Welcome back to our slash malicious compliance.

Imagine a small customer screaming at you, calling you a nobody, and demanding the owner come out to fire you immediately.

He wanted to humiliate me in front of his big client to show off his power, but he made a critical mistake he would never forget.

Let's dive right into the video and the title story starts like this.

So my family owns an Italian restaurant.

I'm not talking about a chain of some modern fusion place with tiny portions.

This is an old school red sauce joint that has been in the same location for over forty years.

It's the kind of place with checker tablecloth, candles and giante bottles and pictures of celebrities from the nineteen eighties on the walls, but hopefully no ghastly pictures on the menu, otherwise Gordon Ramsey will be raging anyway.

It is loud, it smells like garlic and oregano, and on Saturday nights, it's absolute chaos and the best way possible.

My dad is the owner and the head chef.

He is the heart and soul of the place.

Picture the stereotypical Italian chef, short, stocky, dark hair, what's left of it, olive skin, and a voice that can cut through the noise of a crowded dining room.

He's intense, passionate and works harder than anyone I know.

Then there's me.

At the time of this story, I was twenty two and home from college for the summer.

I was picking up shifts as a hostess and occasional buzzer to make some extra cash.

Here is the critical detail that makes this whole story work.

I look absolutely nothing like my dad.

I took entirely after my mom's side of the family.

I'm tall, blonde, fair skinned, and frankly, I look more like I belong in a farm in Sweden than in a kitchen in Sicily.

Because of this genetic roll of the dice, nobody ever assumes that I'm related to the owner.

Customers just see a young blonde college girl working the front of the house.

To the regulars, I'm family too, random walkins, I'm just staff and to a certain type of entitled customer, steph apparently translates to punching bag.

It was a Saturday night in late July.

If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you know that Saturday nights in the summer are different kind of beast.

The heat from the kitchen radiates into the dining room, and the waiting area is packed shoulder to shoulder, and the noise level is deafening.

We were slammed.

Every table was full, the reservation list was backed up, and the kitchen was in the weeds.

I was manning the host stand, trying to manage the flow of hungry, impatient people, and that is when he walked in.

Let's call him mister big Shot.

He looked like he had just walked off a movie set for a film about Walt Street villains.

He was wearing a suit that probably caused more than my tuition, shiny shoes, and I watch the size of a hockey park.

He walked in with this air of superiority that instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Following him was another man, older, quieter, looking a bit uncomfortable.

Let's call him the client.

It was obvious that this was a business enough of some sort, and mister big shot here was trying to impress him.

Mister big Shot bypassed a line of people waiting and walked straight up to my podium.

He didn't say hello, oh.

He didn't smile.

He just checked his watch and looked at me with board disdain.

We needed table for two, something quite in the back corner, she stated, not asking, but commanding.

I put on my best customers of a smile, good evening.

Sir, Do you have a reservation with us tonight?

He scoffed.

I didn't think I would need one.

It's a local Italian place, not a Michelin star establishment.

Just get us a table first strike.

Inserting the restaurant is a great way to get on my bedside.

But I was a professional.

I looked at the book.

We were completely booked solid until at least nine thirty pm.

It was currently seven forty five pm.

I apologize, sir, but we are fully committed this evening.

The waytime for walkins is currently about forty five minutes to an hour.

He stared at me, like I just spoke in a foreign language or something.

Forty five minutes.

That's unacceptable.

We have business to discuss.

I see an empty booth right over there, He pointed to table ten and table tennis, our prime real estate.

It's a large, semi private booth in a corner.

I usually reserved for large families or VIP regulars.

It was empty because a party of six was due to arrive in five minutes.

I'm sorry, sir, but that table is reserved for a large party arriving shortly.

However, if you don't mind waiting at the bar, I can put your name down and grab you the first available two top.

Mister Bigshaw turned to the client and rolled his eyes.

Then he turned back to me, leaning over the podium, invading my personal space.

Look, sweetheart, he said, I don't think you understand who's standing in front of you.

This is a very important meeting.

I don't care about some family birthday party.

I want that booth now.

I took a deep breath and said, I understand, sir, but I cannot give you a reserve table.

If I give you that table, I have nowhere to put the family of six that book did three weeks ago.

I can ask you to the wait list.

What there's another restaurant down the street that might have some room.

He turned a shade of red that clashed with his expansive tie.

I'm not going down the street.

We are eating here, and we are sitting there.

At this point, I decided to compromise, just to avoid a scene.

In the lobby, I saw a two top table clearing up near the kitchen doors.

It was not the best seated, it was noisy and high traffic, but it was available.

Sir, I have a table opening up right now.

It's not the booth, but I can sit you immediately, so you don't have to wait, he huffed, adjusting his cufflinks.

Fine, but this service is already atrocious.

I grabbed two menus and led him to the table.

As we walked, he made a point of complaining about everything.

The music was too loud, it was too crowded, that the core was dated.

He sat down, barely acknowledging me as I placed the menus in front of them.

Get us a bottle of your most expensive carbonet, and bring some bread.

The fact that it wasn't on the table when we sat down as ridiculous.

I will send a server right over with the wine list and some bread, I said, politely, No, he snapped, you get it.

I don't want to wait for a server, sir.

I'm the hostess.

I have to get back to the front door, but your server is I don't care who you are, he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively.

Just do it.

I gritted my teeth when to the server station, grabbed a basket of bread and slammed it down on the table gently, mind you, but with intent.

I told the server for that section, a guy named Mike, who has been with us for ten years, the table four was gonna be a nightmare.

Mike just side and went to battle.

Over the next thirty minutes, mister Bigshot was a terror.

From my vantage point at the host stand, I watched him run Mike Raggitt.

He sent the wine bag because the cork smelled off.

It was fine.

He complained that the bread was not warm enough and demanded that the music be turned down, which we couldn't do because the volume knob is in the office and locked.

The client looked increasingly embarrassed.

He kept his head down, mumbling apologies to Mike, trying to focus on his documents, but mister Bigshot was more interested in performing his dominance than doing business.

The breaking point came when the appetizers arrived.

They had ordered the calamari, and Mike dropped it off and retreated to safety.

Two minutes later, I saw mister Bigshot stand up and aggressively wave his arm towards the front of the restaurant, snapping his fingers at me.

I ignored him for a moment, helping a nice elderly couple with their coats, but he kept snapping.

Finally, he stomped over to the host stand you, he barked, Is there a problem, sir?

The kalamari is rubber, it's inedible, and the Marinera sauce is cold.

I want this taken off the bill.

I want a fresh badge brought out immediately.

Now I know o kalamari my dad buy said fresh from the market every morning.

It's not fresh frozen out of a can like the crab that Gordon Ramsey's getting served on this DV show.

It's one of our best sellers.

And the sauce sits in a steam well, it's practically lava.

I'm sorry to hear that, sir, I said, calmly.

I can have the server check it for you.

But I don't want the server, he yelled, causing the lobby to go quiet.

I'm talking to you.

You're the one who set us at a terrible table near the kitchen.

This whole experience has been a disaster.

I want to speak to your manager.

The floor manager is handling a large party in the private room right now.

I said, this was true.

My uncle was managing the floor and was stuck in a toast with a wedding rehearsal dinner.

I can help you with whatever you need, he laughed, a cruel, mocking laugh.

You help me.

Look at you, You're just a pretty face they put at the front to lure people in.

Nobody.

You see people, and that's literally your only job.

You probably cannot even spell kalamari.

I don't need some teenage nobody telling me what is and it is not possible.

Get me someone who actually metters.

That was it?

Then nobody comment.

I felt that cold, calm clarity that comes right before he decided to ruin someone's day.

He wanted someone who met it.

He wanted to go over the nobody's head.

I understand, I said, my voice, dropping to a terrifyingly polite whisper.

You want to speak to the person in charge.

I want to speak to the owner, he demanded.

I want to tell him exactly how incompetent his staff is.

I want him to come out here, look me in the eye and fire you, because that is what you deserve.

You shouldn't be working in hospitality.

I looked at him, I looked at the kitchen doors, and I knew exactly where my dad was.

It was eight thirty pm on a Saturday.

He was on the saute station.

That's the hardest, hottest, and most stressful station in the kitchen.

He had six pens going at once, tickets streaming out of the machine like toilet paper, and sweat pouring down his face.

The rule now a restaurant is simple, unless the building is on fire, don't talk to dead when he's on saute during the rush.

However, this man wanted the owner.

He specifically requested the owner to fire me.

Sir, I said, feigning concern.

The owner is the headshef He's currently cooking dinner for the entire restaurant.

If I get him, he will have to stop cooking.

I don't care if he's cooking for the Pope.

Mister big shot sneered.

I'm a paying customer and I'm unsatisfied.

Go get him now.

Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to wait for the floor manager.

He should be free maybe ten or fifteen minutes.

No, I want the owner, and I'm not waiting, okay, I said, I will go get him, but please go back to your table.

I'll let him know that you're waiting to speak with him regarding my employment.

He smirked, thinking he had won.

Finally, go do your job.

He shouted back to his table, sat down and said something to the client, gesturing back at me.

I could see the client's sigh and check his watch.

Here is the malicious compliance.

He wanted the he refused the floor manager.

He refused my help.

He wanted the man making the food to stop making food, to come talk to him.

So I walked into the kitchen.

The heat hit me like a physical wall.

It was a war zone pants where flaring chefs were shouting behind and hot, and my dad was in the center of it all, conducting the orchestra.

He looked like he was about to have a stroke, which is his normal state during the rush.

I walked up to the pass dead.

He didn't look up.

Not now, I need to scallopini and a linguini climb on the fly.

Where's the runner dead?

I said again, there's a customer table for he's very angry.

My dad flipped a piece of veal.

Send Uncle Tony I tried.

He refused.

He said he demands to speak to the owner.

He says it's an emergency regarding staff behavior.

My dad threw a ladle into a pot of sauce.

I cannot leave the line.

We are twenty tickets deep.

Tell him he has to wait.

He said, he wants to see you right now to fire me.

My dad paused for half a second, glancing up at me.

He saw the look on my face.

He knows that it's the same look my mom gets when she's plotting something.

He wants to fire you.

Yep, caught me and nobody and said I'm incompetent.

My dad snorted, tell him I'll be there when I clear the board, not a second sooner, got it.

I walked back out to the dining room.

Mister Bigshot was watching the kitchen door like a hawk.

I walked over to his table.

Sir, I spoke to the owner, and is she coming?

He has been informed of your request.

However, as I mentioned, he's the head chef and is currently the middle of dinner rush, and he said he will be with you as soon as he clears the order board.

He asks that you wait.

Mister big Shot slammed his hand on the table.

This is ridiculous.

How long I shruggd.

It depends on how many orders come in.

He takes his cooking very seriously.

But since Sue insisted on the owner and refused anyone else, he's the only one who can help you.

Now, fine, he hissed, We will wait, but you can tell him I'm not paying for this meal.

And so the weight began.

Ten minutes past, their main courses arrived, delivered by Mike, who dropped the plates and then ran, and mister Bigshot picked at his foot, looking at the kitchen door every thirty seconds.

Twenty minutes past, the client was eating silently, looking increasingly miserable.

I could see him checking his phone.

I walked by to seat another table and heard him say, Jim, we really need to discuss the contract details.

My flight is in the morning.

Mister big Shot waved him off.

Not until I settled this.

It's the principle of the thing.

You cannot let these people walk all over you.

Thirty minutes and now mister Bigshot was sweating.

The restaurant was still loudstill busy.

He tried to flag me down again.

Will he he's still cooking sir, as you can see, I gestured to the full dining room.

It's a very busy night.

He cannot just walk away from the stove, so the food will burn.

This is holding up my business, he growled.

Well.

I offered to get the manager earlier, sir, but you were very specific.

You wanted the owner to fire me, and the owner is the only one who can do that, so you have to wait for him.

I had him trapped.

If he left now, he would look weak in front of the clients.

He had made such a big deal about his authority that he had to see it through.

But by staying, he was ruining his own meeting.

Forty five minutes, as the rush was finally stunning to die down, the ticket machine stopped screaming.

I saw the kitchen door swing open.

My dad stepped out.

He looked rough.

He was wearing his white chef's coat, but it was stained with tomato sauce oil and palsamic glays.

His apron was a mess too.

He was sweating profusely, his face was red from the heat, and he was holding a rag in one hand.

He looked like a prize fighter who had just gone twelve rounds.

He scanned the room.

I caught his eye and pointed to table number four.

Mister Bigshot saw him coming.

He sat up straight her buttoning his suit jacket, preparing to unleash his fury on this employee.

He clearly didn't realize this sweaty, disheveled man was the owner.

He probably thought it was the kitchen manager coming to apologize to him.

My dad walked up to the table.

He didn't smile, he just stood there, breathing heavy, wiping his hands on the rack.

I'm the owner, my dad said, his voice gruff.

I was told you needed to see me urgently.

Mister Bigshot looked him up and down with a sneer.

You're the owner.

You look like you just pig.

I've been cooking for three hundred people.

My dad said, what do you want?

Mister Bigshot stood up to try in assert dominance, but my dad is built like a fire hydrant, so it didn't really work.

Your sturf, mister Bigshot pointed a thing at me standing a few feet away.

Is incompetent, rude, and disrespectful.

That girl over there refused to see thus properly.

She has an attitude problem, and she made us wait nearly an hour for you.

She's nobody.

I want her fired immediately, or I will make sure everyone in the city knows how terrible this place is.

The client looked like he wanted to melt it to the floor.

He put his napkin down and started gathering his papers.

My dad looked at mister big shot.

Then he looked at me.

Then he looked back at mister big shot.

You want me to fire her, my dad asked, yeah, right now, geechaer a lessoner?

What respect?

My dad let out a short, sharp laugh.

He stepped closer to the table.

Let me tell you something, my dad said, his voice rising just enough so the nearby tables stopped eating to listen.

That girl has been working here since she was tall enough to hold a menu.

She knows.

It's more about this restaurant than you know about your own mom.

Mister big Shots buttered, excuse me, I'm a customer, and she, my dad continued, pointing a callous finger at me, is my daughter.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You could hear a fog drop across the room.

Mister big shot froze.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He looked at me, with my blonde hair, blue eyes, and then back at my dad with his dark complexion and Italian features.

That's impossible, he stammered.

She looks nothing like you.

Yeah, she got lucky, my dad said, dead pan, she looks like her mother.

But she is my daughter.

And you just kept me off my line for forty five minutes on a Saturday night to tell me to fire my own kid because you didn't get the table you wanted.

Mister big Shot turned the shade of purple.

I didn't even think was biologically possible.

He looked around and realized that half the restaurant was watching.

He had played the do you know who I am?

Cart and got trump by the do you know who she is?

Cart?

Well, mister Bigshot tried to pivot.

Nepotism.

That explains the terrible service.

You're running a yog of a business.

Here, get out, my dad said, simple and quiet, excuse me, get out of my restaurant.

The meal is on the house.

Take your friend and leave.

I don't want your money.

Mister Bigshot grabbed his jacket.

Fine, we were leaving anyway.

I wouldn't want to do business in a dump like this.

He turned to the client, Come on.

Let's go somewhere decent, but the client didn't even move.

The client looked at mister big Shot, then looked at my dad, then looked at me.

He stood up slowly.

You go ahead, Jim, the client said.

His voice was calm, but I see mister bigshot stopped.

What we have the contract to sign?

I'm not signing anything with you, the client said.

I've been watching how you treat people for the last two hours.

You treat the staff like dirt, and you treat the owner with disrespect.

If this is how you handle dinner service, I can only imagine how you handle a crisis in business.

I don't work with people like you.

Mister big Shot looked like he had been slept.

You cannot be serious over a waitress.

Goodbye, Jim, the client said, turning his back on him.

Mister big Shot stood there for a second, totally stripped of his power.

He looked at me one last time, and I gave him a little wave and a smile.

He stormed out of the restaurant, the heavy wooden door slamming behind him.

Client turned to my dad.

I apologized for his behavior.

It was disgraceful.

My dad waved his hand not your fault.

You're hungry.

You barely ate.

I am, actually, the client admitted.

But I don't want to cause any more trouble.

Nonsense, my dad said.

He turned to me.

Set him up at the bar, get him whatever he wants on the house.

No, I insist on paying.

The client said, fine, you pay for the wine, but I feed you, my dad negotiated.

He looked at me, you okay, I'm good, Dad, go clean up.

You smell like old garlic.

Respect your father.

He left, swatting at me with his rag before heading back into the kitchen.

I then walked the client to the bar.

He ended up staying for another hour, chatting with the bartender and eating a fresh plate of lasagna.

He was actually a really nice guy.

He left a hundred dollars tip for Mike, the server who had endured the torture earlier, and apologized to me again on his way out.

The best part, mister bigshot left his expensive umbrella at the table.

We kept it in the Loss and Found for six months, but he never came back to claim.

I guess he was too embarrassed to show his face again.

So though the man who called me and nobody and tried to get me fired.

Thanks for the entertainment, and thanks for showing your true colors to your investor, added, the client was not just a customer, he was a high profile angel investor.

Mister big Shot was pitching him a tech startup and was looking for Series A funding to get it off the ground.

While he was finishing his wine, the client dropped the bombshell that the deal mister Bigshot was trying to close was worth roughly three million dollars in initial capital.

He told my dad specifically, I look for characters in my business partners.

If a man cannot handle a forty five minute wait for a table without abusing a young woman or disrespecting the owner, he certainly cannot handle the pressure of running a multimillion dollar company.

So yeah, because Jim felt the need to prove he was somebody by belittling a so called nobody, he didn't just lose it dinner reservation, he torched his entire future.

My dad left so hard he comped the guy's dessert too.

Moral of the story be nice to the staff.

You never know exactly how much it will cost you.

And the next one is titled company says I tip too high when I travel, so now I intentionally order more expensive food so I can tip what I think is an appropriate amount.

When going over my expense report, my company saw I tipped twenty percent for lunch one afternoon.

Lunch was fifteen dollars, to tip was three dollars, and they told me that it is too much because I wouldn't do that with my money.

Heck, yeah, I do.

Anyway, I just took the better part of an hour of my service time.

The least I could do is leave three dollars is three dollars for crying out loud.

But rules are rules, right.

However, my company is fairly generous, allowing me seventy five dollars a day to spend on food, which I never do, and that's about to change.

For lunch today, instead of my usual salad or sandwich, I went for the lobster grilled cheese, and of course upgrade my regular fries to the duck fat fries and enjoy saving that five percent for the rest of my travel meal expenses.

Added for those saying tip out of my pocket, I was explicitly told to tip using the company's money and just counted towards my daily amount.

Added number two good grief people.

This is not stealing or destroying the company.

This money is already budgeted for when I travel, and this company is not going under because OPD sides to spend ten dollars more on food to leave a tip.

The companies just find this won't be a blip on their radar.

And the next one is another malicious compliance story, which is titled customized subway wants to speak to the manager.

So I worked at a subway that didn't have any authority slash managers, just a couple minimum wage based level workers.

I don't remember what this particular customer was mad about, but she was arguing with me and did not like the answer he gave her.

She asked to speak to the manager, and they're not being a manager.

I decided to promote myself on the spot and replied with manager speaking, how can I help you?

This did not make her very happy because she realized she was not going to get a different answer and asked for a phone number to call.

The owner has specifically told us never to give his cell number to customers, so I gave her the store number.

She gives me a crab eating grin thinking about how much trouble.

She's about to get me in when the phone behind me starts to ring.

I will never forget the face she gave me as I answer the phone, looker in the eyes and ask her how may I help you?

And yet, guys, thank you for watching.

Please don't forget to subscribe and I will see you again tomorrow