I own a thriving bistro in Portland. It’s my pride—farm-to-table dishes, a two-week waitlist, and regulars who know me by name. I’m hands-on: hosting, cooking, even waiting tables when needed. I built this place from scratch.
One Friday, my brother Mike—who lives out of state—was bringing his fiancée to town. He’d proposed recently, and I was excited to meet her. I reserved our best table and planned to take the night off to celebrate with them.
But restaurants are unpredictable. Our hostess called in sick, so I stepped in. Mike texted saying he’d be late, but his fiancée would arrive on time.
At 6:40 p.m., a tall blonde woman walked in wearing a red designer dress and stilettos. She scanned the room like royalty. I greeted her warmly, assuming she was a guest.
She barely looked at me. Instead, she wrinkled her nose at my outfit—black slacks, blouse, and my usual high bun. Then she said something that made my jaw tighten.
“You should change your hairstyle. And maybe the uniform. It’s distracting. My fiancé wouldn’t appreciate it.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
She repeated herself, adding that someone “less put-together” should serve her table. I was stunned—but kept my composure. I told her I’d pass her feedback to the owner.
She smirked and walked off.
Ten minutes later, Mike arrived, beaming. “Penelope, meet my fiancée, Vanessa.”
I nearly dropped the wine bottle.
Vanessa’s face turned pale. She realized I was the owner—and Mike’s sister.
I smiled politely and led them to their table. I didn’t confront her. I didn’t need to. The truth had already landed.
Later, Mike asked if everything was okay. I simply said, “She made quite the first impression.”
