Well, this woman is really a piece of work. But you know what? I can handle this. I'm a professional.
Before I walk away with their plates, I decide to make absolutely, perfectly, crystal clear that we're all on the same page.
"Just to make sure I have it right this time," I say, keeping my voice pleasant and professional, "two club sandwiches, hold the tomatoes. Is that right?"
The woman lets out this long, suffering sigh, like I've personally ruined her entire evening. She speaks like she's addressing a particularly slow toddler, over-enunciating every syllable.
"Yes. That'll be all. Two club sandwiches with no to-ma-toes." She picks up a slice of tomato from her plate, dangling it in front of my face like she's presenting evidence in a murder trial. "You know, these?" She says, before flinging it back onto the plate with contempt.
Oh, I know what tomatoes are, lady. But uh, thanks for the visual aid. Really helpful.
"Of course, ma'am. I apologize for the confusion." I pick up both plates, giving them my best professional smile. "I'll have fresh sandwiches out for you right away."
I give a slight bow before I turn to leave. And from behind me, I hear the man's voice, not even trying to be quiet. "Unbelievable. Kids these days can't even take a simple order."
And there it is. The cherry on top of this delightful interaction.
His wife, or girlfriend, or whoever, murmurs something back that I can't quite make out, but based on her tone, she's not defending my honor.
Yikes. I guess they really are a match made in heaven. Or hell. Probably hell.
I keep walking, maintaining my professional composure like the customer service champion I am.
And I'm definitely not gritting my teeth.
I push through the kitchen doors, and the familiar warmth of the cooking area washes over me. The sounds of sizzling food and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables are incredibly comforting after that interaction.
"Hey guys," I announce, setting the plates down near the prep station. "Got a couple sandwiches coming back."
Karen, the middle-aged woman who works the prep station and who I'm pretty sure is made of pure kindness, looks up from the vegetables she's chopping. She's got flour dusted on her apron like always, and her warm eyes crinkle with concern as she wipes her hands on a towel. "Oh dear. What happened?"
"They say they ordered no tomatoes." I shrug. "I'm pretty sure they didn't mention it, but..."
Karen picks up the plates, examining them thoughtfully. "Huh. That's funny. You haven't gotten an order wrong yet. Not once since you started."
"Well, there's a first time for everything, I guess."
"Customer's always right," Chris says from the grill without turning around. His voice is completely flat. "Even when they're wrong. This is exactly why I stay back here. Couldn't pay me enough to deal with that shit."
I laugh at that. "Hey, honestly? Most people are pretty nice. It's not nearly as bad as I thought it'd be." I pause, grinning. "You might even enjoy it if you gave it a shot."
Chris finally turns around, and the look he gives me is withering. Like I've personally offended him and his entire lineage.
"Yeah, that's gonna be a hard pass from me, chief." His voice is completely deadpan. "I'm perfectly happy right where I am. Away from people."
Karen and I both crack up at his expression. He looks like I just suggested he set himself on fire for fun.
"You really have come such a long way, Adam," Karen says warmly, already pulling out fresh ingredients for new sandwiches. "When you first started, you were so nervous. But now look at you, handling difficult customers with grace."
My chest warms. It's nice to be appreciated.
"Thanks, Karen. That really means a lot." I smile at her, then glance at the clock. "Alright, I should get back out there. Can't have the other tables thinking I abandoned them."
"We'll have these ready in just a few minutes," Karen assures me.
"Later, man," Chris adds, returning his focus to his grill.
I head back out to the dining area, falling into the rhythm of my job. Refilling water glasses, checking on tables, delivering food, clearing plates. There's something almost meditative about work when I'm not dealing with tomato-hating customers.
A few minutes later, I return to the kitchen to grab the newly prepared sandwiches. They look perfect, pristine, beautiful, and most importantly, completely tomato-free. I carry them back to the table of doom.
"Here we are," I say professionally, setting the plates down with care. "Two club sandwiches, no tomatoes."
The man doesn't even thank me. He just looks up with this smug expression, like he's already planning his next complaint. "Well, let's hope you got it right this time, kid."
Uh. Okay? I hope so too, I guess?
Still, ever the professional, I manage a polite laugh. "I'm confident everything is exactly as you ordered." I give a slight bow. "But if there's anything else you need, please let me know."
I take a step back, giving them space. "Now, I won't interrupt you two any longer. Please enjoy your meal."
I make myself scarce, moving to other tables, helping other customers. Normal customers. Nice customers.
Time passes. And things return to normal. I'm starting to relax, letting my guard down. Maybe it really was just a miscommunication. Maybe they're satisfied now that they have their tomato-free sandwiches.
Then I glance back at the problem table and notice something weird.
The woman is looking around, her movements careful and deliberate, like she's checking to see if anyone's watching.
I'm standing in a relatively discrete location, partially hidden behind a pillar and a decorative plant. She definitely doesn't notice me looking.
But I can see her perfectly.
I watch as she reaches down to her lap, to her napkin, and pulls out, I shit you not, a tomato slice. Presumably from the original sandwiches we brought them.
She places it carefully, deliberately, right in the middle of her new sandwich.
Seriously? What the hell is this?
This is premeditated tomato fraud! She's trying to... well I don't even know what she's trying to do, but this is definitely some kind of scam.
Well, jokes on her, because I saw the whole thing.
I approach the table before she can execute whatever her grand plan is, putting on my friendliest server smile.
"How's everything tasting?"
She nearly jumps out of her seat. For a split second, her composure breaks and I see genuine surprise flash across her face. But she recovers quickly, her expression morphing into righteous indignation.
She lifts the top of her sandwich and pulls out the tomato slice, the one she just planted, holding it up between two fingers like it's contaminated.
"I don't believe this." Her voice is loud, getting louder. "There's another tomato in my sandwich. Another one! We told you twice! Twice! No tomatoes!"
She's practically vibrating with manufactured outrage now, her voice rising to make sure nearby tables can hear. "This is completely unacceptable! We are not paying for this meal!"
She punctuates this by crossing her arms and sitting back with a "humph," like she's just delivered a devastating courtroom closing argument.
I look at her. Then at the tomato slice. Then back at her.
"Ma'am, I apologize, but I saw you take that tomato slice from your napkin and place it in your sandwich just now." I keep my voice level, professional, matter-of-fact. "I'm going to have to ask you to pay for your meal. Which, I should mention, you've nearly finished."
I gesture at their plates, which are, in fact, almost empty. They've eaten like 90% of their food.
The man's face goes from confused to furious in about half a second. "What the hell did you just say?" He shoots up from his seat, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Are you seriously accusing her of lying? You trying to call my girlfriend a liar?"
His voice is loud enough that every conversation in the café has stopped. Everyone's staring now. This has officially turned into a show. Someone should sell tickets and popcorn.
The woman's face has gone completely red, whether from anger or embarrassment, I'm not sure. She stands up too, and for a second I genuinely think she might take a swing at me.
"How dare you!" she shrieks. "I have never been so insulted in my life!"
Then she grabs her water glass.
Oh hell.
She swings her arm toward me, water sloshing—.
I close my eyes instinctively, bracing myself to get wet.
Splash.
...Huh.
I'm dry.
I cautiously open my eyes.
Mr. Vale is standing directly in front of me. Holding one of his serving trays at a perfect 45-degree angle, tilted downward, facing the woman.
The physics of what just happened are beautiful. The water hit the tray and splashed directly back at its source. The woman is absolutely drenched, water dripping from her hair, her face, her expensive-looking blouse. She's standing there with an empty glass in her hand, staring down at herself in complete shock.
Well, well, well. If it isn't the consequences of her own actions.
There's a beat of absolute silence. The woman's mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish, her carefully applied makeup starting to run. Her brain is clearly trying to reboot.
Then she lets out an ear-piercing shriek.
Mr. Vale lowers the tray slowly. He doesn't look angry, just disappointed. He shakes his head with this deep sadness, like he's witnessing the decay of civilization itself.
"Two grown adults," he says, his elegant voice carrying clearly through the now-silent café, "conducting themselves with less dignity than the children I see in here every day. How profoundly sad."
Damn. That's cold. Polite, eloquent, and absolutely devastating. I love it.
I notice that Chris and Karen have both emerged from the kitchen, standing in the doorway. Several other customers have stopped eating entirely. Everyone's watching us.
"You—you—" The man is walking toward Mr. Vale now, his whole body radiating aggression, his face red with fury. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
He's trying to use his height and bulk to intimidate, looming over Mr. Vale.
It's not working. At all.
Mr. Vale doesn't even blink. His posture remains perfect, his hands folded calmly in front of him. When he speaks, his voice is measured and controlled, but there's steel underneath it.
"I am the proprietor of this establishment. And you two are no longer welcome here." He pauses. "The authorities have been contacted. I suggest you settle your bill and depart before they arrive."
The man looks like he's about to throw a punch. His fists are clenched, his muscles taut, his breathing heavy. But then the woman, soaking wet and apparently having found some survival instinct, grabs his arm hard.
"Let's just go," she hisses. "This shithole isn't worth it."
The man's jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grinding. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out two twenty-dollar bills, and throws them on the floor.
"Keep the fucking change," he snarls.
They both storm toward the exit, the woman's wet shoes squeaking against our polished floors. The man shoulder-checks a chair on the way out, nearly knocking it over, and then they're gone. The door slams behind them with enough force to make the bell above it ring frantically.
The café remains frozen for another beat. Then, like someone hit play on a remote control, conversation gradually resumes.
Mr. Vale turns to me, and his expression transforms immediately, softening into the warm, grandfatherly figure I've come to know.
"Adam. Are you alright?"
"Me? Yeah, I'm totally fine." I blink, still processing everything that just happened. "Thanks for the save, Mr. Vale. Really wasn't looking forward to being soaking wet for the rest of my shift."
I give him a genuine smile. That was kind of awesome. Mr. Vale is officially the coolest old person I know.
"I'm glad to hear it." He places a hand on my shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. His eyes study my face for a moment, like he's making absolutely sure I'm okay. "You handled that situation remarkably."
Then he starts to bend down, reaching for the crumpled bills on the floor.
"Oh—please, let me get that, Mr. Vale," I say quickly, gently touching his arm to stop him.
There's no way I'm letting this distinguished gentleman pick money up off the floor.
I quickly crouch down and grab both twenties, straightening up and handing them to Mr. Vale.
"Thank you, Adam." He says with pride.