Then fifteen.

On the security monitor, I watched their mood shift. Phones checked. Arms crossed. Service button pressed repeatedly.

Eventually, Meghan stormed out.

“This is unacceptable,” she snapped at the host. “Didn’t you hear me? I know the owner.”

“He’s very particular,” the host replied calmly.

That was my cue.

I stepped back onto the floor. “Still waiting?”

“Oh, finally,” Meghan said. “Go get him.”

“I already did,” I replied.

Her brow furrowed. “And?”

“He asked me to handle it personally.”

Relief spread across her face. “Perfect. Then let’s stop wasting time.”

I led them back—this time into the center of the main dining room.

I stopped.

Turned.

And spoke clearly.

“My name is Daniel Alvarez. My grandparents founded this restaurant. My parents built it. And for the last seven years—I’ve owned it.”

The silence was instant.

Meghan’s face drained of color.

“That’s not funny,” she said weakly.

“I’m not joking,” I replied. “And I don’t tolerate threats, disrespect, or intimidation toward my staff.”

People were openly watching now.

“So what?” she snapped. “You’re humiliating us?”

“No,” I said. “I’m protecting my people.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you kicking us out?”

I shook my head. “I’m offering you a table. Tomorrow night. At closing. Outside. After you apologize—sincerely—to my host.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

One friend whispered, “Let’s go.”

Meghan swallowed hard. “We’re leaving.”

They hurried out.

The room didn’t applaud—but it smiled.

Later, as we cleaned up, the host approached me.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For standing up for us.”

I smiled. “That’s the job.”

The next night, an online reservation appeared.

Party of six. Name: Meghan.
Note: We’d like to apologize.

I closed the app and locked the door.

Some lessons don’t need a table.