In the early 1970s, I worked at a pizza restaurant in Auburn, Alabama. During a slow work night, I was the only employee working other than the delivery person. I would take orders and then prepare them. A man came in and was the rudest customer I’d ever met. I had trouble taking his order as he snapped at me. He had an attitude, and I didn’t know why. I held my tongue as he ordered a pizza, paid, and entered the dining room.
I rolled out the pizza dough for his order, and without hesitation, covered the dough with a layer of hot peppers, which he did not order. Then I added sauce, cheese, and toppings and put it in the oven. When the pizza finished baking, I took it to his table and returned to the kitchen. I expected to hear complaints.
The man ate every bite of the pizza. Then he came to the front counter and apologized for being a jerk earlier. He told me he’d quit smoking, was having personal problems, whatever. He finished by saying that was the best pizza he’d ever eaten. I accepted his apology, and he left. Not the ending I expected.
I am curious if he liked the spicy-hot pizza or if he knew what I’d done and realized he’d been a jerk. I suppose both could be true.
I never saw the man again and frankly felt sort of guilty (then and now) for what I’d done. That was the only time I ever sabotaged anyone’s food, at work, or elsewhere. I’ve heard much, MUCH worse food sabotage stories. You don’t want to know.