Serving tables, you brace for grumps, but this family was a storm. Friday night buzzed when the Thompsons marched in—Mr. Thompson, brash and booming, his wife dripping in floral chic, teens zoned into phones. “Window, cushions, now!” he ordered. I scrambled—reserved table be damned—smiled, and set them up, praying for peace. Fat chance. She sniffed at the lighting, wanting a flawless glass; he moaned about no bisque. “Try the chowder,” I urged, cool-headed. “Warm bread!” he barked.
Their snaps never stopped—more water, redo the steak, soup’s too salty. Dessert cleared, I prepped their $850 bill, but they’d ghosted, leaving a napkin: “Lousy service—waitress foots it.” Shock hit—$850 gone?—and I staggered to Mr. Caruso with the proof. “They split,” I mumbled. He grinned, “Perfect shot.”
“Shot?” I puzzled. “For glory,” he said, phoning the news. A diner, Nadine, waved—“I’ve got them on video,” she said, her blog cam nabbing their antics—snaps, shoves, all of it. “Use it,” she offered. Mr. Caruso, delighted, gifted her dessert.
On TV, nerves faded as I said, “It’s about decency.” The story, with her clip, exploded—support rolled in, tables filled. Then, the Thompsons burst back, ranting about lawsuits. Mr. Caruso shrugged, “Cops? You’d confess.” They caved, paid, tipped, and slunk out amid claps. That night, he called me in. “Assistant manager—raise, hours,” he beamed. “For real?” I gasped. “You shone,” he said. I mused, “Police first?” He laughed, “We turned a rip-off into a rush—your win.” Leaving, I felt it—a sour night flipped sweet, and I’d plated the comeback.
