If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, you know: some customers don’t want good service — they want a punching bag.
I didn’t realize that until the Thompsons walked in on a Friday night and decided I would be theirs.
The restaurant was packed. I already had three tables, food running in the window, and a manager giving me the “keep smiling” look from across the bar.
Then Mr. Thompson marched in like he owned the place.
Broad shoulders. Loud voice. Expensive watch. The type of man who thinks money means rules don’t apply to him.
His wife wore a floral dress that looked like it cost more than my car. Their two teenagers didn’t even lift their heads from their phones.
“Window table,” Mr. Thompson barked. “Quiet. Extra cushions. My wife deserves to be comfortable in these awful chairs.”
I glanced at the reservation list. The window table was prepped for the next booking.
But I moved it anyway. Dragged cushions. Rearranged. Smiled like it didn’t hurt my section.
I told myself: Just get them through dinner. In and out. No drama.
I was wrong.
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