Asturias is a tiny village tucked into the green hills of northern Spain. It’s quiet here, with only 30 people living in the whole village. Life moves slowly, and everyone knows everyone.
At the heart of the village is my grandparents’ restaurant. It’s been here since 1941, and it’s as much a part of the village as the cobblestone streets.
The restaurant isn’t just a place to eat. It’s where people gather to talk, laugh, and play cards. It feels like home, with eight tables inside and a few more outside for sunny days. Every summer, I come here to help out.
I’ve learned to cook my grandmother’s recipes and serve food the way my grandfather taught me. Tourists sometimes find their way here, and we welcome them like family. But one day, that didn’t go as planned.
It was a warm summer afternoon. Lunch service was winding down, and most of the regulars were relaxing with a glass of wine. My brother and I were clearing tables while my grandfather sat at the corner table, enjoying his meal. The restaurant had the usual hum of quiet conversations.
Then we heard a car pull up. That wasn’t unusual—sometimes tourists got lost and ended up there. The family that came in, though, looked anything but relaxed.
“Do you have a table for four? We’re starving!” the mother said, waving me over. She didn’t wait for me to answer.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a smile, “but the kitchen is closed now. We serve lunch until three, and we’ll reopen at 7:30.”
“What?” the mother snapped, her face tightening. “That can’t be right! It’s a restaurant. You’re supposed to serve food!”
Her tone took me by surprise, but I tried to stay polite. “We’re happy to have you later for dinner,” I said. “Right now, the kitchen is on break.”
She looked past me, spotting my grandfather eating at his usual table. “If the kitchen’s closed, why is he eating?” she asked, pointing.
I laughed nervously. “He’s the owner,” I explained. “He eats whenever he wants.”
Her frown deepened. “We’re paying customers,” she said sharply. “We need Wi-Fi too.”
I hesitated. “The Wi-Fi isn’t for customers,” I said. “It’s only for staff.”
“What kind of place doesn’t have Wi-Fi for guests?” she said, her voice rising.
Her husband chimed in. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “We’ve been driving all day. We need food now.”
Their little boy, maybe five or six, started running around the tables, yelling loudly. My brother tried to steer him back to his parents, but the boy darted away, laughing.
“Please,” I said, turning back to the mother. “We’d love to serve you later, but we can’t now.”
Just then, my grandfather stood up, wiping his hands on his apron. As he commented on the kid’s loud behavior, the wife screamed, “DON’T GET CLOSE TO MY CHILD, YOU OLD CREEP!”
My grandpa backed away and gestured discreetly toward two men sitting at a nearby table. They were regulars, off-duty Guardia Civil officers enjoying their afternoon meal. The men put down their glasses and stood up, moving toward the scene with quiet authority.
One of them, tall and stern-looking, spoke first. “Good afternoon. We are officers of the Guardia Civil,” he said in clear but accented English, showing his badge. “Is there a problem here?”
The father straightened up, his face flushed. “Yes, there’s a problem! We’re hungry, and they’re refusing to serve us!” he snapped, pointing at me.
The officer’s gaze didn’t waver. “This establishment has rules, señora. The kitchen is closed, and you must respect that. We ask that you lower your voices and stop disturbing the other guests.”
The father, his face darkening, muttered, “We’re paying customers. We deserve service.”
The second officer, smaller but no less authoritative, stepped in. “Sir, this isn’t how things work here. Rules apply to everyone.”
Realizing they were outmatched, the parents reluctantly gathered their belongings. The mother grumbled under her breath as she grabbed the child’s hand, pulling him toward the door. It seemed, for a moment, that the ordeal was over.
As the family reached their car, one of the officers paused, glancing out the window. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping outside with his partner. My grandfather and I followed, curious.
The family’s car was parked directly in front of our garage, blocking the entrance entirely. A large, hand-painted sign above the garage clearly read, “No Parking—Private Property.”
The taller officer gestured at the sign. “Your car is parked illegally, sir,” he said firmly.
“It was just for a minute,” the father said, waving it off. “We didn’t see the sign.”
The officer frowned. “A minute or an hour, it’s still a violation. I need to see your rental paperwork.”
The father grumbled as he fumbled through the glove compartment. The second officer inspected the vehicle, taking photos of its position. After a few moments, they exchanged a look and began filling out a ticket.
“This is a fine for obstructing a private entrance,” the taller officer said, handing over the paper. “200 euros.”
“200 euros?!” the mother exploded, her voice echoing down the street.
The father tried to argue. “This is outrageous! We’re tourists!”
“Tourist or local, the law is the same,” the officer said, his tone calm but unyielding.
The mother snatched the ticket, her face red with fury. Their child, now whining loudly, added to the chaos as they piled into the car.
Back inside, the tension lifted as the family drove away. The restaurant filled with murmurs of satisfaction, locals shaking their heads at the tourists’ behavior.
My grandfather returned to his seat, picking up his fork as if nothing had happened. One of the officers raised his glass, and my grandfather nodded in quiet thanks.
The atmosphere warmed quickly, with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter filling the room again.
That afternoon became the talk of the village, a story that turned into a local legend. It wasn’t just about a rude family getting fined; it was about standing up for dignity and respect.
Most tourists who visit us are kind and curious, eager to learn about our ways. But this family reminded us all of something important: no matter where you go, kindness and humility go a long way.
Here in our little village, respect isn’t just a custom. It’s a way of life.
