It was supposed to be a regular Friday night shift at the restaurant, but it turned into a whirlwind I’ll never forget. The dining room was packed, and I was juggling three tables, trying to keep everyone happy. That’s when the Thompsons walked in, and everything spiraled from there.
Mr. Thompson led the way, a large, imposing man with an air of entitlement that filled the room before he even spoke. His wife followed in a floral dress that screamed luxury, and their two teenage kids trailed behind, glued to their phones. From the moment they stepped through the door, I knew they’d be trouble.
“We want the best table by the window,” Mr. Thompson barked. “And bring some extra cushions. My wife doesn’t need to be uncomfortable in these awful chairs.”
I glanced at the reservations list. The table he wanted had just been cleaned for another party, but there was no reasoning with him. “Of course,” I said with a forced smile, scrambling to make the arrangements.
Once seated, the complaints began immediately. Mrs. Thompson wrinkled her nose. “Why is it so dim in here? Are we supposed to eat in the dark?”
I adjusted the small light on their table, hoping it would help. “How’s this?”
“Barely better,” she sniffed. “And make sure my glass is spotless. I don’t want someone else’s lipstick on it.”
The rest of the night continued in the same vein. Mr. Thompson snapped his fingers to get my attention, sent his steak back because it was “overcooked,” and loudly declared the service was “the worst he’d ever experienced.” Mrs. Thompson pushed her soup aside, claiming it was too salty. Even the kids chimed in, complaining about slow Wi-Fi.
By the time dessert came, I was emotionally drained. As I approached their table with the bill, I noticed they were gone. At first, I thought they might’ve stepped outside. Then I saw the napkin they’d left behind: “Terrible service. The waitress can cover our tab.”
My heart sank. Their bill was $850.
I clutched the napkin, trying to process the audacity of it all. My hands trembled as I approached Mr. Caruso, our manager. He was busy checking on another table when I handed him the napkin.
“They left,” I whispered, barely holding back tears. “They didn’t pay.”
He read the note and raised an eyebrow. For a moment, I braced myself for his anger or disappointment. Instead, he chuckled. “Well, Erica, this is quite the opportunity.”
