This occurred around Christmas and New Year’s. My grandparents immigrated to Canada from Italy in the 1970s and established a restaurant. When they died, my parents took over, growing and enlarging it throughout the decades. I’ve been working at the restaurant since I was 15. As my parents became older, they retired and sold the restaurant to me a few years ago.
As soon as I took possession, I modernized the old place. I rebuilt the restaurant, altered the logo, and contacted local and national newspapers to place advertisements. I invited food critics, bloggers, and vloggers. It was slow at first, and I began to fear that the loan I took out was the worst mistake I’d ever made, that I had ruined three generations of a family company. But soon, it began to work. A local YouTuber included us in one of his videos, which prompted more people to visit. We were quickly seeing five to ten times the regular volume of activity. We became a destination for large events, and it was not uncommon for a celebrity to stop by.
We were completely filled for the holidays; people had to make reservations in July to get a table in December. When things become busy, I don’t just sit in the back office. I’m on the floor doing whatever needs to be done, whether it’s greeting customers, busing tables, or mopping the floors.
One night, six women walked in. Five of them appeared to be in their early twenties, with the leader looking to be in her mid-twenties. I was greeting them at the entrance. As they approached, the queen bee, “Karen,” was telling the baby Karens how fantastic this restaurant is, how delicious the cuisine is, and how there might even be celebrities there.
When she approached me, she explained that she required a table for six.
“Of course,” I responded. “Can I get the name on the reservation?”
She stared at me. “Oh, I didn’t make one,” she responded. “But it’s okay. The owner is a personal friend of mine. He said he always keeps one or two tables open for special guests, and we can have one of those tonight.”
This is true for many high-profile restaurants, and I’ve been doing it recently as well, but I had no idea who this woman was. I understood she was attempting to get in without a reservation, but she had chosen the worst person to try this with.
“I am sorry,” I told her, “but we cannot seat anyone without a reservation. As you can see, we do not have any seats available.” I didn’t want to go all out and say, “I’m the owner, and we have never spoken before, so I never promised you anything,” but I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the other girls.
She then instructed one of the other girls to take a picture of me. She announced that she would speak with the owner and ensure that I was either scrubbing toilets or fired by the end of the week. The other girls behind her joined in, saying things like, “Yeah, kiss your minimum-wage job goodbye.”
Queen B Karen then said, “Look, you can either give us a table, or I can make your life very difficult. This is not worth losing your job.” She kept pointing, trying to belittle me, and then saying things like, “Obviously you aren’t anyone here, because if you were, you would know who I am and never try to tell me anything other than ‘yes’ or ‘of course.'”
At this time, it had been a hard day for me. From my perspective, I had three options. Number one, I could inform her that I am the owner and call her out. Number two, I could simply hand her the table and let things go. Or third, I could teach Queen B Karen and her minions a lesson. I selected option three.
The Revenge
I smiled at her and said, “Of course, ma’am. Please follow me.”
I handed her one of the three tables we leave free in case a celebrity walks in. I told her, “I apologize for everything, and you’re right, it would be simpler just to give you the table.” I also assured her that the first three rounds of drinks would be free.
I seated them and personally served them. As they sat, I told them, “We need one of your credit cards and IDs, just to keep on file, and we’ll return them to you before you leave.” Queen Karen handed me her card and informed the baby Karen minions, “Tonight is on me.”
I took their orders, gave them their free beverages, and informed them that due to how busy we were, the meal may be delayed. The females only worried about the free drinks. They ordered three rounds and still hadn’t received any food. They eventually called and asked me to check on it, all while giving me the worst attitude. I told them I would look into it but also asked if they wanted additional drinks. They ordered two more rounds.
They were soused by the time the appetizers arrived, having done nothing but drink on an empty stomach. As more food arrived, more beverages were ordered.
What these girls didn’t realize was that they were at our VIP table, which normally costs a few thousand dollars to sit at, but I didn’t charge them for it. Except for the first three rounds, I charged them for all of the extremely costly cocktails they had. Furthermore, the menus at the VIP table were different—prices are not displayed. They also offered higher-end menu items, such as white truffle, black caviar meals, and specially imported West Coast oysters.
At one point, I honestly began to question what I was doing. I worried I was going too far. But certain things encouraged me, such as when one of the baby Karens questioned whether I thought my life was pointless because all I ever became was a server. I also overheard them say, “He’s cute, but I wouldn’t date a waiter like that. He is such a pushover.” There were other comments like that throughout the night, so I continued with their life lesson.
By the end of the night, each female had built up a bill ranging from $500 to $600. I handed Queen Karen the bill for $4,023.23, which included tax and tip.
I’ve never seen somebody sober up so soon. She went from smiling and giggling with her buddies to almost in tears. She immediately summoned me over and asked whether this was a joke. I took the bill, looked it over, and apologized. “I’ll get you the correct bill amount again.” She seemed completely relieved, assuming she had received someone else’s bill, and called me an “effing idiot” before continuing to talk to her pals.
When I returned to give her the correct bill, she flipped out again. “Is there something wrong on this bill that you didn’t order?” I asked.
She and the girls were stunned and went over every single line of the bill, including the initial several lines that listed their original three rounds as complimentary. They then got out their phones and went over everything a hundred times, adding it all up.
Queen Bee, visibly startled, just remarked, “One second, I need to use the restroom.” Part of me feared she’d dine and dash, but I discreetly reminded her that we had her ID and credit card.
Ten minutes later, she returned with new makeup, clearly having been crying, and told me all about how poor the food was, how dreadful the drinks were, and so on, demanding that I at the very least cut the cost in half. She went on to say that the baby Karens would help, despite the fact that she had previously informed them that the night would be hers. Then, as if a light bulb went off in her head, she brought up her alleged relationship with the owner again, as if it would give me extra motivation.
I smiled as I told her, “No. Simply no. I can’t change the bill.”
She took out her phone and showed me a series of text messages from someone named after my restaurant, followed by the word “owner.” I instantly grasped what she had been doing in the bathroom: most likely changing one of the other Karen minions’ contact names and erasing prior texts to establish this new script. I reviewed the messages and clicked on the contact information before telling her, “That’s not the owner’s cell phone number.”
Her response was, “He has multiple phones for business. Of course, you do not know all of his numbers.”
I replied, “How about this? If we call him and he says it’s okay to take 50% off the bill, then I’ll do it.”
Her response was to begin ranting and screaming, which drew the attention of the few remaining patrons, and I knew it was time to finish this. I told her in a less conciliatory tone, “Cut the crap, little girl. You do not know the owner. You’ve never been here before, and if you continue ranting, I’ll call the cops.”
Her tone changed as she attempted to defend herself. My response to her lame retort was, “My grandfather established this restaurant. My family has been running this establishment for centuries. I’ve worked here for nearly my entire life. I am the sole owner of this restaurant, and I have never seen you, heard of you, or made any promises to a stranger I have never seen before tonight.”
The little Karens were frozen and had no idea how to react. Queen Bee was in tears.
I added, “Now, I provided you the table you wanted, one of these particularly reserved tables for high-end clientele, which I did not charge you for, as well as three rounds of free drinks. If you do not pay your account, I will call the cops and give them your identification.”
Karen signed the bill in tears, and the tiny Karens reached into their wallets to hand her whatever cash they had, which was probably a couple hundred, with the promise to repay her more.
The Father’s Visit
Two days later, an angry man arrived at my restaurant and requested to speak with me. I was in the back office working, so he had to wait for about a half hour. She was with him, too, but she kept her head down. I took them both to my office and showed him highlights from the security cameras, which had particularly high-quality audio because they were in the VIP area. I showed him the majority of it: their remarks, orders, everything.
When all was said and done, he rushed out with her, yelling at her the entire way. I have not seen or heard from any of them since, but the initial bill I gave them, which did not include the $120 oysters, is framed on my desk.
As a side note, I did not lose as much money on the table and three rounds of drinks as you might expect. The table was intended to be empty anyway, so I didn’t lose anything because I hadn’t expected to gain anything in the first place. The cost of the meal and other drinks more than compensated for the loss in the first three rounds.