Entitled Guest Demanded a Free Table at ‘Her Friend’s’ Restaurant — Too Bad I Was the Owner

The look on her face when I finally revealed myself? Priceless.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

My grandparents immigrated from Spain in the ’70s with little more than a dream and family recipes. They poured everything into a small corner restaurant that smelled like saffron and hope.

My parents took that foundation and expanded it, turning our humble eatery into a neighborhood staple. When they finally decided to retire, handing me the keys felt like inheriting both a legacy and a promise.

I had my own vision.

I modernized the space with sleek lighting and comfortable seating, but kept the old family photos on the brick walls. I updated the menu while preserving our signature dishes.

Most importantly, I built an online presence that had people waiting weeks for reservations. Within three years, we became one of the hottest dining spots in the city.

Despite our success, I never stopped working the floor.

On Friday nights, you might find me bussing tables, chatting with regulars, or personally greeting guests. I believe that when you own a restaurant, no job is beneath you.

That particular Friday before Christmas was absolute chaos.

Every table booked, the bar three-deep with people waiting for cancellations, and the kitchen firing on all cylinders. I was at the host stand helping our usual hostess, Madison, manage the crowd when a group of six women pushed their way to the front.

Their ringleader, Meghan, had that look I’ve come to recognize… the entitled smile of someone who believes rules don’t apply to them.

“Hi there,” she said with practiced charm. “Table for six, please.”

Madison checked her tablet. “I’m sorry, we’re fully booked tonight. Do you have a reservation?”

Meghan flipped her hair. “We don’t have a reservation, but the owner’s a close friend of mine. He always keeps tables open for special guests like us.”

Madison glanced at me uncertainly. I stepped forward.

“I handle our VIP arrangements,” I said politely. “I don’t believe we were expecting anyone tonight. Which owner are you friends with?”

Her confidence didn’t waver. “We go way back. He’ll be disappointed if you turn us away.”

I could have ended this charade right there by revealing I was the owner. But something about her smug certainty made me hold back.

I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends, but I also wasn’t about to reward this behavior.

“I’m sorry, but we really are completely booked tonight. Perhaps I could take your number and call you if something opens up?” I offered.

That’s when her demeanor changed completely.

“Oh, really?” she said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. “Get a picture of this guy, ladies. He’ll be scrubbing toilets when I talk to the owner. Enjoy your last shift.”

One of her friends snapped a photo with her phone while another chimed in, “Say goodbye to your minimum wage job!”

The other women snickered, looking at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. I noticed other guests watching uncomfortably.

At that point, I had three options. Tell her I’m the owner and end this nonsense, politely but firmly ask them to leave, or… have some fun with this situation.

I chose door number three.

I smiled warmly. “You know what? My apologies. You’re absolutely right. It would be simpler to accommodate you. We do have one special table available. And to make up for any inconvenience, your first three rounds of drinks will be complimentary.”

Their attitudes shifted instantly.

“That’s more like it,” Meghan said, not bothering to thank me.

I personally escorted them to our VIP section. It was a private alcove with the best view in the house.

As they settled in, exclaiming over the plush seating and ambient lighting, I casually mentioned, “We just need one credit card and ID to keep on file, standard procedure. We’ll return them before you leave.”

Meghan readily handed over her cards.

“Tonight’s on me, ladies,” she announced grandly to her friends, who cheered.

If only she knew what was coming next.

***

I took their initial drink orders and assured them our bartender would prioritize their table. When I returned with six colorful concoctions, they were already taking selfies for social media.

“Ladies, enjoy your first complimentary round. I’ll check on your food orders shortly, but I should mention we’re extremely busy tonight, so there might be a slight delay.”

“No problem,” Meghan said, already sipping her $24 specialty martini. “We’re not in any rush.”

As promised, I comped their first three rounds. By then, they were getting noticeably louder, laughing and calling me over with snaps of their fingers.

When thirty minutes passed with no appetizers, Meghan waved impatiently.

“Hey, waiter guy! Where’s our food? The service here is ridiculous.”

I approached with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Let me check on those orders right away. Would you like more drinks while you wait?”

They ordered two more rounds before the appetizers finally arrived. They were hand-selected delicacies from our VIP menu.

What they didn’t realize was that our VIP tables come with special treatment in more ways than one.

The elegant menus I’d provided intentionally listed no prices. It was a discreet touch for our high-end clientele who rarely concern themselves with such details.

The dishes I suggested were our most exquisite offerings. White truffle risotto, Osetra caviar with handmade blinis, imported Japanese A5 Wagyu, and west coast oysters at $10 a piece. Each recommendation was met with enthusiastic approval.

“This is divine,” one woman exclaimed, savoring a bite of truffle risotto.

“Let’s get another dozen oysters,” another suggested, and Meghan nodded grandly.

Around their fourth round of drinks, I started questioning myself. Was I taking this too far?

I thought these women might genuinely not understand the caliber of items they were ordering.

Then I overheard their conversation as I approached with another bottle of champagne.

“Can you imagine doing this for a living?” one woman whispered, nodding toward me. “I’d rather die than serve people all day.”

“He’s kind of cute,” another replied, “but I could never date a waiter. Too much of a pushover.”

Meghan laughed. “That’s why it’s so easy to get what you want. These service people are desperate for tips.”

My momentary guilt evaporated. The lesson would continue.

I returned with the champagne, pouring it with professional precision. “Another dozen oysters for the table?”

“Absolutely,” Meghan confirmed without hesitation. “And let’s try that special lobster dish you mentioned.”

By midnight, they had consumed enough premium drinks and delicacies to rival a celebrity’s birthday party. Throughout the evening, they’d treated me like furniture. Not once had anyone asked my name.

The restaurant had mostly emptied when I finally approached with the leather portfolio containing their bill: $4,200, including tax and gratuity.

I placed it discreetly beside Meghan. “Whenever you’re ready. No rush at all.”

She was mid-laugh when she opened it. The color drained from her face.

“There’s been a mistake,” Meghan said as she stared at the bill. “This can’t be right.”

I examined the check with exaggerated concern. “You’re absolutely correct. Let me fix this immediately.”

When I returned, the total was now $4,320.

“My apologies,” I said. “I forgot to include your eighth order of oysters. Twelve pieces at $10 each.”

Meghan’s eyes widened in horror. “Ten dollars PER OYSTER? That’s insane!”

“Actually, ours are quite reasonably priced compared to other establishments of this caliber,” I replied calmly.

The women huddled together, frantically reviewing the itemized bill line by line. They checked the complimentary drinks, then tallied every extravagant item they’d consumed without once asking the cost.

That’s when Meghan stood abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course,” I replied. Then, added casually, “I’ll keep your ID and card safe right here,” making sure she understood that disappearing wasn’t an option.

Ten minutes later, she returned with fresh makeup that didn’t quite hide her reddened eyes. Her strategy had clearly shifted.

“Listen,” she began in a sweet voice. “The food and service were honestly disappointing. The drinks were weak, and we waited forever for our appetizers.”

Her friends nodded in rehearsed agreement.

“As a bare minimum,” Meghan continued, “you should reduce this bill by half. My friends will help cover it, even though I originally said tonight was my treat.”

When I didn’t immediately respond, she played her final card. “Look, the owner is a personal friend of mine. He would be horrified at how we’ve been treated. I was trying to give this place a good review.”

“I see,” I said quietly. “And which owner would that be?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to a server,” she snapped, but then pulled out her phone. “Fine, here are our text messages from earlier today.”

I glanced at the screen, noting how the contact name simply read “Restaurant Owner” with no actual name. The texts were clearly recent, with no conversation history.

“He has multiple phones for business,” she argued. “Obviously, you don’t know all his contact information.”

The time had come…

I pulled out my own wallet and extracted a business card, placing it beside her phone. It displayed my name, the title of “Owner & Executive Chef,” and the restaurant’s logo.

“I’m Peter. My grandparents opened this restaurant in 1973. My parents expanded it, and I’ve owned it exclusively for the past seven years.” I paused to let this sink in. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The look on Meghan and her friends’ faces was priceless.

“But… but you were serving us all night,” Meghan stammered.

“I work every position in my restaurant,” I explained quietly. “From washing dishes to greeting guests. It’s how I maintain our standards.”

“This is entrapment,” she argued weakly. “You tricked us.”

“Did I suggest any dish you didn’t enthusiastically order? Did I force extra drinks on you? Did I ever claim to be anyone other than who I am?” I kept my voice level. “I simply provided exactly what you asked for.”

“We can’t pay this,” one friend whispered.

“I understand this is an uncomfortable situation,” I said. “But I have two options for you. Pay the bill in full, or I will call the police regarding attempted theft of services. Your choice.”

Tears streamed down Meghan’s face as she signed the credit card slip. Her friends emptied their purses, scraping together a couple of hundred dollars in cash to help offset the damage.

“Your ID and card,” I said, returning her belongings. “Thank you for dining with us tonight.”

As they shuffled toward the exit, I added, “One more thing.”

They turned, looking utterly defeated.

“Next time you claim friendship with someone important, make sure they’re not serving your table. Good night, ladies.”

The door closed behind them, and I knew they’d received a lesson far more valuable than any dinner could provide.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.