The look on her face when I revealed I was the owner? Priceless.
But let me rewind.
My grandparents started our family restaurant in the ‘70s. My parents built on it, and when they retired, I took over—modernizing the space while preserving our traditions. In three years, it became one of the city’s hottest spots.
That Friday before Christmas was packed. While helping at the host stand, a group of six women pushed forward, led by Meghan. “We don’t have a reservation,” she said, “but we’re friends with the owner.”
I didn’t correct her. Instead, I offered to take her number. She mocked me loudly: “Say goodbye to your minimum wage job!”
So, I gave them a VIP table—with no price tags on the menu. They ordered lavishly: truffle risotto, Wagyu, oysters, premium cocktails—never asking the cost. Their bill? $4,200.
When I dropped it off, Meghan turned pale. She argued, claimed poor service, and insisted the owner—her “friend”—would be furious. That’s when I handed her my business card.
“I’m Peter. Owner and Executive Chef.”
The silence was golden. She and her friends paid—barely—and slunk out.
As the door closed, I called after them, “Next time you claim to know the owner, make sure he’s not serving your table.”
Lesson served.