“I couldn’t believe when I stopped in here how horrible the customer service was… The girl behind the counter was texting on her phone during the dinner hours with an attitude… Unfortunately, they will never see any of my business due to how rude and unprofessional their staff was. 1 person can mess it up for the whole bunch.” — Charles R.

This glowing review, still online, was written about me after a shift at Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria.

The morning after the aforementioned incident, I went into work unaware of the libel. But after clocking in, my coworker Stephanie warned me to take a look. My manager called me into his office to give me a reprimand most Gen-Z workers know well: “Please, no phones when you’re with customers. It’s unprofessional.”

I began to protest. That customer was unhinged, shouting when I told him to scan the QR code for the menu. Storming out, he then called to order delivery, but I was also working the phones. After 10 minutes of topping deliberations, he accused me of identity theft when I asked for his CVV.

My boss responded with the inevitable: “The customer is always right.”

Consumed by righteous anger, I played out a revenge fantasy in my head: work my way up the corporate ladder, become Lou Malnati’s CEO, and ban the customer for life.

But, after I’d cooled down, I realized the customer had a point—or three.

I could’ve been more attentive instead of playing digital Cupid for two friends in love. I also could have shown more patience with an older patron who wasn’t wrong—QR codes are annoying. Foregoing paper menus to save the trees, couldn’t we at least have a menu board on the wall? Meanwhile, I knew the menu by heart. Why hadn’t I walked him through it?

Two years earlier, when I’d started at Lou Malnati’s, I was the perfect employee: clocking in early, keeping my phone in the break room, and pairing my freshly ironed uniform shirt with slacks I’d bought for the job.

But as the novelty wore off and my job became mundane, I thought I was too good for it, and stopped trying to be good at it. I’d gotten complacent, deeming the Lake Forest location, where I’d made history as the youngest-ever employee, my Lou Malnati’s. Managers had cycled out, but I was still around, training new employees between TikTok scrolls in my sweatpants and Crocs. What did it matter if I showed up late and left early? I had bigger dreams than bussing tables and buttering crust.

But that morning after my scolding, that unhappy customer’s clincher—“1 person can ruin it for the whole bunch”—kept ringing in my head. I hadn’t just let a customer down, but my entire team. Like Hayden, the high school senior who trained me and knew every regular’s name. Or Stephanie, a young single mom who could adapt to any position with ease. Not to mention our wing master José, who, like any benevolent Boomer, always sneaked in some life advice with my BBQ six-piece, which always had a couple extra. They deserved much more than just my bare minimum.

As angry as the review made me, I’m grateful to that lost customer for the wake-up call. Though I only worked there for another few months, I spent the rest of my tenure giving it my best, clocking in early, taking over shifts, and playing guinea pig for José’s most inventive creations—like boneless buffalo wings, slathered in jalapeño ranch and slapped between two slices of garlic bread.

My deep dish days may be behind me, but what they taught me—the importance of commitment and collaboration—are not. Now, once in a while, when complacency creeps in, I pull up that review and picture that “girl behind the counter.” I remind her to put her phone away and lock in.