Chapter 21 Rick the Pauper
Rick Lane's eyes fluttered open; his luxurious bedroom, typically a sanctuary of calm, now seemed to hum with the lingering echoes of a nightmare. Not a nightmare of monsters or falling, but of a subtle, insidious decay: bad customer service. The memory of the 'Golden Spoon' restaurant from his dream, a place where he, as his younger self, had been dismissed and ignored along with Jenny and Leo, clung to him like a stale scent. He was Rick Lane, the formidable fifty-something owner of Mount Foods Corp, a titan in the restaurant industry. He commanded a vast empire of eateries across the Kingdom of Poh, from bustling street-side cafes to elegant fine-dining establishments. Yet, that dream, a vivid portal to his seventeen-year-old self, had been a stark reminder of the foundational principle upon which he'd built his success: the customer.
He pushed himself up, the silk sheets rustling around him. The morning light, filtered through heavy velvet curtains, cast long, opulent shadows across the room. His gaze fell upon the antique mahogany desk in the corner, piled with reports detailing quarterly profits, market share, and expansion plans. But today, those numbers felt hollow. What good were soaring revenues if the very people generating them felt undervalued, unseen? The thought of that sneering waiter in his dream, the bland, uninspired food – it gnawed at him. "A rotten apple," he muttered to the empty room, "can spoil the entire barrel."
Though he saw the manager reprimanding the waiter, he thinks that it was not enough. And he did not want the customers in his restaurant feeling the same way he did.
He looked at the time; it was almost 4 am. He decided to wait till it's 7 before calling his secretary. He turned on the TV and watched a popular drama. Soon, the golden rays of the sun began to peek inside the large bedroom and slowly chased the darkness away.
Rick reached for his phone, then hesitated. A secret inspection. No, not a secret inspection. A personal experience. He needed to feel it, not just read about it in a report. He, Rick Lane, the billionaire, needed to be Rick Lane, the anonymous pauper. He needed to see how his staff treated someone they deemed insignificant, someone who wouldn't leave a lavish tip or demand to speak to the manager about a minor oversight. This wasn't about catching people out; it was about understanding the true pulse of his establishments.
He decided against informing his secretary, a woman whose efficiency was matched only by her discretion.
A simple text would suffice: "Working from home today. All calls to be forwarded to my private line." That would buy him the freedom he needed. He wouldn't bring his usual driver, nor his security detail. He would take a public bus, perhaps even walk. He wanted the full, unvarnished experience.
His wardrobe, usually filled with bespoke suits and polished leather shoes, held little that would pass for "pauper." He rummaged through an old chest in his attic, unearthing forgotten clothes from his university days, items he'd kept for sentimental reasons or perhaps just forgotten to discard. He found a faded, somewhat baggy cotton shirt with a single loose thread at the hem, a pair of worn denim trousers that had seen better decades, and a pair of scuffed, generic walking shoes. He deliberately ruffled his usually immaculate silver hair, added a slight slump to his shoulders, and traded his expensive watch for a cheap, plastic one. Looking in the mirror, he almost didn't recognize himself. Good.
He chose five key restaurants, strategically located in different cities across the Kingdom of Poh. Each represented a different price point, a different segment of his market. He hailed a rickshaw, giving a nondescript address a few blocks from the bus terminal, just to avoid any familiar faces at his usual pickup spot.
His first destination was "Hearty Cafe" in Silverbell City, one of his more popular mid-range family dining branches. As he approached, he noticed the cheerful red awning, the clean windows, and the subtle aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from inside. He pushed open the door, the small bell above jingling softly. The hostess, a young woman with a bright smile, greeted him immediately.
"Welcome to Hearty Cafe! Table for one?" she asked, her voice warm and inviting, her eyes momentarily flicking to his attire but not lingering.
"Yes, please," Rick mumbled, trying to sound a little uncertain, a little meek.
She led him to a cozy booth near a window, offering a pleasant view of the bustling street outside. The menu, though familiar, looked different through the lens of his disguise. A waiter, a man in his late twenties with neat hair and a clean apron, appeared almost instantly.
"Good morning, sir. Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" he asked, a small, professional notepad already in hand.
"Just water, please," Rick said, watching him carefully. The waiter nodded, jotted it down, and left without a hint of judgment.
Rick ordered a simple coffee and a fruit pastry. The coffee arrived promptly, hot and fragrant, and the pastry was delivered shortly after, flaky and sweet. The waiter checked back twice, unobtrusively, to ensure everything was to his liking. Rick observed the manager, a middle-aged woman, circulating through the dining area, occasionally pausing to chat with customers or assist her staff. Her presence was reassuring, not overbearing.
When he asked for the bill, it was presented efficiently. Rick left a generous tip, far more than his pauper facade would suggest, then subtly motioned for the manager. She approached, a polite question on her face.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Rick began, lowering his voice slightly. "I just wanted to say, your staff here, particularly the young man who served me, is exceptional. The service was truly commendable."
The manager beamed. "Oh, thank you so much, sir! I'll be sure to pass that on to Mark. We pride ourselves on our service."
Rick gave her a small, knowing smile. "Indeed. You should. By the way," he paused, pulling out a business card from his worn wallet – a generic, unbranded one he carried for such occasions, devoid of his usual corporate crest, but bearing only his name and the Mount Foods Corp logo, "I'm Rick Lane."
The manager's eyes widened, a gasp catching in her throat. She looked from the card to his shabby attire, then back to the card, a blush creeping up her neck. "Mr. Lane! I… I had no idea! My sincerest apologies, sir, for not recognizing you."
Rick chuckled softly. "No need to apologize, Mira. That was precisely the point. You've nothing to apologize for. In fact, you've reinforced my faith in this branch. Keep up the excellent work. Tell Mark I'll be sending him a commendation bonus."
Maria's relief was palpable. "Thank you, Mr. Lane! Thank you so much! It means the world to us."
Rick told her to keep this visit to herself.
Rick exited Hearty Cafe with a quiet sense of satisfaction. One down, four to go.
His next stop was "The Silver Spoon Bistro" in Port City, a place known for its brisk lunch service. This time, he found a table nestled in a slightly darker corner, hoping to blend in. A waiter approached, and Rick immediately noticed his demeanor. He was a stocky man with a perpetual frown etched on his face, his movements efficient but lacking any warmth. He slammed the menu down with a soft thump, not quite looking Rick in the eye.
"What can I get you?" he grunted, his voice a low rumble.
Rick internally braced himself. "Just a sandwich and a soda, please."
The waiter scribbled it down without a word, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the kitchen. Rick watched him, observing his interactions with other tables. He was consistently gruff, never smiling, but his orders were accurate, his service timely, and he refilled water glasses without being asked. When he brought Rick's sandwich, he didn't offer a pleasantry, but he did place it down carefully and asked, "Anything else?"
"No, thank you," Rick replied, a faint amusement playing on his lips.
The food was decent, and the service was adequate. When the bill arrived, Rick paid it, leaving a standard tip. He didn't introduce himself. This waiter, while lacking the effusive charm of Mark from Hearty Cafe, was undeniably competent. He delivered on the core function of his job, even if his personality was like a cloudy day. Rick understood that not everyone could be a ray of sunshine, but professional execution was non-negotiable. He left, adding a mental note: Competence over forced friendliness, but warmth is always preferred.
The journey to Emerald City for his third stop, "The Sweet Cauldron," was longer, and Rick felt a growing weariness. He was no longer a spry young man, and pretending to be down on his luck, coupled with the mental vigilance required for these inspections, was more draining than he anticipated. The Sweet Cauldron was one of his larger, more fashionable branches, situated in a trendy district, attracting a younger, more affluent crowd. This was where he expected a challenge.
As he walked in, he immediately felt the shift in atmosphere. The hostess at the entrance, immaculately dressed, barely glanced at him, her eyes sweeping over his worn clothes with a flicker of disdain before she turned to greet a couple in designer attire. Rick had to clear his throat to get her attention.
"Table for one?" he asked, attempting to project a sense of quiet patience.
She sighed, a barely perceptible puff of air, then gestured vaguely towards a small, poorly lit table near the kitchen entrance. "Over there," she mumbled, not bothering to lead him.
Rick walked over, a knot tightening in his stomach. This was it. He sat down, the cheap plastic watch on his wrist feeling heavier than his usual timepiece. He waited. And waited. Waiters bustled past, their trays laden with elaborate dishes, their laughter echoing through the vibrant dining room. None spared him a glance. Five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen. His irritation began to simmer.
shared secret humming between them.