Just one question—what was the name of the owner again?”
She stiffened. “He doesn’t like me giving out his number.”
“I see.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a card.
It read: Peter Ortega. Owner & Executive Chef.
I watched the blood drain from her face.
“I’ve owned this place for seven years,” I said.
“And I don’t recall ever meeting you before tonight.”
She gaped. “But… you were our waiter.”
“I do every job in my restaurant,” I replied. “Even take out the trash.”
There was silence, followed by a barely whispered, “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“I understand,” I said gently.
“But you have two options—pay the full bill, or I call the police. Attempted theft of service is still theft.”
Tears welled in Meghan’s eyes as she handed over the card. Her friends scraped together cash to soften the blow.
I handed her back her license.
“Thank you for dining with us,” I said, then paused. “Oh—and next time you claim to be friends with the owner? Make sure he’s not pouring your champagne.”
They left in silence.
And let me tell you—the satisfied hush that settled over the room when the door closed behind them? That was worth more than any tip.
