"Excuse Me, but Can You Wash Your Hands?"

Disclaimer: I'm not normally snippish. However, add in rude customers and a pinch of PMS, and you've got a recipe for absolute disaster.

Case in point: What happened in café a few weeks ago (June 30). 

First of all, this particular customer wasn't very nice to begin with. I'm going to call him Baldy (because he was bald.)

Baldy walks up to the register, which Cullen is manning, and orders a pepperoni pizza, sixteen-inch. 

I overhear this, wash my hands, put on my gloves, and start making the pizza right away. (All of our food is cooked-to-order. The cashiers even say, "We'll bring your food right out when it comes up. It'll be about (estimated amount of time here." The estimated time for this particular pizza is around ten to fifteen minutes.) Cullen then comes over and puts the receipt on my board.

Three minutes later, I've sauced the pizza, put on the cheese and pepperoni, and I bend over to place it in the over, when I hear someone behind me.
"Excuse me!"

I turn around, sweating from the 500º temperature. "Yes, Sir?"

Baldy narrows his eyes at me. "Are you just now putting my pizza in the oven?"

I calm down before I snap at him, smile, and say, "Yes, Sir. I apologize, but all of our food is cooked-to-order. It takes a few minutes to make the pizza, but not very long to cook it in the bottom oven. It'll be out in about ten minutes."

He sniffs, and goes to sit down with his wife and kid. I brush it off and go stand next to the register, where Cullen needs me to fill drink orders while he takes orders.

There's a line of about three people in front of Cullen (they're only ordering drinks, thank goodness!), when Baldy gets up, walks over to the ice cream cooler, pulls out an ice cream sandwich, and proceeds to open it up, split it in half, and walk back to his table, where he then hands half to his son and swallows the other half. 

Cullen and I look at each other in absolute shock. 

"He didn't pay for that?" I ask tentatively as I hand three small Dr. Peppers and a bottle of water to the last customer.

"No..."

By this time, the line's gone. All of two minutes, IF THAT, have elapsed. Cullen's a bit goofy-looking, but he can be imposing if he wants.

"Sir?!" He waves at Baldy. "Sir, you have to pay for that."

Baldy sniffs again, walks up and hands us $2.00. "Sorry," he growls. "Didn't want to wait in the line." 

Cullen and I exchange looks after he leaves, so that he doesn't catch us. Then we both go and watch the pizza cooking in the oven.

Almost absent-mindedly, I touch my nose with the back of my RIGHT wrist, just past the bone. Not two seconds later, Baldy's back at the counter.

"Excuse me!"

I turn around. "Yes, Sir?" I'm really starting to not like this guy.

"Will you wash your hands before you touch my pizza? I don't want you getting your germs all over it! It's disgusting. You're in food service. You shouldn't be doing that!"

I put my left hand (THIS IS IMPORTANT) on the cash register monitor. "Yes...sir? I always wash my hands, sir, before I touch the food. It's company policy." (Plus, I wouldn't be the one touching his pizza. I don't take pizzas out, cut them up, or deliver them to tables. I'm mostly cashier and burgers/fries/hot dogs. I only made the pizza because Cullen had taken register because he was closer.)

"Well, now you've gone and touched the register, and you've been ringing people up and handing out drinks!"

I vaguely hear Cullen calling for a manger through the radio through the bursts of ARE YOU KIDDING ME ringing through my head. I apologize again, grab a sanitary wipe, wipe down the register, the counter, and anything I might've touched before going to the back before I absolutely lose my cool.

A few minutes later, Heather comes to the back (she's one of the managers) and asks for my side of the story. I tell her what happened, demonstrated what I did, and tell her what the guy's done to me already.

She says, "Just remember not to snap at the customers." She then told me that he said I'd been handing out drinks and touching the register and food with my bare, germy hands. Cullen stepped in then and backed me up, saying I'd been washing my hands raw all day (I had, because I'd been cleaning all day, plus I wash my hands every time I pass that little sink, which is about 10 times an hour!) and the guy was lying through his teeth. Then he also told the story of "Are you just now putting my pizza in?!" and "SIR! YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT!"

Heather looks astonished, and Russia just goes, "Snap at him all you want, sister. He's an expletive and doesn't need to treat you like that. Don't worry about it. It's your first customer I've ever seen you get pissed at."

We all exit the back of the kitchen, pausing to wash our hands at the sink. For the rest of the time that Baldy's in café, everybody who witnessed the incident goes to the sink about every minute to wash their hands. If they touch something, they wash their hands. If something touches them, they wash their hands. If the buzzer dings, they wash their hands. I think Baldy may have complained to Heather again about us rubbing it in his face, but Heather just smiled and said, "Sir, we're simply adhering to our hand-washing policies. Now, there are other people waiting on that table. If you would be so kind..."

There wasn't another soul in the restaurant.

It just irks me, though. The guy was behaving as if I'd sneezed all over myself and then rubbed it EVERYWHERE. That didn't happen.

May all your customers be sane (and not germaphobic). 

Pro-Tip: Wash your hands whenever possible. You never want to be on the receiving end of a stuck-up, whiny, germaphobic customer. It's not pretty. (And okay, yes. So I might've snapped a little. I just couldn't believe what he was saying. I hadn't touched anything.)