ach recommendation was met with enthusiastic approval. “This is divine,” one woman exclaimed, savoring a bite of truffle risotto.

“Let’s get another dozen oysters,” another suggested, and Meghan nodded grandly. Around their fourth round of drinks, I started questioning myself. Was I taking this too far?

I thought these women might genuinely not understand the caliber of items they were ordering. Then I overheard their conversation as I approached with another bottle of champagne. “Can you imagine doing this for a living?” one woman whispered, nodding toward me.

“I’d rather die than serve people all day.”

“He’s kind of cute,” another replied, “but I could never date a waiter. Too much of a pushover.”

Meghan laughed. “That’s why it’s so easy to get what you want.

These service people are desperate for tips.”

My momentary guilt evaporated. The lesson would continue. I returned with the champagne, pouring it with professional precision.

“Another dozen oysters for the table?”

“Absolutely,” Meghan confirmed without hesitation. “And let’s try that special lobster dish you mentioned.”

By midnight, they had consumed enough premium drinks and delicacies to rival a celebrity’s birthday party. Throughout the evening, they’d treated me like furniture.

Not once had anyone asked my name. The restaurant had mostly emptied when I finally approached with the leather portfolio containing their bill: $4,200, including tax and gratuity. I placed it discreetly beside Meghan.

“Whenever you’re ready. No rush at all.”

She was mid-laugh when she opened it. The color drained from her face.

“There’s been a mistake,” Meghan said as she stared at the bill. “This can’t be right.”

I examined the check with exaggerated concern. “You’re absolutely correct.

Let me fix this immediately.”

When I returned, the total was now $4,320. “My apologies,” I said. “I forgot to include your eighth order of oysters.

Twelve pieces at $10 each.”

Meghan’s eyes widened in horror. “Ten dollars PER OYSTER? That’s insane!”

“Actually, ours are quite reasonably priced compared to other establishments of this caliber,” I replied calmly.

The women huddled together, frantically reviewing the itemized bill line by line. They checked the complimentary drinks, then tallied every extravagant item they’d consumed without once asking the cost. That’s when Meghan stood abruptly.

“I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course,” I replied. Then, added casually, “I’ll keep your ID and card safe right here,” making sure she understood that disappearing wasn’t an option. Ten minutes later, she returned with fresh makeup that didn’t quite hide her reddened eyes.

Her strategy had clearly shifted. “Listen,” she began in a sweet voice. “The food and service were honestly disappointing.

The drinks were weak, and we waited forever for our appetizers.”

Her friends nodded in rehearsed agreement. “As a bare minimum,” Meghan continued, “you should reduce this bill by half. My friends will help cover it, even though I originally said tonight was my treat.”

When I didn’t immediately respond, she played her final card.

“Look, the owner is a personal friend of mine. He would be horrified at how we’ve been treated. I was trying to give this place a good review.”

“I see,” I said quietly.

“And which owner would that be?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to a server,” she snapped, but then pulled out her phone. “Fine, here are our text messages from earlier today.”

I glanced at the screen, noting how the contact name simply read “Restaurant Owner” with no actual name. The texts were clearly recent, with no conversation history.

“That’s not the owner’s number,” I said simply. “He has multiple phones for business,” she argued. “Obviously, you don’t know all his contact information.”

The time had come…

I pulled out my own wallet and extracted a business card, placing it beside her phone. It displayed my name, the title of “Owner & Executive Chef,” and the restaurant’s logo. “I’m Peter.

My grandparents opened this restaurant in 1973. My parents expanded it, and I’ve owned it exclusively for the past seven years.” I paused to let this sink in. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The look on Meghan and her friends’ faces was priceless.

“But… but you were serving us all night,” Meghan stammered. “I work every position in my restaurant,” I explained quietly.

“From washing dishes to greeting guests. It’s how I maintain our standards.”

“This is entrapment,” she argued weakly. “You tricked us.”

“Did I suggest any dish you didn’t enthusiastically order?

Did I force extra drinks on you? Did I ever claim to be anyone other than who I am?” I kept my voice level. “I simply provided exactly what you asked for.”

“We can’t pay this,” one friend whispered.

“I understand this is an uncomfortable situation,” I said. “But I have two options for you. Pay the bill in full, or I will call the police regarding attempted theft of services.

Your choice.”

Tears streamed down Meghan’s face as she signed the credit card slip. Her friends emptied their purses, scraping together a couple of hundred dollars in cash to help offset the damage. “Your ID and card,” I said, returning her belongings.

“Thank you for dining with us tonight.”

As they shuffled toward the exit, I added, “One more thing.”

They turned, looking utterly defeated. “Next time you claim friendship with someone important, make sure they’re not serving your table. Good night, ladies.”

The door closed behind them, and I knew they’d received a lesson far more valuable than any dinner could provide.

Source: amomama