I cover the phone receiver with my palm. “Chad. What the—So sorry. Can you hold another moment?” I say into the phone. “You’re done what?” I hiss at him.

He slaps his Sox cap onto his head. “Here. I’m done here.” He rips open the front door, letting in the smell of cold and rain.

The customer on the other end of the line has hit a rhythm that seems like she did not, in fact, hold for another moment. “I don’t see the problem,” she says. “Give the table away,” the woman says.

As if I would be having this conversation with her if there were anyone I could give the table away to. The door slams shut behind my sous-chef, and the few people who are currently in the dining room stare. Which I’m sure was his intention.

I am putty, slowly pulled apart by a line cook and absentee reservations.

“We have a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy that I reminded you of on our confirmation call,” I say, my Customer Service Voice cracking under the strain of wanting to run after Chad. I sound like the Stevia version of myself, artificially sweet—and not as good as the real thing, if I do say so myself. “If you can’t keep your reservation we’ll have to charge you the twenty-five-dollar cancellation fee.”

As if twenty-five dollars will cover the hundreds this table was probably going to spend.

The tabletop set for ten guests sits pride of place at the front of the room. Framed by the floor to ceiling window, the empty table is reflected back at me, so really it looks like twenty empty place settings. The visual equivalent of poking a finger in an open wound.

“Listen.” The woman who was supposed to be here with her nine friends forty-five minutes ago drops her oops I forgot act. “We’re not showing up. And your cancellation policy is nice and all but you never asked for my credit card and I’m not giving it to you so no, you can’t charge me for the table anyway. But if you keep harassing me...”

I left her one message asking where she was.

“... I might be forced to leave a less than stellar review.”

The worst thing restaurant owners ever did was decide that the customer is always right. Customers can be right. Sometimes. So can a broken clock twice a day. Doesn’t mean I’m going to give it free food. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to let myself and my business, that I’ve spent years preparing for and countless hours building, be bullied by a no-show.

“You know what?” I turn toward the wall, hunch over the phone to spare Maggie this “do as I say, not as I do” behavior. “Leave your bad review,” I hiss. “I don’t give a shit. We don’t need your business.”

A damned lie.

She laughs like a person who wears coats made out of puppies. “Are you sure about that?” The line goes dead.