Our Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to a Lavish Dinner – So I Closed the Fridge and Served Them Nothing “Serg, are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder will be enough? Last time they cleared out everything, even wiped up the gravy with the last bits of bread. And remember how Becky asked for a container ‘for her dog’, then posted photos of my roast online calling it her own culinary masterpiece?” Irene anxiously fiddled with the edge of the kitchen towel, surveying the battlefield her kitchen had become. It was only noon, and she was already exhausted. She’d been up since six: first to the market for the freshest meat, then at the supermarket scouting out posh booze and delicacies, then endless slicing, boiling, roasting. Her husband, Steve, stood at the sink peeling potatoes with quiet irritation he tried (and failed) to hide. “Irene, honestly, how much more do you want? Three kilos of meat for four guests and us two? That’s half a kilo each. We’re not catering a wedding, just a delayed housewarming.” “You don’t get it,” she retorted, stirring a thick sauce. “It’s Becky and Dave, Lisa and Tom. Old friends – coming all the way across town. Can’t have them thinking we got cocky now we’ve bought this place and turned stingy. If the table looks poor, they’ll talk.” Irene always had this generous streak in her, inherited from her gran, who could put on a feast from thin air and feed half the regiment. A meagre spread was, to Irene, a personal insult. She had spent a week planning the menu, finding recipes, saving up from her pay to afford that one bottle of posh cognac Dave liked and the particular French wine Becky preferred. “Wouldn’t kill them to bring something for a change,” Steve grumbled. “Remember Tom’s birthday? We brought a pricey present, our own booze, and you even baked a cake. What did they give us? Cheap tea bags and stale biscuits last time we dropped in.” “Don’t be so petty, Steve,” Irene said, trying to sound magnanimous. “They were strapped then: mortgage and renovations. But now Dave’s got his promotion, and Lisa’s bought herself a new coat, remember? Maybe this time they’ll bring something—a cake, some fruit. I dropped a hint to Becky about dessert.” By five, the flat was spotless. The table looked like a boutique deli display window: in pride of place, a stunning centrepiece of cold tongue in aspic, a chorus line of bowls brimming with fancy salads and seafood, homemade brawn and ham slices, red salmon caviar, fish starters. The oven held that special pork shoulder and potatoes with mushrooms. The fridge was full of Finlandia vodka, posh Cognac, and three nice wine bottles. Irene, tired but satisfied, dressed for the occasion and settled herself, waiting for the doorbell. “Bit nervous,” she confessed as Steve buttoned his shirt. “First get-together in our new place. I want it all to go perfectly.” The bell rang exactly at five. Punctual, as ever. In poured the crowd: Becky, swanning in that new mink coat, Dave in a leather jacket, Lisa with bright makeup, Tom already a bit tipsy. “Yay! Housewarming!” Becky trilled, enveloping the hall in a cloud of sickly perfume. “Come on, show us around the palace!” They noisily shed coats—dumping them for Steve to hang up. Irene smiled, glancing at their hands. All four were empty-handed. Not a bag, not a cake box, not a bottle, not even a token bar of chocolate. “Where’s…” started Irene, then thought better of asking. Perhaps they left something in the car? “Wow, you’ve lost weight!” Lisa air-kissed her and stomped straight down the hall. “Hmm, quite plain in here, isn’t it? Walls need some proper wallpaper—much too impersonal.” “We like minimalism,” Steve said, jaw tight. “Come on into the lounge, everything’s ready.” As soon as Dave saw the table, his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “Cor, look at this spread! Irene, you legend—I knew you’d pull out the stops. We’ve been keeping empty bellies all day for your famous roast!” Everyone found their places, forks diving into salads before the first toast. Irene hurried to the kitchen to fetch hot starters, her mind racing with just one thought: Maybe the gift’s in an envelope this time—money, not a present? But when she returned, the guests were already helping themselves, barely waiting for a toast. “Mmm, this is a cracking salad!” Tom moaned, mouth full. “Steve, pour us a drink, will you? Thirsty work, all this talking.” Steve poured out vodka for the blokes, wine for the women. “To your new home!” Dave toasted. “May the neighbours be civil, may the walls not crumble. Bottoms up!” He downed his shot, sniffed his sleeve, and instantly reached for the smoked salmon. “Irene,” he muttered between mouthfuls, “Why’s the vodka warm? Should’ve chilled it in the freezer.” “It’s straight from the fridge, Dave,” Irene replied quietly, the first twinge of irritation simmering. “Five degrees, like you’re supposed to.” “Supposed, eh…Vodka should be ice-cold, but I’ll survive. Where’s the Cognac?” “It’s here,” Irene ground out. “Perhaps after we eat?” “Why wait?” Tom cackled. “All part of the fun!” The meal picked up pace. Food vanished at speed, as if the guests hadn’t eaten for a week. And the criticism followed: “Bit dry on the herring salad, isn’t it, Becky?” remarked, filling up her plate again. “Stingy on the mayo?” “I made it fresh—homemade mayo, not so greasy,” Irene said. “Oh, don’t bother with all that palaver,” Lisa scoffed. “Shop version is better and quicker. And this caviar’s a bit on the small side. Cheapskate salmon, huh? Should’ve got the bigger kind.” Irene glanced at Steve, who sat red-faced, knuckles white on his fork. “So, what’s new with you lot?” Steve asked, forcing a smile. “Becky, you were in Dubai, right?” “Oh, it was fabulous!” Becky gushed. “Five-star hotel, all-inclusive, lobsters, champagne, the lot. Bought a Louis Vuitton for two grand—worth every penny. Dave grumbled, but I told him: ‘We only live once!’” “Women, eh?” Dave grinned, reaching for the Cognac. “I’m saving up for a new SUV—won’t waste a penny on boring things like home improvements.” “Meaning what?” Irene asked sharply. “Oh, just…walls are walls, aren’t they?” Lisa explained. “We’ve got the same wallpaper since moving in—spend our money on trips, labels, restaurants instead. You two throw cash at concrete. Bit dull, honestly.” “Speaking of restaurants,” Tom cut in, dabbing greasy lips with a napkin and dropping it back on the tablecloth, “We were at that fancy place in Soho last night. Bill came to £150, but what a meal! Not like home grub. Irene, when’s the main course out? I’m starving for some meat.” Irene got up to clear plates, shaking inside. These friends had just raved about spending fortunes on Dubai holidays and five-star dinners, yet turned up in her home empty-handed. Not even a potted plant, let alone a chocolate bar. She went to the kitchen. Becky followed, pretending to help. “Irene, you’re a star,” Becky whispered. “Lovely spread, but you can see you’ve overdone yourself. The wine’s rather basic, isn’t it? We only ever have that stuff at barbecues. Surely you could get something better?” “It’s French, £25 a bottle,” Irene said, forcefully loading the dishwasher. “Oh, come on, you’ve been conned! Tastes like vinegar. By the way, do you think there’ll be leftovers to take home? For the hangover tomorrow, I mean. No point it going to waste—too much for you two.” Irene stopped, plate in hand, turning slowly. “You want me to pack you up some food to take?” “Well, yeah, why not?” Becky giggled. “It’s what we always do. Budget-friendly! And, um, is there a proper dessert? Got a craving for cake.” “You said dessert was on you,” Irene quietly replied. “Did I? You must be imagining things. I’m on a diet—I wouldn’t buy sweets. I figured you’d make your famous Victoria sponge. Or at least pick up something nice. We came empty-handed because, well, you’ve got everything now. Owners and all that—must be rolling in it.” Irene put the plate down with a decisive clatter. “So you thought we’re rich now, and have everything?” “Well of course!” Becky said breezily. “You’ve got the mortgage, the new flat. Us, we’re just saving for our Maldives trip. Now, go on, bring out the meat—the blokes are famished.” Flooded with memories—of lending Becky money for a last-minute holiday she only repaid in dribs and drabs, of Dave borrowing Steve for a move and never even paying petrol, of them always eating her out of house and home but only inviting the couple round for a cheap tea once in a blue moon—Irene had had enough. She glanced at the oven: inside, the gorgeous roast with mushrooms and herbs. On the fridge, the huge berry pavlova she’d splurged £50 on for a surprise, even after the dessert talk. She closed the oven. Turned off the hob. Walked to the fridge and pressed the door tightly shut. “There’ll be no meat,” she stated loudly. “What do you mean?” Becky’s face fell. “Did it burn?” “No. But you’re not getting any.” Irene strode into the lounge. The men were pouring themselves more drinks. Steve looked defeated. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Irene rang out, voice tight as wire, “the party is over.” Everyone stared. Dave, mid-toast, froze. “Irene, what’s up? We haven’t had the main yet! You promised roast!” “I did,” Irene said. “I’ve changed my mind.” “What?” Lisa spluttered. “We’re hungry! Bring out the food!” “The roast is staying in the oven. As for you—don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or why not pop down to that Soho place you like so much?” “Have you lost your mind?” Tom roared. “Steve, control your wife! We’re guests!” Steve stood up. He saw Irene’s trembling hands, her eyes brimming with frustrated tears. He understood. “Irene isn’t drunk,” Steve said quietly. “She’s just had enough. You showed up empty-handed, drank my Cognac, mocked my wife’s cooking, called our wine vinegar and our home ugly. And now you *demand* the main course?” “Oh come on, it was all jokes!” Becky yelled. “So we forgot the dessert! Big deal. We came for your company—brought the fun!” “Fun at our expense?” Irene said, scorn dripping. “No, thank you. I spent half my salary on this meal for you. And all you do is gobble, criticise, and brag. Leeching cheapskates, the lot of you. Swanning off to Dubai but can’t manage a fiver for a thank-you treat.” “Is that how it is?” Dave exploded, chair crashing over. “Fine. Keep your stingy roast! We’re leaving! Don’t expect us back—ever!” “Don’t forget your take-home containers,” Steve added evenly as he flung the door wide. “They’re still empty.” The guests tumbled out, shrieking. Becky huffed she’d never speak to Irene again. Lisa whined about a ruined evening. The men cursed. Silence. Irene stood in the ruined lounge, surrounded by dirty plates, wine stains, crumpled napkins. Steve wrapped his arm around her. “You alright?” he asked quietly. “Still shaking,” she confessed. “Maybe I was mean…they were guests, after all.” “You were just taking back your self-respect, Irene. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m proud of you. If you hadn’t spoken up, I certainly would have.” She sighed and leaned into him. “And the roast?” Steve asked, a sly smile creeping in. “Still in there? Because it smells fantastic!” Irene laughed, for the first time that evening. “It is. And the pavlova’s in the fridge. Let’s eat.” They sat amid the chaos, carved the roast, sliced the pavlova, poured themselves two glasses of that “vinegary” Bordeaux (which was, in fact, a wonderful velvety Saint-Emilion). “To us,” Steve toasted, clinking glasses. “And to only inviting people who come with open hearts, not empty hands.” They ate the best dinner of their lives, relishing the peace. An hour later, Irene’s phone buzzed: Becky’s text read, “You total cow! We’re at McDonald’s choking down burgers because of you! You ought to be ashamed, honestly!” Irene smiled, hit “Block”, then did the same for Dave, Lisa, and Tom. Her contact list was four names shorter—but life suddenly felt roomier and full of air. The fridge and house belonged to her and Steve alone, with a week’s worth of good food left. And not a crumb for those who didn’t deserve it. This story reminds us: friendship is a two-way street, and sometimes slamming the fridge door is the best way to hold onto your self-respect.

Friends Arrived Empty-Handed at a Table Laden with Food, and I Closed the Fridge

Harry, are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder will be enough? I asked, shutting the fridge with a sigh. Last time, they polished off everythingeven wiped the plates clean with bread. And remember, Abigail even asked for a takeaway container for her dog, but then posted photos of my roast on social media as if shed cooked it herself.

Emma anxiously fiddled with the corner of the tea towel, surveying the battlefield her kitchen had become. It was only noon, but she was already worn out. Up since six that morningfirst the local market for the freshest meat, then Waitrose for posh wine and nibbles, and finally hours of slicing, boiling, and roasting.

Harry, Emmas husband, was standing at the sink, methodically peeling potatoes. The mound of peels grew, as did his quiet annoyance, although he tried to keep it hidden.

Em, how much more do they need? he sighed, rinsing another spud. Three kilos of meat for four guests and us? Thats half a kilo a head. Theyll burst! Youve outdone yourselfred caviar, salmon, bowls of salad big enough to swim in. Its a housewarming, not a wedding.

You dont get it, replied Emma, stirring a thick sauce in the pan. Its Alice and David and Rachel and Tomtheyre our old friends, and we havent seen them in ages. Theyre coming all the way from the other side of town. You cant have a stingy table, theyll say weve turned into snobs since buying this place.

Emma was always like this. Her grandmother taught her true hospitalitysomeone who could feed an army with whatever was at hand. For Emma, a half-hearted spread was a personal failure. Guests meant a feast; a celebration, a groaning table. Shed spent a week planning the menu, hunting for recipes, setting aside money from her salary for that bottle of top-shelf whisky David liked, and that special French wine Alice favoured.

They could at least bring something, Harry muttered. At Toms birthday, we brought a nice gift and our own drinks, and you even baked a cake. When we popped by theirs, it was teabags and stale biscuits.

Oh, dont be stingy, Harry, she reproved. They were having a tough time thennew mortgage, half-finished renovations. Anyway, things have picked up for them now. David got a promotion, Rachel just bought a new coatshe wouldnt stop showing it off. Maybe they will bring somethinga dessert or some fruit. I even hinted to Alice to cover dessert, so I didnt bother making any.

By five oclock, the flat sparkled, and the dining room table looked like a Harrods food hall display. At its centre, pork brawn glistened, ringed by lavish bowls of prawn cocktail and Coronation chicken (not the sad sort, the proper homemade stuff), devilled eggs with smoked trout, an array of home-cured meats, and several salads. The pork shoulder was roasting with potatoes and wild mushrooms, and in the fridge cooled a bottle of Finlandia vodka, a fine Cognac, and three bottles of French wine.

Exhausted but satisfied, Emma slipped on her best dress, neatened her hair, and settled into an armchair, waiting for the bell.

Im nervous, she admitted as Harry buttoned his shirt. First gathering in our new flat. I just want everything to go smoothly.

The doorbell rang right on cue at five. Their friends were punctual.

Emma dashed to open it. There was a commotion in the hall: Alice in her brand-new mink coat, which probably cost half as much as Emmas entire flat, David in a leather jacket, Rachel with bold lipstick, and Tom, already a bit tipsy.

Housewarmers! Alice whooped, breezing in and enveloping Emma in a cloud of overpowering perfume. Show us the palace!

Everyone jostled out of their coats, dumping them on Harry, who scrambled to hang everything up. Emma, smiling, watched their hands for any sign of a bag or bottle.

Their hands were empty. Not a box of cakes, a bottle, not even a chocolate bar.

So, did you Emma started, hesitated, and fell silent. Maybe theyd left something in the car? Or had something tucked away?

My goodness, Em, youve lost weight! Rachel kissed her on the cheek without removing her boots, and wandered off to the corridor. The place is…well, its tidy, Ill give you that. Painted walls? Not really my thinglooks like an office. Wallpaper wouldve been cosier.

We prefer minimalism, Harry said flatly, ushering them to the sitting room. Come through, everythings ready.

The group poured into the lounge. Davids eyes glittered at the sight of the table.

This is a proper spread! he announced, rubbing his hands. Em, youre a legend. We skipped lunch to make space for your famous roast.

Everyone sat down. Emma darted off to fetch hot starters. Her mind whirredhad they perhaps brought money instead, hidden in an envelope?

When she returned with a tray of individual mushroom pot pies, the guests were already attacking the salads, forks flying.

Mmm, top-notch! Tom mumbled, mouth full. Harry, pour us a drink, would you? Parched, we are.

Harry poured vodka for the men and wine for the women.

To your new home, David toasted. May your walls stand strong, and your neighbours mind their own business. Cheers!

He knocked back his shot, sniffed his sleeve instead of using the linen napkins, and quickly tucked into the smoked fish.

You know, Em, he said between mouthfuls, the vodkas a bit warm. Shouldve chucked it in the freezer.

It was in the fridge, Emma replied quietly, suppressing her first flare of irritation. A proper five degrees, just as it should be.

Thats not cold, David grumbled. Vodka ought to cling like syrup! Never mind, have you got any decent whisky? I fancy a nip.

Yes, Emma forced a smile. But maybe eat first?

One doesnt stop the other! Tom roared with laughter.

The meal gathered pace. Food vanished with frightening speed, and all the while the criticisms kept coming.

The prawn salads a bit dry, Alice declared, scooping her third helping. Did you scrimp on the mayo? Saving money?

Its homemade, Emma defended. Less oily, better for you.

Oh, dont be a martyr! Rachel waved her off. Sainsburys in a squeeze bottle, thats the magic. And this caviartoo small, must be the cheap stuff. Shouldve got Beluga.

Emma exchanged glances with Harry. He sat mutely, gripping his fork until his knuckles whitened.

So, hows things with you lot? Harry tried. Alice, werent you in Dubai recently?

Oh, that was the dream! Alice gushed. Five-star hotel, lobster, rivers of champagne. Bought a Louis Vuitton bagtwo grand, but worth it. David moaned, but I told him, we only live once!’

Women and their shopping, David grinned, pouring himself whisky uninvited. Im buying a new car soon. Crossover. Weve got the fundswe dont waste it on boring stuff like kitchens.

Sorryboring? Emma raised an eyebrow.

Yeah, walls are walls, Rachel chimed in. “Weve lived with Grans wallpaper for ten years. Rather splash out on holidays and brands. You must have the dullest livesspending it all on bricks and paint.

Speaking of posh, Tom piped up, dabbing his greasy lips on the cloth and tossing it onto the tablecloth, we went to The Ivy last night. The grub was bang on, bill was a bomb£150, but worth it. Not like faffing about at home. So, Em, whens the roast coming? Im starving.

Emma rose to clear the plates. Inside, her hands shook. These people, who crowed about bags that cost two grand and dinners for a hundred and fifty, had come to her home empty-handed. Not even a potted plant. Not a biscuit.

She retreated to the kitchen. Alice followed soon after, feigning an offer to helpreally just to gossip.

My word, Em, she whispered, leaning against the doorframe, its an impressive spread, but you can tell youre stretched. The wine isnt very goodwed drink that on a picnic. Couldve got something nicer.

Alice, its a French red£25 a bottle, Emma replied, stacking the dishwasher.

You were ripped off! Tastes like vinegar. By the way, can I take a plate home? Well be rough tomorrow and couldnt be bothered to cookif you made so much, it wont all get eaten. Hate to waste.

Emma froze, plate in hand. She slowly turned.

You want me to pack you food? To take away?

Why not? We always do. Helps the budget! Alice giggled. Is there dessert coming? I fancy a sweet. Cake?

You did say dessert was on you, Emma reminded softly.

Me? Alice looked offended. Absolutely not! Im on a dietdont buy treats these days. Thought youd bake your Napoleon or buy something fab. Youre the master baker, after all. Anyway, we came empty-handed cause we figured youd have everything: new flat, rolling in it.

Emma placed her plate down, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

So you thought we have it all, she repeated.

Obviously! Alice breezed on. Youre paying a mortgage, the refurbits not like youre skint. Were scraping to save for the Maldives. Go on, bring the roastboys are getting restless.

Emma remembered loaning Alice money for a last-minute getaway, only to be repaid shreds at a time with barely a thank-you. David, who had pestered Harry into helping move but didnt offer petrol money. They crashed every party at Emmas, devouring all the foodyet when the tables turned, served sad shop-bought pies and old tea.

She opened the oven. Aromas of rosemary, garlic, and melting pork wafted outthe product of half a days labour and much of her earnings. In the fridge was the showstopper: a giant, fresh berry meringue cake from a local baker, a surprise despite having agreed dessert was on them.

Emma closed the oven. Switched off the hob. And pressed the fridge door tight.

No roast, she said, loud enough for Alice to hear.

What? Alice blinked. Is it burnt?

No. Its just…there wont be any.

Emma stepped into the lounge. The men were pouring more drinks, in deep discussion. Harry looked resigned.

Ladies and gentlemen, said Emma, her voice taut as piano wire, the evenings over.

Everyone stared at her.

Emma, what on earth? David frowned. We havent even had the main yet!

I know, Emma nodded. But I changed my mind.

Come on, Rachel snapped. Were starving! You cant just tease us with salad.

The roast will stay in the oven. And now its time to put your coats on and leave. Or, go eat at The Ivyyou seemed to like it there.

Have you gone mad? Tom burst out. Harry, get a gripshes embarrassing us! Were your guests!

Harry stood quietly. He looked from Emma to their guests, saw her trembling with hurt, the tears gathering. And he finally understood.

Shes not mad, Harry firmly said. Shes fed up. You all arrived without so much as a loaf of bread, drank my whisky, insulted my wifes food, called our wine vinegar, our home an office. Now you demand roast?

We were just having a laugh! Alice yelped. Cant you take a joke? So we forgot the cakeit happens! At least we brought fun!

Fun at our expense? Emma retorted, voice steely. I spent a weeks salary on this table, hours at the stove, because I wanted to make you happy. Youyoure just freeloaders. Who can holiday in Dubai but wont spend a fiver on the host.

Well! David shoved his chair back, scowling. If youre going to make a meal out of itkeep your roast! Lets go, Im not coming here again.

Dont forget your empty containers, Harry added, calmly opening the door.

Their guests stormed out, slamming and muttering, Alice shrieking that Emma was a cold-hearted drama queen and shed tell everyone, Rachel fuming about a ruined evening, the men swearing under their breath.

When the door clicked shut, silence settled over the flat. Emma gazed at the devastated tabledirty plates, wine stains on the cloth, napkins crumpled like spent tissues.

Harry put an arm around her shoulders.

How are you? he asked softly.

My hands are shaking, she admitted. Maybe I was too harsh, Harry. Should we have just fed them and kept quietfor the sake of peace?

You werent wrong, Harry said. You finally stood up for yourself. Im proud of you. All this time, I shouldve said something. Their behaviour crossed every line.

Emma exhaled, pressing close.

And the roast? Harry asked a minute later, with a sly smile. Is it really in there? The smell is making my mouth water.

Emma burst out laughing for the first time that evening.

Its there, Harry. And the cakes in the fridge, enormous and packed with berries.

They sat at the ruffled table, pushing aside dirty plates. Emma pulled the golden, sizzling roast from the oven, fetched the cake, and poured the supposedly vinegary wineactually a lush, velvety Bordeaux.

To us, Harry said, raising his glass. And to homes filled only with those who bring open hearts, not just empty forks.

They ate roast that melted on the tongue, savoured the peaceful quiet, and relished each others company. It was, without a doubt, the finest dinner of their lives.

An hour later, Emmas phone pinged: a message from AliceWell, youre a real cow! Were stuck at McDonalds choking on burgers because of you! You should be ashamed.

Emma smiled and pressed Block. She did the same for Rachel, David, Tom.

Her contact list shrunk by four names, and suddenly, there was far more spaceto breathe, to live. The fridge was stuffed with delicious food, enough for her and Harry for an entire week. Not a single bite wasted on people who didnt deserve it.

This story is a reminder: friendship should flow both ways, and sometimes, the best way to keep your self-respect is to close the fridge and shut the door.