I’ve seen my share of entitled customers over the past 15 years in the restaurant business. But nothing prepared me for the night Meghan waltzed in, throwing around a friendship with “the owner” to demand special treatment. If only she knew who was really taking her drink order.
The look on her face when I finally revealed myself? Priceless.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.
My grandparents immigrated from Spain in the ’70s with little more than a dream and family recipes. They poured everything into a small corner restaurant that smelled like saffron and hope.
My parents took that foundation and expanded it, turning our humble eatery into a neighborhood staple. When they finally decided to retire, handing me the keys felt like inheriting both a legacy and a promise.
I had my own vision.
I modernized the space with sleek lighting and comfortable seating, but kept the old family photos on the brick walls. I updated the menu while preserving our signature dishes.
Most importantly, I built an online presence that had people waiting weeks for reservations. Within three years, we became one of the hottest dining spots in the city.
Despite our success, I never stopped working the floor.
On Friday nights, you might find me bussing tables, chatting with regulars, or personally greeting guests. I believe that when you own a restaurant, no job is beneath you.
That particular Friday before Christmas was absolute chaos.
Every table booked, the bar three-deep with people waiting for cancellations, and the kitchen firing on all cylinders. I was at the host stand helping our usual hostess, Madison, manage the crowd when a group of six women pushed their way to the front.
Their ringleader, Meghan, had that look I’ve come to recognize… the entitled smile of someone who believes rules don’t apply to them.
“Hi there,” she said with practiced charm. “Table for six, please.”
Madison checked her tablet. “I’m sorry, we’re fully booked tonight. Do you have a reservation?”
Meghan flipped her hair. “We don’t have a reservation, but the owner’s a close friend of mine. He always keeps tables open for special guests like us.”
Madison glanced at me uncertainly. I stepped forward.
“I handle our VIP arrangements,” I said politely. “I don’t believe we were expecting anyone tonight. Which owner are you friends with?”
Her confidence didn’t waver. “We go way back. He’ll be disappointed if you turn us away.”
I could have ended this charade right there by revealing I was the owner. But something about her smug certainty made me hold back.
“I’m sorry, but we really are completely booked tonight. Perhaps I could take your number and call you if something opens up?” I offered.
That’s when her demeanor changed completely.
“Oh, really?” she said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. “Get a picture of this guy, ladies. He’ll be scrubbing toilets when I talk to the owner. Enjoy your last shift.”
One of her friends snapped a photo with her phone while another chimed in, “Say goodbye to your minimum wage job!”
The other women snickered, looking at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. I noticed other guests watching uncomfortably.
At that point, I had three options. Tell her I’m the owner and end this nonsense, politely but firmly ask them to leave, or… have some fun with this situation.
I chose door number three.
I smiled warmly. “You know what? My apologies. You’re absolutely right. It would be simpler to accommodate you. We do have one special table available. And to make up for any inconvenience, your first three rounds of drinks will be complimentary.”
Their attitudes shifted instantly.
“That’s more like it,” Meghan said, not bothering to thank me.
I personally escorted them to our VIP
As they settled in, exclaiming over the plush seating and ambient lighting, I casually mentioned, “We just need one credit card and ID to keep on file, standard procedure. We’ll return them before you leave.”
Meghan readily handed over her cards.
“Tonight’s on me, ladies,” she announced grandly to her friends, who cheered.
If only she knew what was coming next.
***
I took their initial drink orders and assured them our bartender would prioritize their table. When I returned with six colorful concoctions, they were already taking selfies for social media.
“Ladies, enjoy your first complimentary round. I’ll check on your food orders shortly, but I should mention we’re extremely busy tonight, so there might be a slight delay.”
When thirty minutes passed with no appetizers, Meghan waved impatiently.
“Hey, waiter guy! Where’s our food? The service here is ridiculous.”
I approached with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Let me check on those orders right away. Would you like more drinks while you wait?”
They ordered two more rounds before the appetizers finally arrived. They were hand-selected delicacies from our VIP menu.
What they didn’t realize was that our VIP tables come with special treatment in more ways than one.
The elegant menus I’d provided intentionally listed no prices. It was a discreet touch for our high-end clientele who rarely concern themselves with such details.
The dishes I suggested were our most exquisite offerings. White truffle risotto, Osetra caviar with handmade blinis, imported Japanese A5 Wagyu, and west coast oysters at $10 a piece. Each recommendation was met with enthusiastic approval.
“This is divine,” one woman exclaimed, savoring a bite of truffle risotto.
“Let’s get another dozen oysters,” another suggested, and Meghan nodded grandly.
Around their fourth round of drinks, I started questioning myself. Was I taking this too far?
I thought these women might genuinely not understand the caliber of items they were ordering.
Then I overheard their conversation as I approached with another bottle of champagne.
“Can you imagine doing this for a living?” one woman whispered, nodding toward me. “I’d rather die than serve people all day.”
“He’s kind of cute,” another replied, “but I could never date a waiter. Too much of a pushover.”
Meghan laughed. “That’s why it’s so easy to get what you want. These service people are desperate for tips.”
My momentary guilt evaporated. The lesson would continue.
I returned with the champagne, pouring it with professional precision. “Another dozen oysters for the table?”
