In my restaurant career, I’ve faced bold customers, but one woman’s claim of being “friends” with the owner to demand a table was next-level. I’m Elena, 37, and this is how I turned her deception into a humbling moment she’ll always remember.
My Greek grandparents opened our restaurant in the ‘70s, serving soulful dishes. My parents made it a neighborhood star, and I inherited it, adding modern flair while keeping Yiayia’s baklava. Our online buzz packed our seats, but I still work every role, from hosting to cleaning, to stay true to our heart. One snowy Saturday, we were swamped, the bar overflowing. Assisting our hostess, Zoe, I saw six women, led by a cocky woman named Brooke, cut through the crowd.
“Table for six,” Brooke said, beaming. Zoe checked. “We’re booked. Reservation?” Brooke chuckled. “The owner’s my friend. She keeps tables for me.” Zoe eyed me. “Which owner?” I asked. “We’re tight,” Brooke said, bold. I could’ve outed myself, but her nerve stopped me. “No tables,” I said, “but I’ll call if one opens.” Brooke’s face hardened. “You’re gone when I tell the owner,” she said loudly. A friend snapped my photo, saying, “Poor waiter!” Others stared, uneasy.
I smiled, choosing a game. “My mistake,” I said. “We have a VIP table, and three drink rounds are free.” Brooke nodded, “Good.” I sat them in our luxe corner, asking for a card and ID. Brooke gave them, proclaiming, “I’m paying!” I brought fancy cocktails, comping rounds. They grew rowdy, demanding attention. When food was slow, Brooke griped, “This is bad!” I offered drinks, serving elite dishes—caviar, truffle steak—from our no-price VIP menu. They raved, ordering more, blind to costs.
Hearing them call servers “weak,” I continued. Their bill reached $4,400. Brooke paled when I presented it. “This can’t be right,” she said. I added forgotten lobster, raising it to $4,550. “Ten bucks an oyster?” she gasped. “Premium quality,” I said. She tried to leave, but I held her card. She claimed bad service, showing fake texts from “the owner.” I set my card down. “I’m Elena, 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 police.” She signed, crying, with friends’ cash. “Don’t lie about friends,” I said. They left, learning respect is priceless.
