The dinner rush had just ended when she burst through the door like a hurricane. Expensive perfume, designer handbag, and a face twisted in fury – she looked completely out of place in our cozy neighborhood pizzeria.
“Who’s in charge here?” she demanded, slamming a pizza box onto the counter so hard I thought the glass display might crack.
My grandmother, who’d been running this shop since before I was born, didn’t even blink. “How can I help you, dear?” she asked in that calm voice that could soothe a raging bull.
“This is disgusting!” the woman shrieked, flipping open the box to reveal a half-eaten pizza. “I demand a refund and an apology!”
I held my breath, waiting for Grandma’s response. The few remaining customers had stopped eating, their forks frozen mid-air.
Grandma peered at the pizza, then at the woman. “I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, “but this isn’t our pizza.”
The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “What?”
Grandma pointed to the logo on the box – clearly from Pizza Palace across the street – then to our sign above the door. The color drained from the woman’s face so fast I thought she might faint.
The entire shop erupted in laughter as she grabbed the box and fled, her expensive heels clicking frantically on the tile. Through the window, we watched her hesitate outside Pizza Palace, where the staff was already laughing at her through the glass.
As Grandma always says: “The louder they yell, the harder they fall.”
