Entitled Woman Called Me, a 72-Year-Old Waitress, ‘Rude’ and Walked Out on a $112 Bill – I Showed Her She Picked the Wrong
I’m Esther. I’m 72 years old, and I’ve been waitressing at the same little diner in small-town Texas for more than twenty years. Most folks are kind. Some are rushed. A few are cranky before they’ve had their coffee. But nearly everyone treats me with basic decency.
Last Friday, one woman decided she didn’t have to.
I’ve still got the hustle of a teenager when I’m on the floor. I’m not the fastest anymore, but I don’t forget orders, I don’t spill drinks, and I treat every customer like they’re sitting at my own kitchen table. That’s how I was raised. That’s how I’ve always done the job.
I never planned on staying at this diner so long. I took the job after my husband, Joe, passed away, just to get myself out of the house. I thought a few months would do it. Maybe a year. But the place got into my bones. The routine. The regulars. The feeling of being needed.
It’s also where I met Joe. He came in one rainy afternoon in 1981, soaked to the skin, and asked if we had coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I told him we had coffee strong enough to raise them. He laughed so hard he came back the next day. And the next. Six months later, we were married.
So when Joe passed, this place became my anchor. Sometimes I swear I still feel him sitting at table seven, watching me work, smiling like he always did.
Last Friday was a busy lunch rush. Every booth was full. The kitchen was slammed. I was moving steady, tray in hand, when a young woman walked in already filming herself on her phone like the rest of us were background scenery.
She sat in my section.
I brought her water and smiled. “Welcome, ma’am. What can I get you today?”
She didn’t look at me. Just kept talking into her phone. “Hey everyone, it’s Sabrina. I’m at this cute little vintage diner. We’ll see about the service.”
She finally glanced up. “Chicken Caesar salad. No croutons. Extra dressing. And make sure the chicken is warm but not hot. I don’t want to burn my mouth on camera.”
I wrote it down. “Anything to drink besides water?”
“Iced tea. But only if it’s sweet. If it’s fake sugar, I don’t want it.”
“We make it fresh,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
She was already back to her phone.
When I brought the tea, she took one sip and made a face for her audience. “Y’all, this tea is lukewarm. Like, did they even try?”
It wasn’t. I’d just poured it. But I smiled anyway. “Would you like a fresh glass?”
“Yes. And tell them to actually put ice in it this time.”
There had been ice.
When I brought her food, she was livestreaming again. “Okay, let’s see if this is worth the wait.” She poked at the salad. “This chicken looks dry. Where’s my extra dressing?”
“It’s on the side, ma’am.”
She stared at the cup like it personally offended her. “This is extra?”
“Would you like more?”
“Obviously.”
For half an hour, she picked at her food and complained to her phone. The lettuce was wilted. It wasn’t. The chicken was dry. It wasn’t. She ate most of it anyway.
When I brought the check, she twisted her mouth. “One hundred and twelve dollars? For this?”
