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Not my fault. Five measly minutes late because the subway doors refused to open, and now this is my punishment. What was I supposed to do, kick down the doors? Though, honestly, I was tempted. And I might’ve even cheered on the booger guy who actually tried to.
So, thanks to that fiasco, I’m now stuck serving the biggest snobs in the city. Lady Luck, you’re a ruthless bitch.
The eight of them are loud and obnoxious, snapping their fingers for attention and bombarding me with questions.
The guy with slicked-back hair and a Rolex taps his menu. Let’s call him “How’s the medium-well steak? Pink, or too pink?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as if sniffing out some deep, dark steak secret I’m hiding.
“Pink,” I reply confidently, forcing a smile.
Then there’s the woman with perfectly manicured nails and trendy designer clothes—I’ve mentally named her Chanel. She wrinkles her nose. “Is the lobster fresh?”
“Yes,” I reply, because honestly, it’s all subjective, right?
“How fresh?” she demands, as if I should personally assure her that I, myself, plucked it from the coast this very morning.
I’m not sure what the right answer is here, so I go with, “Fresh as a TikTok trend.”
Which is when Mr. Trust Fund with the preppy sweater draped over his shoulders asks, “Is it organic and cage-free?”
“Cage-free? The lobster?”
“Yes,” he says like a duh. “The lobster.”
I barely manage to keep a straight face on that one because, yeah, it’s definitely cage-free now—freed straight from its captivity to land on your plate.
“The chef assures me it is,” I say, delivering the line I’ve been mercilessly trained to recite.
After an hour of enduring their endless demands and haughty attitudes, half the dishes come back untouched, with the lot of them insisting on refunds. Fine by me—those plates become the ones we all snack on because management is too cheap to comp our meals.
And no matter how much their snooty expressions and dismissive waves make my blood boil, I let it roll off me like glitter off a preschooler. The food here is freaking divine.
I snack on a few truffle fries, feeling that familiar nervous anticipation as I finally check the tab. In an industry where tips are everything, this is the moment of truth—the deciding factor on whether I can restock my stash of Ben and Jerry’s or go without for the next week.
Instead of a tip, these yahoos scribbled,“Buy low, sell high”on the receipt.
Ya know, I don’t like wishing bad things on people, but I wouldn’t mind if their expensive Italian loafers crossed paths with a little gum. Or better yet, a steaming pile of dog poo.
By the end of my shift, my nerves are fried, and my feet feellike they’re about to fall off. I’m beyond ready for this to be over. I grab my bag and make a beeline for the door.
“Jules!” It’s Massimo, the manager.
I pretend not to hear him and hurry to the exit when he suddenly jumps in front of me, blocking my path. “You’re not leaving, are you?” There’s a hint of desperation in his voice—a certain pleading quality that I’ve fallen for too many times before.
I pause, biting back a grin as I knot my coat tighter. “Massimo, my shift is over. You’ll have to beg someone else this time.”
“I have a mega-important VIP, and three waitresses are practically at blows over who gets to serve them.”
I glance back, and sure enough, three girls are locked in a frenzied standoff, their faces flushed, postures damned near feral. It’s like watching a pack of rabid fans vying for a chance to slather sunblock on their favorite ripped celebrity.
One girl clutches a bottle of champagne to her chest like it’s a lifeline, her eyes wild. “I saw them first, Becky! You always get the good tables!”
Becky, practically bouncing on her toes, grabs the other end of the bottle and tugs. “You already had your chance. Remember theEsquiremodel?”
“That was months ago,” the first one snaps, tightening her grip as they start a full-on tug-of-war over the bottle.
The third, hands on her hips and glaring daggers, steps in closer. “Both of you, back off! The customer is always right, and he smiled right at me!”
I watch the three of them wrestling with the champagne, barely holding back a laugh. “Sheesh. Who’s coming?”
