Down the road from my Mom's house is a little fruit stand that has been there forever. Grampa shopped there, and although his name was Vern, not Verd, I think they shared a common bond of names that started with Ver.
The two old ladies that run the place are grumpy, capricious, arbitrary, and were trained by the Soup Nazi.
Still, you gotta love their relaxed, casual way of doing business. Only someone confident in their established customer base would have an hours sign like this.
I sometimes wonder if people get a kick out of being abused. Often customer service means a sort of artificial fawning all over the customer, with an oily obsequious tone which I find nauseating. I'd rather be treated with scorn so long as it's real, authentic scorn. The other option might be "Hi, I'm Trevor and I'll be your server and BFF."
I doff my hat to you, ladies of Verd's, for your authenticity. I wish your lives were less painful and that you would find a way to enjoy some interactions with those Dickens called "your fellow travelers to the grave." You have found a way to be successful while remaining your true, prickly, Fruit Nazi selves.