Working the evening shift at the café was usually a breeze, and the tips were better, too. At thirty, single but content with my life, I loved my job. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine and it sustained me. My coworkers were like family, and regular customers brought a comforting predictability to my days.
That particular Friday night, however, was destined to be different. Larissa, my coworker, had mentioned the possibility of seeing a sweet, elderly couple who often visited. They were a joy to wait on and always had charming stories and photos of their grandchildren. I looked forward to it.
But as I was about to get back to work after a quick cigarette break, a couple walked in who immediately struck me as trouble. The woman was decked out in flashy jewelry and wore an expression of perpetual disdain, while the man exuded an arrogant swagger. They made a beeline for my section, and I braced myself.
“Great,” I mouthed to Larissa, who just rolled her eyes in response.
The woman snapped her fingers at me, demanding immediate service. Her tone was curt, almost hostile. I forced a smile and approached them. “Good evening. How can I help you?” I asked, trying to remain professional despite my misgivings.
A waitress waiting to take orders | Source: Midjourney
“I’ll have a tuna salad sandwich with extra crispy sweet potato fries and a lemonade,” the woman said dismissively. Her boyfriend ordered steak tacos with roasted corn and a lemonade as well. I took their order and went to the kitchen, mentally preparing for the ordeal ahead.
It wasn’t long before the woman called me over, complaining that her lemonade was wrong. “I wanted a gin and tonic!” she shouted, pushing the glass toward me and spilling lemonade on the table. I apologized and quickly remedied the mistake, my nerves fraying with every interaction.
When their food arrived, the man’s hand “accidentally” brushed against my leg. I stepped back, anger rising, and said, “Excuse me. Don’t touch me.” The woman immediately became defensive. “Are you accusing my boyfriend of something inappropriate? How dare you!” she yelled.
Before I could respond, Mr. Grant, our manager, appeared. I was relieved at first, hoping he’d handle the situation. But when I explained what had happened, he turned to me with an unreadable expression. “Mia, the customer is always right. You shouldn’t have reacted that way.”
My heart sank as he continued, “I’m sorry, Mia, but I cannot have this kind of behavior from my staff. You’re fired.” I stood there in shock, my face burning with humiliation. I collected my things and left the café without a word.
The next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling of injustice. I decided to return to the café, but this time as a customer. Mr. Grant saw me walk in and approached cautiously. “Mia, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m here to eat,” I said, sitting down at a corner table. “And I’d like you to serve me, personally.”
Mr. Grant looked taken aback but agreed. I placed a series of increasingly petty complaints, each one more absurd than the last. “This coffee is cold,” I said sharply. “And I didn’t order eggs benedict; I wanted a frittata with extra mushrooms.”
Mr. Grant’s frustration grew evident. “Mia, this is unreasonable,” he said, looking around at other customers.
“Oh, I’m being unreasonable?” I countered. “I wonder what the owner of this café would think if he heard how you treated me yesterday. It was an unfair dismissal, and you know it.”
Mr. Grant’s demeanor changed. He took a deep breath and sat down across from me. “Mia, I’m sorry,” he admitted. “The principle of ‘the customer is always right’ isn’t always right. You shouldn’t have been fired.”
Relief washed over me. “Apology accepted. So, do I get my job back?”
“Yes,” Mr. Grant said quietly. “You can have your job back.”
A week later, I returned to work. It was a mix of vindication and relief. As I cleared a table, I saw the couple from the previous week walk in. Before they could settle, Mr. Grant intercepted them. “You’re denied entry. You’re on our blacklist.”
The couple’s outrage was palpable. “What nonsense is this? The customer is always right!” the woman protested.
“That’s true,” Mr. Grant replied. “But it only applies to customers who aren’t on the blacklist.”
I couldn’t help but smile as they stormed out, their faces flushed with anger. Mr. Grant gave me a nod of approval, and in that moment, justice had been served.
Later, as I welcomed my favorite regulars, Anita and Roger, I felt a renewed sense of belonging. Their arrival and their promise of baby photos were a reminder of why I loved this job so much.
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