Restaurant gigs dish out tough customers, but this crew was next-level. Friday night was slamming when the Thompsons rolled in—Mr. Thompson, all bluster, his wife in a ritzy dress, kids lost in screens. “Best table, cushions!” he roared. I juggled—window spot was booked—but grinned, dragged extras, and sat them, bracing for more.
It came quick. She fussed about dim lights, demanding a pristine glass; he trashed the menu for no bisque. “Chowder’s a hit,” I said, calm. “Bread, warm!” he shot back. I hustled, dodging their finger-snaps—water now, steak’s wrong, soup’s off. Dessert hit, I exhaled, but with the $850 bill ready, they’d bolted. A napkin sneered, “Bad service—waitress covers.” My chest caved—$850?—and I wobbled to Mr. Caruso, handing him the note. “They skipped,” I rasped. He smirked, “This is gold.”
“Gold?” I echoed, lost. “Watch,” he said, dialing the news. Then Nadine, a diner, chimed in—“I filmed them,” she said, a blogger with footage of their rudeness loud and clear. “Take it,” she grinned. Mr. Caruso, thrilled, tossed her free cake. On air, I shook but spoke: “Respect matters.” The clip aired, their faces hidden, and boom—online love flooded us, customers swarmed.
Next day, the Thompsons charged in, yelling about slander. Mr. Caruso countered, “Prove it’s you—call the law?” They froze, paid up, tipped under pressure, and left to applause. Later, he pulled me aside. “Assistant manager, Erica—raise, hours, you’ve got it.” I gaped, “Really?” “Earned it,” he said. I asked, “Cops first next time?” He chuckled, “We flipped a loss to profit—you nailed it.” Walking out, I saw it—hard work spun a mess into a victory.
