“We’ve never served lobster bisque here, sir,” I explained, keeping my voice steady. “But our clam chowder is excellent.”
He waved me away. “Forget it. Just bring us bread, and make sure it’s warm!”
I rushed to the kitchen, hoping against hope that the meal would go smoothly. But, no such luck.
The family kept snapping their fingers at me like I was a dog, demanding things like water refills before their glasses were even half – empty.
“Is this what passes for service these days?” Mr. Thompson thundered at one point, sending back the steak he’d ordered, claiming it was “overcooked.”
Mrs. Thompson, not to be outdone, pushed her soup toward me, declaring it too salty.
By the time dessert arrived, I was on the verge of tears. When their plates were cleared, I finally allowed myself to relax, thinking it was all over. But as I went back to clean the table with the bill in hand, my stomach dropped.
In their place, there was a napkin with a scrawled message: “Terrible service. The waitress will pay for our bill.”
I stared at the napkin, my hands shaking, a wave of nausea washing over me. The sheer nerve of them left me speechless. How could anyone be so heartless?
I forced myself to move before I broke down, clutching the napkin. My legs felt like rubber as I made my way to Mr. Caruso, our manager, who was checking on another table.
He looked up as I approached, concern softening his usually stern expression. “Erica, what’s wrong?” he asked gently.
I held out the napkin with a still – trembling hand. “They left,” I whispered, my throat tightening. “They… they didn’t pay.”
He took the napkin from me and read it, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
“An $850 bill,” I added, my voice breaking. “They just walked out.”
I braced myself for his reaction, fully expecting anger or panic. Maybe he’d call the police, or even worse, tell me I’d have to cover the cost.