I’ve worked in the restaurant business for 15 years now, and let me tell you—I’ve seen all kinds of rude, demanding, and entitled people walk through those doors. But nothing—and I mean nothing—could’ve prepared me for the night Meghan came strutting in, acting like she owned the place.
She threw around the phrase “I’m friends with the owner” like it was some kind of magic spell to get whatever she wanted.
Too bad she didn’t realize… I was the owner.
And the look on her face when I finally told her? Worth every second.
But let me back up and tell you how it all started.
My story begins long before Meghan even existed in my world.
Back in the 1970s, my grandparents moved here from Spain. They didn’t have much—just a suitcase full of old family recipes and a dream. They opened a tiny restaurant on a corner that always smelled like saffron, garlic, and love.
My parents later took over that little restaurant and turned it into something special. They kept the heart of it—our family’s recipes and values—but expanded the space and the menu.
When they retired, they handed the place over to me. Taking the keys felt like I wasn’t just taking over a restaurant—I was inheriting a piece of our family’s soul.
But I had big ideas of my own.
I gave the restaurant a fresh look—sleek lighting, comfy seating, but I made sure the old black-and-white family photos stayed on the walls. I modernized the menu too, adding new dishes while keeping the beloved classics.
And most importantly? I built up our online reputation. Within three years, we were the kind of place people begged to get a reservation at. We were fully booked weeks in advance.
But even with all that success, I never stopped working on the floor. Friday nights? You could find me bussing tables, pouring wine, chatting with regulars. I believe that when you own a restaurant, no job is too small. You do whatever it takes.
One Friday night, just before Christmas, the place was absolutely packed.
Every table was taken. People were three-deep at the bar, hoping for cancellations. The kitchen was running nonstop, like a well-oiled machine. I was up at the host stand with Madison, our regular hostess, trying to keep things organized.
That’s when a group of six women pushed their way to the front of the line. They were loud, dressed like they were going clubbing, and clearly used to getting what they wanted. At the front was their leader—Meghan. Tall, blonde, confident… and very, very entitled.
She gave me that fake sweet smile I’ve seen a hundred times before.
“Hi there,” she said with a sugary voice. “Table for six, please.”
Madison looked at her tablet. “I’m really sorry,” she said politely. “We’re fully booked tonight. Did you have a reservation?”
Meghan flipped her hair and rolled her eyes like we were wasting her time.
“We don’t need one,” she said with a smirk. “I’m good friends with the owner. He always keeps a table open for me. He’ll be really disappointed if you don’t seat us.”
Madison glanced at me nervously, not sure what to say. So I stepped forward, calm and polite.
“I usually handle all our VIP guests,” I told her. “What’s the name of the owner you’re friends with?”
Meghan didn’t even flinch. “Oh, we go way back,” she said confidently. “He’ll freak out if he finds out you turned me away.”
Now, I could have told her the truth right there. That I was the owner, and I had no idea who she was. But something about her attitude made me pause.
She was so sure of herself. So smug. So fake.
So I smiled and said, “I’m really sorry, but we don’t have anything available right now. I’d be happy to take your number in case something opens up later?”
That’s when Meghan dropped the act and turned nasty.
She looked me up and down like I was dirt on her shoe and said loudly, “Ladies, get a picture of this guy. He’s going to be scrubbing toilets after I talk to the owner. Enjoy your last shift, waiter boy!”
One of her friends actually took out her phone and snapped a photo.
Another laughed and said, “Say goodbye to your little minimum wage job!”
Their whole group giggled like mean girls in a bad high school movie. Other guests nearby were clearly uncomfortable, but they didn’t say anything.
Now, I had three options:
- Tell her the truth and end this.
- Ask her to leave.
- Or… play along and teach her a lesson.
I chose option three.
I gave her my warmest smile. “You’re right. I apologize for the mix-up. I’ll take care of it right now. We actually do have a special table open. And to make up for the confusion, your first three rounds of drinks will be on the house.”
Her face lit up instantly. “That’s more like it,” she said with a wave of her hand.
I led them to our VIP section—a beautiful little private alcove with soft lighting, velvet chairs, and the best view in the house. They were thrilled.
“Wow, this is cute!” one of them said.
“We need selfies here,” another squealed.
Before leaving, I said, “We just need one credit card and ID to keep on file—it’s standard policy for VIP guests. We’ll return them before you leave.”
Without a second thought, Meghan handed me her card and ID. “Drinks are on me tonight, ladies!” she declared like she was royalty.
If only she knew what was coming.
They ordered their first round of drinks, which I personally delivered—bright, colorful cocktails that cost $24 each. They immediately started snapping photos for Instagram, tagging “#VIPLife” and “#SpoiledQueens.”
As promised, their first three rounds were free. But after that? Everything went on Meghan’s card. They were loud, giggling, snapping fingers to get my attention, and ordering more drinks like they were bottomless.
Thirty minutes passed, and Meghan got annoyed.
“Uh, waiter guy?” she called out loudly. “Are we ever getting our food, or what? This is ridiculous.”
I walked over with a calm smile. “I’m so sorry for the delay. The kitchen is very busy tonight. Can I bring you another round of drinks while you wait?”
They nodded and ordered even more.
When their appetizers finally arrived, they were impressed. I’d picked the best of our luxury menu—white truffle risotto, A5 Japanese Wagyu, Osetra caviar, and west coast oysters at $10 apiece. The menus I gave them had no prices—just elegant descriptions, made for high-end guests who didn’t care about cost.
“This is divine,” one woman moaned as she ate the risotto.
“Let’s get another dozen oysters!” someone shouted, and Meghan waved her hand in approval.
By now, I was starting to wonder… Was I going too far?
But then, as I poured another round of champagne, I overheard them talking.
One whispered, “Can you imagine doing this job? Serving people all night?”
Another said, “He’s kind of cute, but I’d never date a waiter. Ugh.”
Meghan just laughed. “They’re all desperate for tips. You just smile and they’ll do whatever you want.”
Any guilt I had vanished.
I kept the drinks coming. “Would you like the special lobster next?” I asked with a grin.
“Absolutely,” Meghan said. “Bring it all out!”
By midnight, they’d eaten and drunk enough to rival a celebrity party. And they still hadn’t asked my name. Not once.
When most of the guests had left, I finally returned with a leather folder and set it beside Meghan.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I said casually.
She opened it mid-laugh, then froze. Her face turned white.
“Uh… this has to be wrong,” she stammered. “It says $4,200.”
I looked surprised. “Oh, let me fix that right away.”
When I came back, the total was $4,320.
“I forgot your last dozen oysters,” I explained gently.
Her jaw dropped. “Ten dollars per oyster?! That’s crazy!”
“Actually,” I said calmly, “ours are quite modestly priced for this level of quality.”
Panic set in. The girls huddled together, whispering, reviewing every item.
“I need the restroom,” Meghan said suddenly, standing up.
“Of course,” I said with a nod. “Don’t worry—your card and ID are safe with me.”
She came back ten minutes later, eyes red, makeup touched up. The confidence was gone.
“Look,” she began sweetly, “the food and service were honestly not great. The drinks were weak. We waited too long. You should cut the bill in half.”
Her friends nodded in agreement.
She added, “I’m doing this place a favor, honestly. I’m friends with the owner. He’ll be furious when he hears about this.”
“Oh?” I said, tilting my head. “Which owner?”
She held up her phone. “Here—these are our texts from earlier.”
I looked. The contact said “Restaurant Owner,” but it was clearly a fake thread with no history.
“That’s not the owner’s number,” I said.
“He has multiple phones!” she snapped. “Obviously, you wouldn’t know.”
I reached into my wallet and pulled out a business card. I placed it on the table.
It read:
Peter R. – Owner & Executive Chef
I smiled gently. “I’m Peter. My grandparents started this place in 1973. My parents grew it. And I’ve owned it for seven years now.”
Meghan looked like she’d seen a ghost.
“But… you were serving us…” she whispered.
“I work every role in my restaurant,” I said. “It’s how I make sure everything runs right.”
“This is—this is entrapment!” she cried. “You tricked us!”
I stayed calm. “Did I force you to order anything? Did I hide prices or lie? I simply gave you what you asked for.”
“We can’t pay this,” one friend whispered.
“I understand,” I said. “You can either pay in full, or I can call the police and report attempted theft. Your choice.”
Meghan burst into tears as she signed the bill. Her friends emptied their purses, scraping together cash.
I handed Meghan her ID and card.
“Thank you for dining with us.”
They walked slowly toward the door, defeated.
Just before they left, I called out gently, “Oh, and one more thing.”
They turned.
“Next time you pretend to know someone important, make sure they’re not the one serving your table.”
And with that, the door closed behind them. The night was quiet again.
They may have left with empty wallets, but they got a lesson they’d never forget.
