As a waitress, I’ve witnessed a wide range of customer behavior. But overhearing Colin belittle Ella’s pitch-perfect Italian, German, and Mandarin like she was wrong for being smart—well, that was my line in the sand. The Friday night buzz at Mélange Bistro was always electric — the scent of sizzling spices, the rhythmic clatter of utensils, and conversations that flowed in dozens of languages.
As the lead server, I’d learned to navigate the frenzy with a practiced smile and tuned ears. But beyond the busyness, what I truly loved were the people, and the quiet stories that unfolded at their tables. One couple in particular had become a part of my routine: Ella and Colin.
They’d dined at Mélange nearly every Friday for the past six months, and I remembered their first visit clearly — mostly because Ella ordered in perfect French. “Bonsoir,” she had said with a kind smile. “Je voudrais les moules marinières, s’il vous plaît.”
“Excellent choix, madame,” I’d replied, genuinely impressed.
Her grace was magnetic. Whether she ordered in French, Japanese, or Spanish, her pronunciation was flawless. It wasn’t just knowledge — it was passion.
She respected languages and the cultures they carried. Colin, on the other hand, grated on my nerves. He was the kind of man who wore confidence like armor — loud, smug, and dismissive of anything he didn’t understand.
Each time Ella placed an order, Colin would cut in with a correction — always wrong, always condescending. “Seriously, Ella,” he’d say, rolling his eyes. “It’s ‘moo-lays,’ not ‘moules.’ Just speak normal English, you don’t have to pretend you’re European.”
Ella would wince and shrink in her seat.
“Sorry. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t,” he’d snap. “Just stop it.”
Week after week, this routine played out like a sad theater performance.
Ella’s confidence wilted a little more each time. And I? I stood by with a clenched jaw and a polite smile — the unspoken rule of customer service hanging over me like a warning.
But this Friday night was different. They walked in, as always — Colin, all swagger and smugness, and Ella, a little dimmer than the week before. Except this time, they weren’t alone.
Trailing behind them was a sharp-looking older couple. Colin’s parents, I assumed — the same cocky tilt of the chin gave it away. I led them to their usual corner table and greeted them warmly.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
