That Time I Demanded a Refund for Finishing My Meal

So I’m at this upscale steakhouse, right? I ordered the filet with garlic butter—medium rare, obviously—and a glass of cabernet because I’m classy.

Everything arrives. It looks amazing. I clean my plate. Not a speck left. The wine? Gone. The butter? Basically a memory.

Then I ask the waiter to come over, fold my arms, and say, “I’m going to need a refund.”

He looks confused, as if this is somehow my fault.

“But… you ate all of it?”

“Correct,” I reply. “And while the taste was technically fine, I didn’t feel seen as a customer. The lighting was harsh, the music wasn’t curated to my inner journey, and the server never once told me I looked stunning. So yes, I ate the meal. But I did not enjoy it on a soul level.”

He offers me a free dessert.

I scoff. “I’m not here for sugar. I’m here for justice.”

Manager comes. I repeat my concerns—this time louder so nearby tables understand the bravery unfolding before them. He won’t comp the meal, so I leave a one-star review about the “emotional neglect baked into their business model” and vow never to return.

I actually went back three days later. But I wore sunglasses so they wouldn’t recognize me.