I used to manage a catering company while my boss was undergoing chemotherapy. It was a lot of pressure, but I was proud to keep things running. One weekend, I was in charge of a massive wedding — 150 guests, fancy venue, steak plates at \$50 a pop. Everything was lined up perfectly.
Then came The Call.
At 1 p.m. the day before the wedding, the bride rang me in a full-blown meltdown.
“I hate the menu now. We want to change everything. All of it. No steak. Do something more elevated. Like… scallops. Or sushi.”
I blinked at the phone.
“Ma’am,” I said gently, “you finalized the menu and paid for it weeks ago. The contract clearly states no changes within 30 days. All your steaks are already prepped and marinating. We’re less than 24 hours out.”
Her response?
“You illiterate idiot! You think you can tell me what I can’t do on my own wedding day?!”
Then she handed the phone to her fiancé — “Blake” — the groom and, apparently, a lawyer.
“This is my wedding, and I get what I want,” he barked. “You’re fired. And we’re not paying for a cent. You’ll be hearing from my office.”
Click.
Just like that, they canceled.
I reminded them via email of the 90% cancellation fee clause. I got a response back that simply said:
“You’re a scam artist. Good luck surviving in this business.”
But my gut told me something: they weren’t thinking this through. You don’t fire your caterer the day before unless you have someone else lined up… and I had a feeling they didn’t.
So I finished prepping the food anyway.
Just in case.
I didn’t call them. Didn’t follow up. I just waited.
7 a.m. — Wedding Day.
Phone rings.
It’s Blake.
I answered cheerfully. “Hi, Blake! Congratulations! What can I do for you?”
There was a pause. Then, sheepishly:
“Look… there’s been a misunderstanding. We may have overreacted. Is there any way you can still deliver the food today?”
I let the silence hang for a moment, then said:
“Well, I did already prep everything. But per the contract, you’ll need to pay the cancellation fee and the full cost up front — in cash or verified transfer — by 9 a.m., or no delivery.”
He tried to haggle.
I didn’t budge.
At 8:45 a.m., someone showed up at our office, red in the face, sweating in a tux — it was Blake himself, holding an envelope stuffed with cash.
They paid every dime. And they got their steak.
Later that evening, I heard from the DJ (a friend of mine working the event): Apparently, the bride threw a tantrum when the centerpieces weren’t exactly like the Pinterest photo she had printed out, and the best man made an off-color joke during the toast that made the bride’s mom cry.
But the food? People loved it. Even Blake gave me a stiff nod when I came to collect the empty trays.
As for me? I didn’t say a word.
I just smiled, handed him the receipt…
…and left them to chew on their “perfect” day — seasoned generously with humble pie.
