After 15 years in the restaurant biz,
I’ve seen entitled customers—but Meghan took the cake.
One packed Friday, a group of six women pushed to the front without a reservation.
Meghan, their smug ringleader, dropped the classic line:
“The owner is a good friend of mine. He always has a table for us.” She had no idea she,
was talking to the actual owner—me. Instead of calling her bluff,
I played along, offering them our
VIP table and three rounds of drinks on the house.
They ordered the most extravagant dishes on the menu—
truffle risotto, A5 Wagyu,
oysters at $10 a pop—without checking prices, all while loudly mocking service workers.
By the end of the night, their bill totaled $4,320.
Cue the panic. Meghan demanded the bill be halved and insisted the owner would be horrified.
That’s when,
I slid my business card across the table.
“I’m Peter, the owner and executive chef.”
The silence? Delicious.
They paid in full—some with cash scraped from designer purses, some through tears.
As they left, I smiled and said,
“Next time you claim to know the owner, make sure he’s not serving your table.”
