A rude woman walked into my restaurant and demanded I change my hairstyle and uniform because she didn’t want me “distracting” her fiancé. She had no idea I owned the place. And I had no idea she was about to become family.
I own an upscale bistro in Portland and work every role—from greeting guests to running food. I love it, and I’m proud of building it from nothing.
A few months ago, my brother Mike told me he got engaged. He never shared much about his fiancée, but he wanted me to meet her over dinner at my restaurant. I reserved the best table and planned a perfect evening.
Of course, the restaurant got slammed that night—our hostess called out sick—so I jumped in to help. Mike texted that he’d be running late, but his fiancée would arrive on time.
At 6:40 p.m., she walked in: tall, blonde, designer dress, heels clicking on hardwood. She scanned the room like she was judging its worth. And I was about to find out she was the woman who thought she could tell me how to look in my own restaurant.
