The day before the wedding, the bride demanded a last-minute menu change. When told it was too late, she exploded — then her lawyer fiancé fired the caterer on the spot. But they had no idea who they were messing with… and karma was already being plated.
I used to manage a catering company for my boss, Tom, while he was going through chemotherapy.
This was my first big event running solo, and I was determined not to let him—or the business—down.
The deal was simple: 150 steak plates at $50 each. Signed, sealed, and scheduled.
I’d handled the meetings, the tasting, the paperwork—everything.
Tom trusted me to keep things afloat while he fought for his life.
Then, at 1 p.m. the day before the wedding, trouble called. Literally.
“Camille” flashed across my screen, and I had that sinking feeling—the one every service worker knows too well. I hit “record,” as per company protocol.
“Hi, Camille,” I greeted cheerfully. “How can I help you today?”
“Listen, we need to change the menu.” Her tone was already sharp.
“Blake and I decided we want seafood instead of steak. Maybe salmon. Or sea bass. Something elegant.”
I froze, staring at six staff members busily trimming steaks.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said gently. “We’re already deep into prep, and your contract prohibits changes within thirty days.”
“It’s my wedding!” she screeched. “We’re paying you almost $8,000!”
“I understand completely,” I replied evenly, “but the contract—”
“Are you illiterate?” she snapped. “I said change the menu!”
Before I could respond, a man’s voice thundered through the phone.
“This is Blake. Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Sarah, the catering manager,” I said. “I was just explaining—”
“Listen carefully,” he interrupted. “We want seafood. I don’t care about your little contract.”
“Sir,” I began, “we’ve already purchased everything for the steak menu—”
“Then unprepare it!” he barked. “You’re fired!”
There was a collective silence in the kitchen. Even the sauce simmering on the stove seemed to pause.
I exhaled slowly. “Sir, per clause 9, cancellations within 24 hours incur a 90% fee—”
“Good luck enforcing that!” he spat. “We’ll have someone else do the job and send you the bill.”
My team stared at me, waiting. “Do we… stop prepping?” Miguel, my head cook, asked hesitantly.
I looked around the kitchen—the steaks, the sides, the sauces—and trusted my gut.
“No,” I said firmly. “We finish. Exactly as planned.”
They exchanged uncertain glances but followed orders. We prepped until midnight. I barely slept.
Then, at 7 a.m., my phone rang. Blake.
“You better be at the venue with the food,” he barked, panic leaking into his voice, “or we’ll sue you for breach of contract.”
I sat up, smiling. There it is.
“Sir,” I said sweetly, “you fired us yesterday. If you want catering today, that’s a new contract at our same-day emergency rate—three times the original. Payment upfront. Menu based on available inventory. Steak only.”
Silence. Then: “That’s extortion!”
“No, sir. That’s business.”
After a long pause, he caved. “Fine. Steak. But it better be perfect.”
“It always is,” I said. “Have the check ready.”
At noon sharp, we arrived. The wedding planner nearly burst into tears of relief.
Camille, radiant in her gown, was pacing frantically with her phone glued to her ear.
Blake looked like a man who hadn’t slept either.
“Before we unload,” I told him, “I’ll need your signature on this new contract and full payment.”
He gritted his teeth but signed. I took the check straight to the bank.
When I returned, Jen, my assistant, met me looking furious.
“That lawyer guy threatened Miguel—said he’d have him deported if anything went wrong.”
“Miguel was born in San Diego,” I said flatly.
“I know,” she replied. “He told him that. Blake just laughed.”
That was it. I marched over to him, loud enough for guests to hear.
“Threaten my staff again, and we walk. Contract or no contract.”
His face turned scarlet. “I didn’t—”
“Try me,” I said. “You’ll be eating takeout at your own wedding.”
He backed down.
The rest of the day went flawlessly. Guests raved about the food. Camille and Blake avoided eye contact, and I didn’t care one bit.
Three weeks later, a lawsuit arrived: “predatory pricing” and “breach of contract.”
I handed everything to our lawyer—contracts, call recordings, receipts.
The case was dismissed in minutes. The judge even ordered Blake to pay our legal fees.
“The court doesn’t appreciate bullies,” he said. “Especially ones who should know better.”
When I told Tom, he laughed until tears ran down his face.
“You made more on that one job than I would have in three,” he said.
“Maybe I should get sick more often.”
“Don’t you dare,” I told him.
Years later, curiosity got the better of me. I looked them up online.
Camille and Blake—divorced. Not even three years in.
Turns out karma doesn’t just come served hot. Sometimes, it’s a full-course meal—medium rare, with a side of poetic justice.
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