He Mocked a Struggling Waitress and Offered Her $100K to ‘Serve Him in Chinese’ — but the Millionaire Was Crushed in Front of Everyone When Ariana Blake Answered in Nine Languages and Turned the Entire Night Against Him…
L’Obsidienne is on the 50th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, where a salad costs a middle-class family a week’s worth of groceries. I, Ariana Blake, am balancing a heavy silver tray on one hand while furtively adjusting the apron that is cinched at my waist with the other.
I am 26 years old, a PhD candidate in Applied Linguistics at Columbia University. But my scholarship doesn’t cover the rent in this expensive city, let alone the huge hospital bills for my mother, who is hospitalized for kidney failure. So at night, I become an “invisible” waitress in this mecca of the super-rich.
Tonight, the atmosphere at L’Obsidienne is more tense than usual. Table 1 – the best spot overlooking the Statue of Liberty – is occupied by Bradley “Brad” Sterling. He was a tech tycoon known for his arrogance and TikTok videos. He was accompanied by three older men who appeared to be important international partners.
“Hey! Girl!” Brad snapped his fingers, a dry snap echoing through the luxurious space. “Is this menu in an alien language? What’s taking so long?”
I swallowed and stepped forward. “Sir, this is a proper French menu. Do you need me to explain anything?”
Brad sneered, turning to his partners. He was wearing a cobalt blue Tom Ford suit, a large gold chain around his neck that looked ridiculous.
“Look,” he said loudly, his voice slurred with alcohol. “This is why America is going downhill. We have waitresses who look delicious but are completely clueless. She probably doesn’t even know what Foie Gras is.”
I tightened my grip on the tray. “Sir, Foie Gras is fattened goose liver, pan-fried and served with a sweet fig sauce.”
“Oh, you know how to use Google Translate?” Brad laughed loudly. He threw his napkin at me. “Listen, girl. I’m hosting very important guests from China and Europe. I need a different level of service. Not your country English.”
He pulled a checkbook from his vest pocket. He scribbled a number, then ripped the check to shreds and slammed it down on the table.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Brad announced, his eyes bulging. “Here’s your tip. If you can serve me and take this table’s order entirely in Mandarin. I bet all you know is English and street slang, right?”
The restaurant fell silent. The customers at the next table started turning, whispering, and taking out their phones to film. Brad’s three partners looked at each other, annoyed but speechless.
I looked at the check. $100,000. That could pay off my mother’s hospital bills and help me finish my thesis without having to do the dishes for another day.
But Brad’s eyes… there was utter contempt. He wanted to buy my humiliation. He wanted to see me fumble, beg, or run away in shame.
“Are you sure, Mr. Sterling?” I asked, my voice strangely calm. “This is a legal transaction in front of witnesses.”
“I’m sure, you poor bastard!” Brad shouted. “Do it! Or go back to your slums?”
I set the tray down on the side table. I untied the apron I’d wrapped around my waist and folded it neatly. I straightened my back, adjusting the collar of my white shirt.
In that moment, I was no longer Ariana the waitress. I am Ariana Blake, Linguistics valedictorian, fluent in 12 languages and a former interpreter intern at the United Nations.
I turned to the man sitting to Brad’s left, a frowning Chinese gentleman.
“Mr. Wang,” I began in perfect Beijing Mandarin, intoning like a CCTV editor. “I’m very sorry for the rudeness of this host. As for the menu, I’d like to recommend the crispy Peking duck with steamed buns, very much to my taste.”
Mr. Wang’s eyes widened, dropping his fork. “You… you speak Mandarin so well. Better than my interpreter.”
Brad’s jaw dropped. He didn’t understand what I said, but he saw Mr. Wang’s reaction. “Hey… what the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t answer Brad. I turned to the man sitting to my right, a stern-looking German gentleman.
“Herr Müller,” I said, switching to German, my warm Bavarian accent. “I see you’re not comfortable with this wine. We have an excellent 2015 Riesling in our cellar, with moderate acidity, which will help you forget the discomfort of this dull conversation.”
Mr. Müller laughed loudly, nodding approvingly. “Excellent! Young lady, you’re very astute. Bring me that bottle.”
I turned to the third person, an Italian businessman who was boredly checking his watch.
“Signore Rossi,” the Italian flowed from my mouth like music. “Our black truffle risotto is a Piedmontese recipe. I trust it will remind you of home, instead of listening to
g Mr. Sterling’s empty boasting about blockchain technology.”
Mr. Rossi clapped his hands, his eyes shining. “Bravissima! You saved my evening!”
Brad Sterling’s face had turned from red to purple. He stood up, pointing at me.
“What… what are you doing? Are you talking bad about me?”
I turned and looked him straight in the eye.
“Monsieur Sterling,” I said in French, cold and sharp. “You asked me to serve you in a foreign language. I’m just doing better than expected. I am serving your guests in their native language, something you, a ‘global businessman’, cannot even do with a greeting.”
I didn’t stop there.
I turned to the sommelier standing nearby, bewildered.
“Пожалуйста, принесите самую дорогую водку для господина,” (Please bring the most expensive vodka for this gentleman) – I said in Russian.
Then I said to the chef who was looking out from the open kitchen door.
“Chef, l’omakase speciale, per favore,” (Chef, please give the special) – Japanese mixed with a dash of Italian.
And finally, I turned to Brad, smiling softly but with a burning gaze.
“Hic homo stultus est,” I said in Latin. “This man is a fool.”
Then I finished in English, clearly, articulately so the whole restaurant could hear:
“That’s seven languages, Mr. Sterling. Plus the Spanish I use to talk to the dishwashers you despise, and English. That’s nine. You owe me $100,000.”
The whole restaurant erupted in applause. Whistles rang out. Brad stood frozen, sweating profusely. He was completely humiliated in front of his partners and the public.
“You… you’re a fraud!” Brad roared, trying to salvage his last shred of dignity. “You just parroted a few lines! I won’t pay! That check is worthless! You don’t have a contract!”
“Oh, I think so,” a deep voice said from the next table.
A middle-aged man stood up. He was dressed in a simple suit but exuded authority. It was Arthur Vance, New York’s most famous lawyer, the “Shark of Wall Street.”
“I saw the whole thing,” Mr. Vance said, stepping forward. “A promise of a reward in front of a witness, especially one that has been written out, is considered a binding contract by word of mouth and conduct in the State of New York. I am willing to testify for this girl in court. And believe me, Mr. Sterling, you don’t want to fight me.”
Brad trembled. He knew Arthur Vance. He knew that if he got into a lawsuit with Vance, his company would collapse before the trial even began.
But the real twist was yet to come.
Mr. Wang, the Chinese partner, stood up. He looked at Brad with utter disappointment, then turned to me.
“Girl,” Mr. Wang said in broken English. “Can you translate for me what this Sterling guy told us earlier? He said he had exclusive technology and had signed a contract with the US government. But I found him… untrustworthy.”
I looked at Brad. He was shaking his head, his eyes pleading with me to be quiet. He knew I had heard his phone call before the guests arrived.
I smiled. “Mr. Wang, before you arrived, Mr. Sterling called someone. He said…”
I switched to Mandarin to make sure Brad couldn’t interrupt, but I knew the other guests understood the meaning from Mr. Wang’s attitude.
“…He said you guys are ‘fat sheep from the East.’ He has no proprietary technology. He plans to use your investment capital to pay off personal loans and buy a new yacht. The government contract is a sham.”
Mr. Wang slammed his fist on the table.
“Enough!”
He turned to the other two partners, speaking quickly in English. “He’s a fraud. Withdraw. Immediately.”
Mr. Müller and Mr. Rossi nodded, stood up, and packed up their briefcases.
“Mr. Sterling,” Mr. Müller said in German (which Brad now knew I understood). “The meeting is over. And our attorney will contact you for commercial fraud.”
Brad Sterling was devastated. In 15 minutes, he had lost not only his face, $100,000, but also tens of millions of dollars in business and was facing the possibility of prison for fraud.
He lunged at me, raising his hand to slap me in a fit of rage.
“You bitch! You ruined my life!”
But before his hand could touch me, two large security guards from the restaurant grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Mr. Sterling,” the restaurant manager stepped forward and said coldly, “Your credit card was just declined for last night’s dinner. And for this disruptive behavior, you are permanently banned from our restaurant system. The police are on their way.”
Brad was dragged away, his curses echoing and fading in the elevator.
I stood there, in the middle of the ornate dining room, my white shirt still pressed. The crowd applauded again. But I didn’t bow like an actor. I
just tired.
Arthur Vance walked over, picked up a $100,000 check from the table, and handed it to me.
“Take it, girl. He still has the money in his personal account. Get it out before it gets frozen.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And here,” Mr. Vance pulled out a business card. “My law firm is looking for an international linguist and negotiator. The starting salary is $150,000 a year, plus bonuses. I think you look better in a business suit than this apron. Are you interested?”
I looked at the card. Vance & Partners.
I looked at the check in my hand.
And I looked out the window, where the lights of New York were brighter than ever.
The next morning, I went to the bank to withdraw the money. The check was valid. I immediately transferred the money to my mother’s hospital account. She was having surgery the following week.
I returned to L’Obsidienne one last time. Not to work.
I put on my best suit and walked through the front door.
I handed the manager my clean, pressed apron.
“Ariana,” the manager said. “You’re a legend here. Are you really leaving?”
“Yes,” I smiled. “I have a new job. One where I’m paid to talk, not to keep quiet.”
I walked out of the building with my head held high.
Brad Sterling had taught me a valuable lesson: Never underestimate your waiter. And more importantly, never use money to challenge your intellect. Because sometimes, language is more than just words.
It’s a weapon.
And last night, I pulled the trigger in nine different languages.
