It’s late at night. The Bistro’s closed. The busgirls are putting up the chairs. The kitchen crew’s mopping the floors. I’m in the back counting the evening’s take. There isn’t much to count. The few customers we had were frugal eaters and bad tippers. It was not a profitable night. Everyone’s anxious to go home.
The door chimes. I look up. A large disheveled looking man rushes inside the Bistro.
“Yo, I need help!” the man yells, looking wild eyed. “I need twenty dollars!”
WaiterRant explores an issue we’ve all encountered.