During Nate’s grandparents’ anniversary meal at a neighborhood restaurant, his grandma chooses her food.
However, knocking over a dish gets her tossed out.
Nate plots retribution.
A grandma checking on a neighborhood restaurant’s food quality for her 50th wedding anniversary dinner with her husband and close family was meant to be straightforward.
But what happened to my grandma was rude and painful.
In one week, my grandparents would celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.
To make sure everything was right for a large family dinner, my grandma went to the restaurant alone to confirm the menu and try a few items, including meatloaf.
“Meatloaf?” my mom inquired. Why serve meatloaf at your formal dinner?
“Because it’s sentimental, Penny,” my grandma smiled. “Your father and I had meatloaf on our first date, and it’s been a constant in our marriage.”
“Meatloaf Mondays,” my mom laughed. It was there throughout my childhood.”
Do you want me to join you, Gran? I asked her because I wasn’t convinced my 72-year-old grandma could handle the world alone. Despite her robust health, my grandma sometimes required help balancing.
“No, Nate,” she said. I’ll be fine! So, you can be shocked at dinner.”
When my grandma was ready for her restaurant sampling trip, I dropped her off and returned home to work.
“You tell the restaurant to call me when ready, okay?” For her, I closed the passenger door.
My grandma called two hours after I left. She cried and was sad.
I drove straight to the restaurant.
Naturally, the table was full when she ordered the foods she intended to taste at the restaurant.
Gran bumped the table with her elbow while trying to situate herself, shattering one of the dishes.
The waiter lost his temper and yelled instead of helping. He insulted my grandmother as a “old hag”.
While picking up the heavier shards of the smashed dish, he said, “Who let an old hag like you into this restaurant?” “Look at this mess. The noon rush is coming too.”
My grandma was trembling and crying when she came to the car to tell me what occurred.
“I’ve never felt worse,” she grumbled. Nate, that was a mistake. The waiter chuckled when I inquired whether the platter may cost me. He instructed me to leave.”
Driving left me stunned. What to say or soothe my grandmother was beyond me. She only wanted to throw a nice anniversary dinner for my grandfather and invite the whole family.
She wanted to treat us and be spoiled with family stories and table laughter.
I had heated ears trying to absorb my fury. But I didn’t want to yell at my granny. She’d witnessed enough fury for the day.
I prepared my grandma tea at home to calm her anxiety.
I was upset yet calm since I had a connection to the restaurant that I hadn’t told my family. But I may profit from anonymity. That waiter needs to learn humility and respect.
My grandma approached me at my laptop a few days before the anniversary dinner to cancel it.
“Maybe we should do something at home,” she added. “Maybe a home dinner is best because we’ll all be relaxed.”
“But you’ve been looking forward to this for so long,” I remarked.
“Yes, but I don’t want to go back there, Nate,” she lamented. “That waiter was awful. His mother would be devastated.”
We needed to be at the restaurant for my plan. I continued urging my grandma to settle on the scheduled supper.
“You’re a chef!” she shouted. You can cook, Nate.”
“It’s too late, Gran,” I murmured sadly. Let’s do this—I guarantee you won’t have to deal with the waiter.”
Days later, when our family celebrated at the restaurant, the same waiter served us. My grandmother’s face fell when she recognized him.
By hiding behind the bouquet of flowers I got her, she tried to shrink.
The server seemed confused as my grandparents proudly sat alongside me. He paled and gathered himself.
I ordered the table dinners my grandma requested and ignored him.
After all our meals were served, he remarked, “Good evening, I hope you’ll enjoy your meal,” looking at my grandma cautiously.
I put off discussing the elephant in the room until late.
My focus for the previous few weeks has been acquiring restaurant ownership. From washing dishes at cafes after school to becoming a head chef, I worked in the culinary profession for years.
My grandparents helped my mother pay for culinary school, so I said that I owned the restaurant where we were dining.
When I saw the house was for sale, I wanted to acquire it right away and make it our family heritage. With my grandmother’s secret recipes.
I stood to speak after dessert, a variety of little morsels that aroused the senses.
Because they knew me, the personnel provided excellent service all evening. I queried the waiter about customer service when he brought my grandfather’s coffee.
Worried, he wiped his hands on his apron and mumbled respect and decency.
“You have to care for everyone that walks into the restaurant, Sir,” he continued. “You said to treat them like guests in our homes.”
So I nodded, thinking my family missed that the waiter recognized me.
I then passed the floor over to my grandma, who talked eloquently about compassion and the memories associated with the meatloaf and other foods she chose for supper.
I tried to find something my spouse and I could relate to. We served lemon chicken at our wedding celebration.
The waiter’s regret was evident as the room hung on her words. He apologized deeply, showing his shame.
I told my family I was the new business owner and wanted to make huge changes.
My grandma smiled at me, realizing I was finally creating my own culinary niche.
I gave the waiter two options:
“You can leave with a month’s salary or stay and get comprehensive customer service training.”
He stayed and learned, surprising us.
His metamorphosis shaped our restaurant’s reputation months later. He proved the power of second chances, winning over our customers.
But more than that, he was the first to take care of my grandma when she came to the restaurant to assist me cook. He brought her tea and breadsticks.
When I think of the restaurant and how my grandma went from being insulted to being admired, all I want is to know that she will be cherished and that my kitchen will honour her lessons.
What would you’ve done?
