When a family skipped out on their $850 restaurant tab, I was devastated. But with my manager’s shrewd plan and an unexpected ally, we turned the tables in a way they never saw coming. If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, you’ve probably had your fair share of difficult customers.
But this family was in a league of their own. It started on what I thought was going to be a normal Friday night. The restaurant was packed, and I was already juggling three tables when they walked in: Mr.
Thompson, a loud, broad-shouldered man who exuded entitlement, his wife in a floral dress that looked more expensive than my car, and their two teenage kids who didn’t look up from their phones once. The moment they entered, he barked, “We want the best table by the window. Make sure it’s quiet.
And bring us extra cushions. My wife deserves to be comfortable in these awful chairs.”
I hesitated, glancing at the reservations list. The window table had just been cleaned for the next guests.
“Of course,” I said with a forced smile, already preparing to move heaven and earth to accommodate them. After dragging over cushions and rearranging things, I led them to their seats, hoping that was the worst of it. Yeah… no.
More complaints started before they even opened the menus. Mrs. Thompson sniffed loudly.
“Why is it so dim in here? Do they want us to use flashlights to see our food?”
I flipped on the small light at their table and said, “Does this help? Our ambiance is set to —”
She cut me off.
“Ambiance? Don’t be ridiculous. Just make sure my drinking glass is spotless.
I don’t want lipstick marks from some stranger.”
I bit my tongue and fetched her drink while Mr. Thompson grumbled about the menu being too limited. “What kind of place doesn’t offer lobster bisque on a Friday night?” he asked, practically glaring at me.
“We never served lobster bisque here, sir,” I explained, keeping my voice steady. “But we do have an excellent clam chowder.”
He waved me off. “Forget it.
Just bring us bread, and make sure it’s warm!”
I rushed to the kitchen, praying the meal would go smoothly. But again… no. The family constantly snapped their fingers at me like I was a dog, demanding things like refills of water before their glasses were even half-empty.
“Is this what passes for service these days?” Mr. Thompson boomed at one point, sending the steak he’d ordered back because it was “overcooked.”
Mrs. Thompson, not to be outdone, shoved her soup at me, declaring it too salty.
By the time dessert came, I was holding back tears. When their plates were cleared, I finally let myself breathe, thinking it was over. But as I returned to clean the table with the bill in hand, my stomach dropped.
They were gone. In their place, there was a napkin with a scrawled message: “Terrible service. The waitress will pay for our tab.”
Their total was $850!
I stared at the napkin, my hands trembling, as a wave of nausea swept over me. The sheer audacity of it knocked the wind out of me. How could anyone be so cruel?
I forced myself to move before I started to cry, clutching the napkin. My legs felt like jelly as I walked to Mr. Caruso, our manager, who was checking on another table.
He glanced up as I approached, concern softening his normally stern expression. “Erica, what’s wrong?” he asked calmly. I held out the napkin with a still shaky hand.
“They left,” I whispered, my throat tightening. “They… they didn’t pay.”
He took the napkin from me and read it, his eyebrows raising slightly. “An $850 bill,” I added, my voice cracking.
“They just walked out.”
I braced myself for his reaction, fully expecting anger or panic. Maybe he’d call the police, or worse, tell me I’d have to cover the cost. Instead, he let out a small chuckle.
“This is perfect,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Perfect?” I repeated. “How so?”
“It’s an opportunity!” he said, snapping his fingers.
“An opportunity for what?” I asked, still confused. “To make things right, and get some good PR while we’re at it.”
By the bar, Mr. Caruso told me his plan to call a local news station and tell them the story.
I wasn’t sure how that would work in our favor. But before I could say anything, a customer sitting nearby raised her hand, drawing both our attention. “Excuse me,” she said in a friendly tone.
“I couldn’t help overhearing. Are you talking about the family with the woman in the floral dress and the loud guy?”
I raised my eyebrows, glancing at Mr. Caruso before nodding.
“Yes. Why?”
She smiled, wiping her face with a cloth napkin. “I’m Nadine.
I’m a food blogger, and I was recording my meal for a post. I caught them on video being awful to you.”
My jaw dropped. “You have a video?” I asked.
“I do,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I didn’t even mean to film them, but they were so loud and rude it was hard to miss.”
I looked at Mr. Caruso, who was already leaning in to see the footage.
Nadine pressed play, and there they were in all their entitled glory. The video showed Mr. Thompson snapping his fingers at me, Mrs.
Thompson dramatically pushing her soup away, and their kids ignoring me altogether. “You can use this if it helps,” Nadine added with a kind smile. “Give it to the news station.
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