I know how to manage challenging customers from my restaurant experience. Customers who demand substitutes, behave like royalty, or treat personnel like background noise are entitled. However, Vanessa told me a ludicrous tale one Friday night before the holidays that has become part of our kitchen crew history.
The cherry? She said she was great friends with the owner, and I took her drink order.
Wait, let me rewind.
My name is Daniel Reyes. My grandparents entered this city in 1975 from Colombia with determination and handwritten recipes. They started a small family-style restaurant in a quiet neighborhood providing homemade food. My parents made the eatery a neighborhood institution in the 1990s. After retiring, they gave me control of our family inheritance and a company.
I had huge ideas. I modernized the restaurant’s décor, created a seasonal cuisine, and established a strong internet presence to launch us into the city’s culinary limelight. Our reservation line rang constantly and we had a three-week weekend waiting list by our third year under my management.
Despite my accomplishments, I work the floor. My hands-on Fridays include busing tables, assisting the kitchen, serving wine, and making guests feel comfortable. My rule is: if I ask my team to do it, I should too.
That Friday was hectic. We were full. The kitchen was humming, the bar was crowded, and every table was full. I was assisting Amelia, our front-of-house manager, at the host stand when six well-dressed ladies entered, disregarding the waiting customers.
The leader was Vanessa. Mid-thirties, fancy clothes, high confidence.
She said “Hi there,” with a patronizing grin. A six-person table please.”
Always cool under pressure, Amelia examined the iPad. I’m sorry. Totally booked tonight. Have a reservation?”
Vanessa pretended to be patient. We don’t. It’s okay—I’m friends with the owner. He always reserves me a table. He’d feel angry if you rejected us.”
Stepped forward. “I handle all the owner’s guest arrangements,” I answered calmly. What’s the owner’s name?
Vanessa remained calm. “Sebastian. Or Daniel. Whatever. Our history is long.”
My name is Daniel. Sebastian is my middle name. Cute guess.
I looked at Amelia, who knew we’d joke about this later.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any walk-in availability tonight,” I answered politely. “But I can take your number if we cancel.”
Her tone became cold.
“Are you new here or just slow?” she shouted. “The owner will be furious. Girls, look—this man will polish silverware next week!”
Her pals laughed. One snapped my photo on her phone. “Smile for the unemployment line,” she mocked.
I could dismiss her by disclosing I was the owner, throw them out, or let it happen. I selected third.
“I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding,” I smiled. “We have one table left—a last-minute cancellation. We reserve it for VIPs. Please follow.”
Vanessa grinned contentedly. “Told you,” she told her crew.
I took them to our candle-lit, semi-enclosed nook, the restaurant’s most popular. Elegant, simple menus without pricing were my unique touch for our elite customers.
I added, “To make up for the confusion, the first three rounds of drinks are on the house.”
Vanessa replied, “About time,” snuggling onto the comfortable seats. Bring your finest cocktails.”
After taking their drink orders, Mateo, our bartender, raised an eyebrow but completed them. I brought six of our most exotic cocktails—imported gin, unusual fruit infusions, edible gold leaf.
“This place is gorgeous,” one woman commented, taking selfies. You must bring us here more frequently, Vanessa.”
They enjoyed the attention. They ordered oysters, caviar, lobster ravioli, and any other top-shelf item I recommended without hesitation.
They still didn’t know.
After three beers, they were partying. Vanessa snapped her fingers to attract my attention. I didn’t take it personally but filed it. Their laughing became louder and more annoying.
“Hi, waiter!” Caller Vanessa. “We waited forever. Our food where?
“It’s being plated now,” I said. “Do you want another bottle of champagne?”
“Make it two,” she waved. “Add more oysters.”
At this moment, I doubted my strategy. Maybe I went too far. Maybe they didn’t grasp their order.
Then I heard.
“I’d die before dating someone who works in food service,” one lady said.
Vanessa laughed. “These people are trained to kiss your behind. Just act important.”
That finished it. Lesson time.
The final count? Eight rounds, two bottles of champagne, two dozen oysters, A5 Wagyu, white truffle pasta, and $300 seafood tower. Total: $4,170.
I put the leather bill folder lightly on Vanessa’s table and retreated.
She opened it anticipating a few hundred dollars. Her face froze. “There’s a mistake,” she remarked.
“Oh?” Leaning in, I said.
This is ridiculous. Can’t be right.”
I checked the bill. Yes, you’re right. Forgot the second bottle of champagne. A moment.”
I brought $4,320, the amended check.
Vanessa snapped, “You’re joking. $10 per oyster?! This is charged by who?
I spoke calmly. “Our suppliers get them from Puget Sound. They are hand-shucked and served within hours of harvest.”
This is absurd. Want to talk to the owner.”
“Of course,” I answered.
She stood suddenly. “I’ll use the restroom. You must act.”
“I’ll keep your credit card and ID safe,” I said, referring to the things she had given me earlier, per VIP policy.
She returned five minutes later, companions murmuring uneasily.
Vanessa forced a calm “Listen.” “Food was cold, beverages poor, and waiter unpleasant. I’m not paying. Reduce the cost by half or we walk.”
Friends nodded like a badly prepared chorus.
“The owner will be livid,” she said. “I texted him earlier. Want proof?
She thrust her phone at me. A communication with “Danny — Owner” and ambiguous messages were shown. The thread was a hoax, initiated minutes earlier.
“That’s not my number,” I replied.
“You mean what?”
I grabbed a card from my apron.
Daniel Reyes—Owner/Chef.
Vanessa blinks.
No, you’re…
“The waiter? Dishwasher? Host? Yes. I’m all that,” I said. “But I’m also the one on that card and whose grandparents built this restaurant from scratch.”
Her face fell. Table laughing stopped suddenly.
“You tricked us,” a buddy murmured.
“I gave you everything you asked for,” I said. “I never denied ownership. Your assumption.”
“We don’t have that kind of money,” another worried.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” I replied. “Or we’ll call the police. Trying to eat and run on a $4,000 bill is theft.”
Vanessa signed the receipt shakily. Her buddies collected all their crumpled bills and cards, covering most of it.
I returned her card and ID. Thanks for eating here.”
I said, “Oh, Vanessa?” as they hobbled to the door.
She turned, mascara smeared.
“Next time you claim to know someone important, make sure they’re not serving your food.”
Doors closed behind them.
Amelia was giggling when I looked. “Drinks on me,” I told staff.
Being yourself and letting the facts speak might be the finest retribution.
