She Judged Me at the Door—Then Learned Who I Really Was
I own a bustling farm-to-table bistro in Portland—waitlists weeks long, local press buzz, the kind of place where Friday nights are standing room only. When staff is short, I still run the front myself. So when my brother Mike told me he was bringing his new fiancée in for dinner, I cleared my schedule. I wanted it to be special—family time mattered.
That Friday, our hostess called in sick, so I took over the host stand. At 6:40 p.m., a tall woman in a scarlet dress and towering heels stepped through the door. She surveyed the dining room with a critical eye. I smiled and greeted her warmly.
She looked me over and asked, “You work here?” Her eyes flicked to my uniform. “Honestly, your hair and outfit are kind of distracting. Could someone else seat us? This is supposed to be my night.”
I blinked. “Of course,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Let me grab the manager.” I handed her my card. “I’m also the owner.”
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