Watching someone confuse their net worth with their human worth, one dinner service at a time.
The performance began before they even sat down. "We'll need a different table," announced the man in the expensive suit to no one in particular, gesturing vaguely at the perfectly fine four-top by the window. The hostess, maintaining her professional smile, began the delicate dance of accommodating someone who treats restaurants like personal living rooms where strangers happen to cook. We've all been there, watching this unfold while pretending to study our menus very intently.
There's a particular species of wealthy diner who uses restaurants as stages for displaying not their sophistication, but their stunning inability to navigate basic social contracts. They've confused purchasing power with personal importance, treating service staff like NPCs in their personal lifestyle game. The irony is almost charming: the more they try to demonstrate their elevation, the more they reveal they've missed some fundamental memo about how humans interact.
This isn't about all wealthy people—plenty of rich folks tip generously and treat servers like humans. Hell, some of the best customers are loaded. This is about that specific subset who somehow missed the tutorial on basic restaurant behavior, who think the ability to afford the tasting menu includes the right to treat the restaurant like conquered territory. We've all witnessed it, shifting uncomfortably in our seats, united in secondhand embarrassment.
1. They make reservations they have no intention of keeping
They book three restaurants for the same night, deciding at 7:45 PM which mood they're in. The cancelation call never comes. Tables sit empty on busy nights while walk-ins get turned away, but hey, at least someone kept their options open. They treat reservations like hedge fund positions—diversified bets where only one needs to pay off. It's almost impressive, this level of organizational sociopathy.
The entitlement isn't just in the no-show; it's in the genuinely puzzled reaction when restaurants start requiring credit cards for reservations. "Don't they know who I am?" Yes, actually. You're the reason everyone else now needs to put down a deposit for dinner like they're renting a U-Haul.
2. The sommelier becomes their personal entertainment
They demand the full wine performance—not because they care about tannins, but because they enjoy watching someone knowledgeable forced to pretend their obvious Google search pronunciation of "Châteauneuf-du-Pape" is impressive. They'll spend twenty minutes interrogating the sommelier about wines they've already decided not to order, treating expertise like a party trick they've paid admission to see. "Tell me about your Burgundies," they say, pronouncing it like it rhymes with "surgeries."
The power play is transparent: making someone with actual knowledge perform deference to someone with a Wine Spectator subscription and a need for validation. They're not selecting wine; they're directing dinner theater where they've cast themselves as the discerning lead.
3. They customize dishes until they're unrecognizable
"I'll have the sea bass, but with the sauce from the chicken, the sides from the vegetarian plate, and can you add truffle? But not too much. Actually, how much is too much? Can I see the truffle first?" They're not ordering; they're commissioning a piece of art, except the artist is a line cook trying to manage fifteen other orders.
This isn't about dietary restrictions or preferences—those are legitimate and restaurants gladly accommodate them. This is about people who treat menus like suggestion boxes, believing that paying premium prices means the kitchen becomes their personal meal laboratory. They want to feel like they've created something unique, when really they've just created chaos during a dinner rush.
4. They arrive whenever they feel like it
The reservation was for 7:00. They show up at 8:15, breezing past the anxious couple who've been waiting an hour for a table, offering no apology beyond a casual "traffic was murder" (narrator: they were at home, choosing between identical black outfits). They genuinely seem confused that the table isn't waiting for them like a loyal golden retriever.
The somewhat tragic part isn't the lateness—we've all been there—it's the genuine shock when they're told their table was given away after forty-five minutes. They invoke their status, their relationship with the owner, their importance to the restaurant's bottom line. The concept that time is a shared resource, that their lateness cascades through the entire evening's seatings, seems to exist in a blind spot the size of their Range Rover.
5. They treat the server like Siri with legs
"What's good here?" they ask, then stare at their phone while the server answers. They interrupt mid-description to take calls. They wave hands dismissively for more water while continuing their conversation, never making eye contact, as if the server is voice-activated rather than human.
The thing is, they're not monsters—they're just operating on a different frequency. They'll spend five minutes explaining their dinner companion's "revolutionary" idea to put AI in toothbrushes but somehow can't remember the name of the person who's been serving them for two hours. The server becomes furniture that moves, a biological convenience they acknowledge only when it fails to read their minds. It's fascinating, in the way watching someone try to push a door marked "pull" is fascinating.
6. The temperature is never right
Too cold. Now too hot. Can you turn down the music? Actually, turn it back up, but different music. The air conditioning is too strong. Why is there no air conditioning? They're not dining; they're conducting an environmental impact study where only their comfort matters.
Every restaurant moment becomes an opportunity to demonstrate that their personal comfort supersedes physics and the existence of other humans. They'll demand the thermostat be adjusted for their table specifically, seemingly unaware that temperature doesn't work that way. They're the climate change deniers of the dining room, believing the whole atmosphere should shift for their personal weather preferences.
7. They photograph everything, including staff without permission
The food photography is one thing—we all do it. But they direct servers to hold plates for better lighting, make the chef come out for a staged "candid," and photograph other diners' meals because "that looks amazing." Their Instagram story becomes a non-consensual documentary where everyone's a supporting character in their lifestyle brand.
They treat the restaurant like a content studio they've rented, genuinely surprised when staff seem uncomfortable being filmed. Privacy, like seasoning, is apparently something only they get to control. The other diners become unwitting extras in their social media production, because consent is for people who can't afford bottle service.
8. They name-drop their way to imaginary perks
"I know the owner" becomes their opening gambit, even when they absolutely don't. They'll reference a casual meeting three years ago at someone else's wedding like it's a blood pact. "Just tell him Richard is here," they say, as if Richard is the restaurant's bat signal rather than someone the owner once stood behind at a Starbucks.
The tragic part is how often it works—not because of their actual connections, but because it's easier to accommodate them than deal with the tantrum that follows rejection. They've learned that implied importance often functions as actual importance if you're shameless enough about wielding it.
9. The bill becomes a power performance
They make a show of paying—not generous tipping, but the theatrical production of payment. They'll loudly debate wine prices they can obviously afford, question charges for things they definitely ordered ("did we really have two sides of truffle fries?"), and calculate tips with the ostentation of someone performing advanced calculus at a TED talk. The credit card gets produced like Excalibur from its stone.
Or worse, they do the fake reach for the check they have no intention of paying, the elaborate dance of "no, no, I insist" when everyone knows they'll let themselves be convinced. They've turned settling a bill into dinner theater where they're both director and star.
10. They leave reviews like performance evaluations
The three-star Yelp review reads like a quarterly earnings report written by someone who just discovered adjectives. "Service was adequate but not exceptional. Cassandra failed to anticipate our water needs. Food arrived at acceptable temperature. Ambiance was undermined by excessive laughter from adjacent table (people enjoying themselves, apparently)." They've confused dining with quality control inspection, themselves with mystery shoppers whose opinion carries corporate weight.
They threaten reviews like weapons, mentioning their "influence" and follower count (usually 847, including their mom). The review becomes not feedback but retroactive extortion—give me what I want or I'll damage your business. They've discovered that in the attention economy, the ability to complain publicly is its own form of currency, even if that currency is worth about three cents.
Final thoughts
Here's the thing: watching wealthy people navigate restaurants badly isn't really about wealth at all. It's about a fundamental misunderstanding of what restaurants are. They think they're purchasing servitude when they're actually purchasing service. They believe money elevates them above social contracts when really it just allows them to participate more comfortably in them.
The genuinely wealthy people—old money, new money, crypto money, whatever—are often the best customers. They're polite, they tip well, they treat staff like professionals. It's the anxiously rich, the ones using restaurants to perform their status, who confuse their bank balance with their human value. They're not bad people; they're just people who've forgotten that money can buy you a seat at any table, but grace is BYOB.
We all have our restaurant sins. Maybe we've sent back a dish that was fine, just not what we imagined. Maybe we've lingered too long when others were waiting. The difference is most of us feel that little pang of guilt afterward. These folks? They're writing Yelp reviews about it, genuinely believing they're performing a public service. And honestly? There's something almost endearing about that level of obliviousness. Almost.
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