In my years running a restaurant, I’ve handled demanding guests, but one woman’s bold claim of knowing “the owner” to get a free table was unforgettable. I’m Sofia, 40, and this is how I turned her entitlement into a powerful lesson in humility and respect.
My Mexican grandparents opened our restaurant in the ‘70s, serving tacos with heart. My parents made it a community favorite, and I inherited it, adding chic lighting and a vibrant online presence while keeping Abuela’s mole recipe. Our place became a city hotspot, but I still work the floor, from hosting to dishwashing, to keep our spirit alive. One hectic holiday night, every table was reserved, the bar packed. I was aiding our hostess, Mia, when four women, led by a smug Lauren, cut the line.
“Table for four,” Lauren said, grinning. Mia checked. “We’re booked. Reservation?” Lauren scoffed. “I’m besties with the owner. She saves tables for me.” Mia glanced at me. “Which owner?” I asked, stepping up. “We’re like sisters,” Lauren said, unwavering. I could’ve revealed I was the owner, but her arrogance stopped me. I wanted to teach, not shame. “We’re full,” I said, “but I’ll call if something opens.” Lauren’s charm turned sharp. “You’re toast when I tell the owner,” she said loudly. A friend snapped my photo, sneering, “Enjoy unemployment!”
I smiled, choosing fun over fury. “My mistake,” I said. “We have a VIP table, and your first three drink rounds are free.” Lauren nodded, “About time.” I seated them in our plush alcove, asking for a card and ID. Lauren gave them, declaring, “I’m covering tonight!” I brought fancy cocktails, comping rounds. They grew rowdy, demanding service. When food lagged, Lauren barked, “This is slow!” I offered more drinks, serving elite dishes—truffle pasta, prime rib—from our no-price VIP menu. They raved, ordering more, clueless about costs.
Hearing them call servers “pathetic,” my resolve hardened. Their bill reached $4,300. Lauren blanched when I presented it. “This is a mistake,” she said. I added forgotten caviar, raising it to $4,450. “Ten dollars a bite?” she gasped. “Top quality,” I replied. She tried to flee, but I held her card. She claimed poor service, showing fake texts from “the owner.” I slid my card over. “I’m Sofia, the owner. We’re strangers.” Her friends gaped. “You waited on us!” she said. “I do all jobs,” I said. “Pay, or I call the cops.” She signed, crying, as friends pitched in. “Don’t fake friendships,” I said, returning her card. They left, learning respect outweighs any bill.
