She Demanded a Table at ‘Her Friend’s’ Restaurant — But I’m the Owner

Entitled Guest Demanded a Free Table at ‘Her Friend’s’ Restaurant — Too Bad I Was the Owner

In my fifteen years in the restaurant industry, I have witnessed my fair share of entitled patrons. However, nothing prepared me for Meghan’s arrival that night, when she claimed to be friends with “the owner” in order to demand preferential treatment. Her drink order was being taken by someone she didn’t even know.

The expression on her face when I eventually told her? Priceless.

It’s getting ahead of itself, though. I’ll begin at the beginning.

With little more than family recipes and a goal, my grandparents left Spain in the 1970s. They threw everything into a tiny eatery in a corner that had a hopeful and saffron scent.

By building on that basis, my parents transformed our modest restaurant into a mainstay in the community. Giving me the keys when they eventually made the decision to retire was like inheriting a promise and a legacy.

I had a vision of my own.

I maintained the ancient family portraits on the brick walls while updating the room with sleek lighting and cozy seating. I kept our specialties on the menu while updating it.

Above all, I created an internet presence that resulted in reservations being held for weeks. We rose to become one of the city’s most popular dining establishments in just three years.

I continued to work the floor even after we were successful.

I may be bussing tables, speaking with regulars, or personally greeting guests on Friday nights. No work is beneath you when you operate a restaurant, in my opinion.

There was complete chaos on that specific Friday before Christmas.

The kitchen is running at full capacity, every table is reserved, and the bar is three deep with people waiting for cancellations. A group of six women forced their way to the front as I was at the host stand assisting Madison, our regular hostess, in controlling the crowd.

Meghan, their ringleader, had the smile I’ve come to know—the entitled smile of someone who thinks they are exempt from the rules.

“Hi there,” she said with a charm that she had perfected. “Table for six, please.”

Madison looked at her tablet. We have a packed schedule for tonight, so I apologize. You have a reservation, right?

Meghan’s hair was flipped. “The owner is a personal friend of mine, but we don’t have a reservation. We are among the privileged guests he always keeps tables open for.

Madison gave me a doubtful look. I took a step forward.

I said, courteously, “I handle our VIP arrangements,” “I don’t think we had someone in mind for tonight. With whose owner do you have a friendship?

She remained confident. “We have a long history together. If you turn us away, he’ll be sad.”

By identifying myself as the owner, I could have put an end to this sham right there. But I refrained because of her arrogant confidence.

I wasn’t going to reward her conduct, but I also didn’t want to make her look bad in front of her friends.

“I apologize, but we have a full schedule for tonight. Maybe I could get your number and give you a call when something becomes available.” I made an offer.

At that point, her attitude drastically altered.

She said, “Oh, really?” loud enough for visitors in the vicinity to hear. “Ladies, get a photo of this guy. When I speak with the owner, he will be cleaning toilets. Have fun on your final shift.

“Say goodbye to your minimum wage job!” said one of her friends as she took a picture with her phone.

The other women snickered and gave me a pitying yet contemptuous glance. Other people were gazing uneasily, I noted.

That left me with three choices. Have some fun with this scenario, tell her I’m the owner, and put an end to this farce, or ask them to leave nicely but firmly.

I went with door number three.

I grinned broadly. “You know what? I’m sorry. You’re entirely correct. It would be easier to make room for you. There is one unique table available. Additionally, your first three beers will be free to make up for any inconvenience.

Immediately, their opinions changed.

Meghan remarked, “That’s more like it,” without even expressing gratitude.

They were led to our VIP area by me. It had the house’s best view and was a private alcove.

“We just need one credit card and ID to keep on file, standard procedure,” I said nonchalantly as they sat down and gushed about the comfortable seats and soft lighting. Before you depart, we’ll return them.”

Meghan gave her cards over without hesitation.

She bragged to her friends, “Tonight’s on me, ladies,” and they applauded.

If only she were aware of what was about to happen.

I accepted their first drink orders and told them that their table will be given priority by our bartender. They were already snapping selfies for social media when I brought back six vibrant mixtures.

“Enjoy your first free round, ladies. I’ll check on your meal orders soon, but let me say there may be a little delay because we’re really busy tonight.”

Meghan answered, “No problem,” as she sipped her specialty martini, which cost $24. “We’re not in any rush.”

I completed their first three rounds as promised. They were laughing and calling me over with finger clicks by then, and their volume was obviously increasing.

Meghan waved impatiently after half an hour had gone by without any appetizers.

“Hey, waiter! Where is our meal? This place has absurd service.

I smiled pityingly as I walked up. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. Let me immediately check on those orders. While you wait, would you want more drinks?

Before the appetizers arrived, they placed two additional orders. They were carefully chosen treats from our VIP menu.

They were unaware that our VIP tables entitle them to multiple forms of special attention.

I purposely left pricing off of the tasteful menus I had supplied. For our affluent audience, who don’t often worry about such things, it was a subtle touch.

Our finest offers were the dishes I recommended. West coast oysters at $10 apiece, imported Japanese A5 Wagyu, Osetra caviar with handcrafted blinis, and white truffle risotto. Every suggestion was enthusiastically accepted.

“This is divine,” a woman said, enjoying a truffle risotto bite.

Another said, “Let’s get another dozen oysters,” and Meghan gave a proud nod.

I began to doubt myself about the time of their fourth round of drinks. Was I going too far with this?

I figured these women might perhaps be unaware of the quality of what they were purchasing.

Then I came over with another bottle of champagne and heard what they were saying.

A woman nodded at me and murmured, “Can you imagine doing this for a living?” “I’d rather die than serve people all day.”

“He’s kind of cute,” someone else said, “but I’d never date a waiter.” Far too much of a slacker.

Meghan chuckled. “That’s why obtaining what you desire is so simple. These service providers are in dire need of tips.

My shame vanished for a moment. The lesson would go on.

When I got back, I poured the champagne with expert accuracy. “Another dozen oysters for the table?”

Meghan said, “Absolutely,” without hesitation. “And let’s try that special lobster dish you mentioned.”

They had ingested enough high-end beverages and treats by midnight to rival a celebrity’s birthday celebration. They had treated me like furniture all evening. Nobody had ever inquired about my name.

When I eventually arrived with the leather portfolio that contained their $4,200 bill—including tax and gratuity—the restaurant was largely empty.

I put it quietly next to Meghan. “Anytime you’re prepared. No hurry at all.

She opened it in the middle of a laugh. Her face was devoid of color.

Meghan declared, “There’s been a mistake,” while gazing at the bill. “This can’t be right.”

Exaggeratedly concerned, I looked at the check. “You’re entirely right. Let me take care of this right now.”

The sum had increased to $4,320 by the time I got back.

I said, “My apologies,” “Your eighth order of oysters was overlooked. Each of the twelve parts costs $10.

Meghan’s horrified eyes grew wide. “Ten bucks for each oyster? That’s crazy!”

“Actually, ours are quite reasonably priced compared to other establishments of this caliber,” I said quietly.

The women were clustered around, going over the itemized bill line by line in a panic. They looked at the free drinks and then totaled all the ostentatious things they had eaten without ever inquiring how much they had cost.

Meghan suddenly stood up at that point. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course,” was my response. “I’ll keep your ID and card safe right here,” he said nonchalantly, ensuring she knew she couldn’t just vanish.

She came back ten minutes later, her burned eyes still visible under new makeup. Her approach had obviously changed.

“Listen,” she said in a charming tone. “To be honest, the food and service were subpar. We waited ages for our appetizers, and the drinks were weak.

Her buddies gave a practiced nod of agreement.

“At the very least,” Meghan went on, “you ought to cut this bill in half. Even though I first said that tonight was my treat, my pals will help pay for it.

She played her last card when I didn’t answer right away. “Look, I’m friends with the owner personally. He would be appalled by the way we’ve been handled. I wanted to write a positive review for this establishment.

“I see,” I muttered. “And which owner would that be?”

She yelled, “I don’t have to explain myself to a server,” before taking out her phone. “Fine, here are our text messages from earlier today.”

I took a quick look at the screen and saw that the contact name was just “Restaurant Owner” without a real name. The texts had no conversation history and were obviously recent.

Just saying, “That’s not the owner’s number,”

“He has multiple phones for business,” she countered. “Obviously, you don’t know all his contact information.”

The moment has arrived…

I took a business card out of my own wallet and set it next to her phone. My name, the title “Owner & Executive Chef,” and the emblem of the restaurant were all displayed.

“My name is Peter. In 1973, my grandparents founded this eatery. It was expanded by my parents, and for the last seven years, I have been the sole owner. I took a moment to process this. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

Meghan and her pals’ expressions were amazing.

Meghan stumbled, “But… but you were serving us all night,” she said.

“I work every position in my restaurant,” I discreetly clarified. “From cleaning the dishes to welcoming visitors. I do it to uphold our ideals.

When she said, “This is entrapment,” she was weak. “You tricked us.”

Did I recommend a food that you didn’t eagerly order? Did I make you buy more drinks? Have I ever claimed to be someone I’m not? I spoke at a level tone. “I simply provided exactly what you asked for.”

“We can’t pay this,” muttered one friend.

“I understand this is an uncomfortable situation,” I responded. However, I have two choices for you. I’ll call the police about the attempted service theft if you don’t pay the entire bill. Your decision.”

As Meghan signed the credit card slip, tears were streaming down her face. To assist cover the damage, her companions dug through their purses and managed to scrape together a few hundred dollars in cash.

“Your ID and card,” I instructed, giving her possessions back. “Thank you for dining with us tonight.”

As they made their way to the door, I said, “One more thing.”

They looked completely defeated as they turned.

“Be sure they’re not serving your table the next time you claim to be pals with someone significant. Ladies, good night.

I knew they had learned a lesson far more precious than any dinner could have given them when the door closed behind them.