I’ve been friends with “David” since college. We weren’t best friends, but we were close enough that I was excited when the invite arrived. We attended my friend’s wedding, my wife and I, after being invited formally by mail. The invitation didn’t mention anything unusual—no “reception follows for family only” or anything like that.
It wasn’t a large group—about 70 people, mostly relatives. We were seated at Table 9, the designated “college friends” table, located in the back corner near the kitchen doors.
Following the ceremony, a buffet dinner was served. The MC announced that tables went up for food in groups, with the families first. That seemed fair; grandparents and parents should eat first. We waited patiently, chatting and drinking our water (it was a dry wedding, too).
We watched as Table 1 through Table 6 went up. They piled their plates high with roast beef, chicken, potatoes, and pasta. Then Tables 7 and 8 went. By the time the MC finally called Table 9, I had a bad feeling.
We walked up to the buffet, and it was a wasteland. The chafing dishes were scraped clean. There was a little bit of wilting salad, some dinner rolls, and gravy. No meat. No sides.
I asked about the possibility of more, but was told that was everything. The catering staff looked embarrassed. “We cooked the amount we were contracted for,” one whispered to me. “There’s nothing else in the back.”
We ended up with just a few leftovers—essentially a bread roll sandwich with gravy and salad. We went back to our table, trying to laugh it off, but it was humiliating watching everyone else wipe steak sauce off their chins while our stomachs rumbled.
Then things got worse.
About an hour after eating, while we were sitting there debating if we should just sneak out to a drive-thru, the groom came over to us. I thought he was coming to apologize for the food situation.
I stood up to greet him. “Hey man, beautiful ceremony. Sorry about the food mix-up, but—”
He cut me off. He didn’t look sorry; he looked annoyed.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” David said, lowering his voice. “Listen, we’re going to transition into the family speeches and photos now. It’s going to be a really intimate vibe, just for the inner circle. So, I’m going to have to ask you guys to leave.“
I blinked. “You’re kicking us out?”
“It’s just a space issue,” he shrugged, gesturing to the half-empty room. “And we’re on a tight schedule with the venue. Thanks for understanding.”
He turned to walk away, expecting us to just nod and obey. That’s when it clicked. He hadn’t “run out” of food by accident. He had ordered food for 50 people (the family) and invited 20 extra friends just to fill the seats at the ceremony, hoping we’d leave or not notice we weren’t really welcome at the reception.
I looked at my wife. She looked furious.
“Sure, David,” I called out. “We’ll get out of your hair.”
We grabbed our coats. On the way to the exit, we passed the gift table. I spotted the distinct silver envelope I had placed there earlier—containing a card with $300 cash inside.
I walked right up to the box. David’s mom was standing nearby.
“Oh, just forgot to sign the card!” I lied smoothly. I reached in, grabbed my envelope, and slid it into my inside jacket pocket.
We walked out to the parking lot, got in the car, and drove straight to a steakhouse. I used a portion of that $300 to buy us the best surf-and-turf dinner of our lives.
David texted me the next day asking if I had “forgotten” to leave a gift. I left him on read.
