It was supposed to be a regular Friday night shift at the restaurant, but it turned into a whirlwind I’ll never forget. The dining room was packed, and I was juggling three tables, trying to keep everyone happy. That’s when the Thompsons walked in, and everything spiraled from there.
Mr. Thompson led the way, a large, imposing man with an air of entitlement that filled the room before he even spoke. His wife followed in a floral dress that screamed luxury, and their two teenage kids trailed behind, glued to their phones. From the moment they stepped through the door, I knew they’d be trouble.
“We want the best table by the window,” Mr. Thompson barked. “And bring some extra cushions. My wife doesn’t need to be uncomfortable in these awful chairs.”
I glanced at the reservations list. The table he wanted had just been cleaned for another party, but there was no reasoning with him. “Of course,” I said with a forced smile, scrambling to make the arrangements.
