He brought his new girl to my job to humiliate me, but he forgot who handles the food… 🍝💅 The Chef gave me the green light, so I served up some instant karma! Was I wrong for this? 👇

So, my boyfriend cheated… on our kitchen table and then kicked me out. The next day, he had the audacity to bring his new girl to my job. (I’m a waitress at a fairly nice bistro.)

I nearly dropped my tray when they walked in. He requested my section specifically, wearing that arrogant smirk I used to think was charming. They sat in booth 4, right in the center of the room.

For the next hour, they mocked me. He made a show of holding her hand and kissing her knuckles every time I approached the table. When I brought their appetizers, the girl “accidentally” knocked my hand, causing me to spill soup on me. It burned my arm, but they just gasped theatrically and complained about my clumsiness.

Then came the fork incident. He dropped his fork on the floor—deliberately throwing it, really—and made me pick it up while they laughed.

“Careful down there,” he sneered loud enough for other tables to hear. “You always were good at cleaning up my messes.”

I was humiliated. I ran to the back and was crying under the bar, trying to hide behind the beer kegs so the customers wouldn’t see me shaking. That’s when Chef Marco saw me.

Marco is a big, intimidating guy who rarely speaks, but he saw the soup stain on my uniform and the tears on my face. He looked out at booth 4, then back at me. His eyes went dark.

He leaned down and whispered, “I saw everything. You’re quitting today, right? Give them a main course they’ll never forget. I’ve got your back.”

So, I took their food and…

I didn’t walk; I marched. I carried the tray with their steaming hot specials—a heavy lasagna for him and a seafood pasta with extra red sauce for her. The entire restaurant seemed to fade into the background; all I saw were their smug faces.

I approached the table. They stopped laughing, expecting me to serve them like the obedient ex-girlfriend he thought I was.

“Here is your order,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

“Finally,” he scoffed. “Put it down and get us some more wine.”

“Actually,” I smiled, “I think you should have it to go.”

In one smooth motion, I flipped the tray.

The plates crashed down onto their laps. The red sauce exploded over his crisp white shirt and her designer dress. The lasagna slid explicitly down his chest. The sound of shattering ceramic silenced the entire restaurant.

They screamed, jumping up and flailing, covered in pasta and shock.

“You’re fired!” he screamed at me, wiping sauce from his face. “I’m telling your boss!”

Chef Marco walked out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, looking calm as ever.

“Actually,” Marco boomed, his voice filling the room. “She doesn’t work here anymore. And neither do you. Get out of my restaurant before I call the cops for harassment.”

I untied my apron, dropped it on the saucy mess on the floor, and walked out to a round of applause from Table 7. Best resignation ever.