In my 15 years in the restaurant business
, I’ve dealt with plenty of entitled guests but Meghan was next-level.
One packed Friday before Christmas, she showed up with five friends, demanding a table.
“We’re friends with the owner,” she said with a smug smile.I am the owner.
But instead of calling her out, I decided to play along.
I seated them in our VIP section,
offered complimentary drinks, and let them order freely from our premium menu white truffle risotto,
A5 Wagyu, oysters at $10 a piece. The menus had no prices.
They didn’t ask. They treated me like a servant, openly mocking me:
“He’ll be scrubbing toilets after this,”
“Can you imagine dating a waiter?”
Still, I kept the service flawless. When I finally dropped the bill—$4,320—
Meghan’s face went pale.
She tried to bluff again: “I’ll speak to the owner.
He’ll fix this.” I calmly handed her my card.“I’m Peter.
My grandparents started this place in the ’70s.
I’ve been the sole owner for the past seven years.
”Dead silence. Then panic
. Then tears. She paid.
As they shuffled out, I added,
“Next time you name-drop the owner—make sure he’s not the one bringing your drinks.”