yul Brynner voice, say it with me now, "et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.")

Bo, get the eff out, go home and toast your own damn bagel. And while you're at it, practice tipping so you'll know how to do it next time you sashay up to my bar and demand your rights as a bagel-eating citizen of These United States.