A rude woman walked into my restaurant and demanded I change my hairstyle and uniform because she didn’t want me “distracting” her fiancé. Little did she know, I owned the place. And little did I know, she was about to become family.
I own an upscale bistro in Portland—the kind of place with a two-week weekend waitlist, farm-to-table menus, and regulars who know me by name. I built it from the ground up, and I wear every hat here: host, manager, bartender, even server if we’re short-staffed.
So when my brother Mike called to say he was visiting with his new fiancée, I was thrilled. We’re close, and I couldn’t wait to meet the woman he planned to marry. I reserved our best table for them and cleared my schedule to spend the evening with them.
That Friday night, things got hectic. Our hostess called in sick, so I jumped in to help at the front. Mike texted he’d be late, but his fiancée would arrive on time.
Around 6:40 p.m., in walked a woman in a tight red dress and towering heels. She looked around with a critical eye and approached the host stand. I smiled and greeted her warmly.
“Reservation name?
She gave me a quick, dismissive once-over. “Wait… you work here? Not to be rude, but you’re kind of overdressed for staff. That outfit and hairstyle? It’s a bit much. My fiancé’s on his way, and I’d prefer someone else near our table. This is supposed to be my night.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Can someone else serve us? A manager, maybe? You’re just a bit… distracting.
I felt the heat rising but kept my cool. “Absolutely. Let me get the manager for you.”
I walked to the office, grabbed a business card, and returned.
“Hi again. Just checking in. Everything okay with your table?”
