Years ago, I worked at one of those “Italian” chain restaurants, the kind with endless breadsticks and even more endless customer stories. One night, I had a four-top: mom, dad, two kids. The mom and kids were lovely, polite, easygoing. The dad, though—he was a walking sitcom. He ordered the portobello ravioli, which is clearly described on the menu as mushroom-stuffed. When it arrived, he sent it back, claiming, “I thought portobello was a type of cheese.” I blinked. Okay, sure. I took it back without a fuss, even though the menu couldn’t have been clearer.
He then ordered the seafood Alfredo. It came out hot and creamy, with shrimp nestled right on top—just like the description said. He sent that back too. “I didn’t know there’d be shrimp in it,” he said, as if seafood Alfredo was some kind of mystery dish. My manager stepped in and told him he could order one more entrée, but it wouldn’t be comped whether he liked it or not. The man paused, thought deeply, and then—God help me—ordered the portobello ravioli again. I stared at him, unsure if this was a prank or a dare.
I double-checked. I looked at his wife, who gave me a look that said, “Please don’t ask—I’m barely holding on.” I gently reminded him, “Just to be clear, portobello is a mushroom. You sent this back earlier because you thought it was cheese.” He nodded confidently. “Yeah, I’m sure this time.” I repeated myself, slowly, like I was reading a warning label. He waved me off. I put in the order, already bracing for what I knew was coming.
Sure enough, the dish arrived, and he stared at it like it had betrayed him. “I thought portobello was a kind of cheese!” he said again, louder this time, like volume would change the facts. I reminded him—again—that I had told him it was mushroom ravioli. Twice. He tried to argue that I hadn’t. That’s when his wife and kids snapped. They all started talking over each other, saying he never listens, that I absolutely told him, and that he was embarrassing them.
I stood there, stunned, as his own family did the work for me. The wife looked like she was ready to leave him at the table. The kids were mortified. I didn’t have to say a word. I just stood there with the plate in my hand, watching the unraveling of a man who couldn’t admit he was wrong about mushrooms. Eventually, he muttered something and pushed the plate away. I took it back, grateful that the table had turned on him before I had to.
Thirteen years from now, I’ll still remember that night. Not because of the food, but because of the moment a family collectively decided they’d had enough of dad’s nonsense. I’ve served hundreds of meals, but few customers have ever been so confidently wrong—twice. And fewer still had their entire family call them out in unison. It was a masterclass in karma, served hot, with mushrooms.
