Working in the restaurant industry taught me more about human behavior than any book or class ever could. You learn who’s kind without expecting praise, who believes the world owes them something, and who thinks your apron and name tag automatically mean you’re beneath them. Most nights, I go home tired but proud of my work.
But one night, a particular family reminded me that even the toughest skin can bruise, and one unforgettable lesson proved that dignity and cleverness sometimes win in the most unexpected ways. My name is Clara, and for three years I worked as a server at Marina Vista, a high-end waterfront restaurant where the dress code is stricter than most wedding receptions and the clientele often walks in carrying privilege like it’s part of their wardrobe. I loved it most days.
The soft music, the view of the harbor, the scented candles, and the polished glass, everything felt like a postcard from a life I was trying to build someday. It made the long hours worth it. But then they walked in.
The Reynards. I didn’t know their name at first, only that they arrived dripping in wealth, arrogance, and an energy I recognized immediately as trouble. It was a Saturday evening, and we were fully booked.
I had already juggled two tables asking for gluten-free bread, one bachelorette party debating cocktails like they were signing treaties, and a couple whisper-arguing about the husband’s “mysterious work trips.” It was chaotic, but manageable. Then the door swung open. The hostess whispered to me as they approached, “VIP walk-in.
The manager said to seat them wherever they want.”
I glanced up and saw a family of five: a father in a navy blazer with gold cufflinks, a mother wearing sunglasses indoors like a celebrity hiding from paparazzi, and three children who looked old enough to know better but already carried their parents’ smug posture. They didn’t look at anyone; they looked through everyone. The father snapped his fingers near a busser’s face just to get his attention.
The mother waved her hand in front of the hostess impatiently. And the kids? Well, one of them tossed a menu stand onto the floor while the others laughed like it was the peak of comedy.
My stomach sank. These were the kind of guests you pray get assigned to someone else. But fate, or maybe karma, wanting to test me, had other plans.
The hostess forced a tight smile. “Clara, table forty-two.”
Fantastic. My table.
My problem. They swept past like royalty if royalty was rude, entitled, and allergic to gratitude. “Water,” the father said before even sitting down.
“Sparkling. And bring three lemons. Not wedges.
Wheels.”
No greeting. No please. Just commands.
“Of course,” I said calmly. “Would you like to look at the wine menu as well?”
He scoffed. “I already know what I want.
If your bar can manage it.”
His wife removed her sunglasses slowly, glaring at me as though she was appraising my worth. “What’s good here?” she asked, even though our menu was embossed, curated, and renowned. “Well, our chef recommends—”
She waved her hand dismissively.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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