Chapter 22 The Rot he found
Finally, a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, sauntered over. He had a smirk playing on his lips, and his eyes, cold and dismissive, barely made contact with Rick's. His crisp white shirt was immaculate, but his attitude was anything but.
"What do you want?" the waiter asked, not even bothering with a polite greeting, his tone laced with thinly veiled contempt. He leaned against the empty table next to Rick's, arms crossed, clearly bored.
Rick took a deep breath, fighting the urge to stand up and scream. "I'd like a menu, please, and a glass of water," he said, keeping his voice even, despite the tremor of suppressed anger.
The waiter snorted. "Menu's on the table. Can't you see it?" He pointed with his chin. Rick looked down. Indeed, a crumpled, dog-eared menu was tucked under a forgotten sugar caddy. He had missed it in the dim light. The waiter pushed himself off the table, moving sluggishly. "Water. Right." He didn't move to get it. He just stood there, waiting for Rick to order.
"I haven't even looked at the menu yet," Rick pointed out, his voice now sharper. "And I'd still like some water."
"Look, pal, we're busy here," the waiter drawled, his eyes sweeping over Rick's faded shirt again. "Just pick something. The kitchen closes in an hour."
Rick felt a cold fury settle in his chest. This was not just bad service; this was blatant disrespect, a deliberate act of contempt. He could see other customers receiving attentive service, smiling waiters, and constant check-ins. He was being treated like a nuisance, an unwelcome stain on the pristine floor of The Sweet Cauldron.
"Actually," Rick said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, "I think I'd like to speak with your manager."
The waiter smirked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, a complaint already? What, can't afford the prices, old man?" He snickered, loud enough for a couple at a nearby table to glance over. "Look, just tell me what you want, and I'll see about getting you that water."
"No," Rick stated, rising slowly from the booth, his eyes fixed on the waiter's. "I want to speak to the manager. Now."
The waiter's smugness faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "Fine, whatever. Don't go crying to him, though. He's my uncle, you know." He puffed out his chest slightly, a renewed sense of impunity in his posture. "He won't just fire his favorite nephew because some hobo doesn't like his service." He turned on his heel and disappeared towards the back.
Rick stood by the table, waiting. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from a righteous indignation that he hadn't felt in years. This was precisely the rot he had feared. This wasn't just a lapse; it was systemic. A manager who protects incompetence, fostering an environment where a customer could be openly mocked and dismissed based on their appearance. This was an affront to everything Mount Foods Corp stood for.
A few minutes later, the manager appeared, a portly man in his late forties, looking flustered. He approached Rick with a forced, wary smile. "Good afternoon, sir. My nephew tells me you have a complaint?" His eyes, too, did a quick appraisal of Rick's clothes, and the smile tightened. The waiter stood a few paces behind him, a smug, triumphant look on his face.
Rick looked at the manager, then at the waiter, with a slow, deliberate gaze. "Yes," he said, his voice calm, cutting through the background noise of the restaurant. "I do have a complaint. Several, in fact. My name is Rick Lane." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, watching for a reaction.
The manager's face went white. The color drained from his cheeks as if someone had pulled a plug. His eyes darted to Rick's face, a sudden recognition dawning, then to his shabby clothes, and back again, confusion and horror battling for dominance. The waiter behind him, initially unaffected, suddenly froze, his smirk vanishing as he registered his uncle's profound shock.
"Mr. Lane?" the manager stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "But... but you're..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Rick's attire.
Rick gave him a sharp, humorless smile. "Yes, Mr. Davies. I am. And I've been sitting at that table for nearly twenty minutes, ignored, then spoken to with utter contempt by your 'nephew' here. Apparently, I'm a 'hobo' who can't afford your prices." Rick's gaze flicked to the waiter. "And it seems your nephew is quite proud of his familial connection, believing it grants him immunity from basic customer service standards. Is that correct?"
By this time, a few eyes were attracted by what was happening on this side. A few customers began to whisper to each other, asking who the man was.
Mr. Davies swallowed hard, his eyes wide with panic. "No, sir! Of course not, sir! This is a terrible misunderstanding." He rounded on the waiter. "Leo! What have you done?"
The waiter, Leo, suddenly looked like a deer caught in headlights. His smugness had evaporated, replaced by genuine terror. He tried to stammer out an excuse, but no words came.
"There's no misunderstanding, Mr. Davies," Rick interjected, his voice firm and unwavering. "This young man," he gestured to Leo, "has demonstrated a complete disregard for our customers, a profound lack of respect, and an alarming sense of entitlement. He represents everything Mount Foods Corp strives not to be. This is not about one customer's experience, Mr. Davies; it's about the integrity of our brand. It's about every single person who walks through our doors, regardless of how they are dressed or how much they appear to be worth."
He stepped closer to the manager, his voice dropping slightly, but with an intensity that brooked no argument. "You, as the manager, are responsible for the conduct of your staff. And you, Mr. Davies, have allowed this rot to fester because he is your nephew. Not only he, but a lot of your staff are doing the same. That is a gross dereliction of your duty." Rick turned his gaze back to Leo and then at the waiters, who were stunned in place.
He then looks back at Leo. "You, young man, are fired. Effective immediately. Clean out your locker and leave the premises. Don't bother clocking out. Your final pay will be mailed to you."
Leo's jaw dropped. "Fired? You can't! My uncle—"
"Your uncle can do nothing… unless he wants to be fired too," Rick cut him off, his voice like ice. "I am Rick Lane, and I own this establishment. You are fired. Now leave."
Leo, pale and trembling, looked at his uncle, who could only offer a weak, helpless shrug. Defeated, Leo turned and trudged towards the staff entrance.
Rick turned back to the manager. "And Mr. Davies, you will be on probation for the next three months. During that time, I will personally be monitoring this branch, and I will be sending others to do the same, unannounced. If I see one more poor service, or if I find any evidence of favoritism, you will follow your nephew out the door. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Lane! Perfectly, sir! I understand," Mr. Davies stammered, profusely apologizing, bowing his head. "I am truly, truly sorry. It will never happen again. I will personally retrain every member of staff. I promise, sir."
Of course, he would. As a manager of restaurant he is being paid high salaries that many of his peers envies. So how could he let go of the job? He could only scold his nephew in his mind for being too disrespectful.
Rick simply nodded curtly. "See that you do. Your apology means nothing without action." He turned and walked out of The Sweet Cauldron, leaving behind a stunned silence in his wake. The air outside felt cooler, cleaner. The incident had left a bitter taste, but also a renewed sense of purpose.
The fourth restaurant, "The Iron Pot Cafe" in Emerald Grove, was a cozy, bustling place, and Rick found the service to be consistently attentive and friendly, much like his first stop. The staff worked seamlessly, anticipating needs without being intrusive. He ordered a simple soup and bread, observing the smooth operation, the genuine smiles, the efficiency. No drama, just good, honest service. He left, feeling a sense of quiet approval.
His final stop was "The Platinum Platter" in Capital City, his flagship fine-dining establishment. It was already night time. Here, the standards were inherently high, and he expected nothing less than perfection. He was seated by a deferential maître d', and the waiters, dressed impeccably, moved with an almost balletic grace. The service was polished, professional, and discreet. His every need was anticipated, his glass never empty, his bread basket always full. He ordered a small appetizer and a single glass of wine, savoring the experience. It was a stark contrast to The Sweet Cauldron. This was the standard he expected, the standard he demanded.
By the time he returns to his mansion in City Bee, the moon is already high in the sky, bright, silver light across the sprawling gardens. He was utterly exhausted, physically and mentally. He peeled off the pauper clothes, tossing them into a laundry basket with a sense of finality. He took a long, hot shower, washing away the grime of the day and the lingering frustrations.
Sitting in his study, a glass of amber liquid in hand, Rick reflected on the day. The good experiences had been truly good, reaffirming the quality of many of his teams. But The Sweet Cauldron… that was a wake-up call. Relying solely on reports, on numbers, on manager feedback, was not enough. He needed eyes and ears where he couldn't be, a constant, anonymous vigilance.
He picked up his private phone. "Get me Mr. Harrison," he instructed his assistant. Mr. Harrison was a former intelligence officer Rick had occasionally used for discreet, sensitive matters. "Tell him I need him to assemble a small, highly confidential committee. Their sole task will be anonymous customer experience checks across all our branches, focusing specifically on staff attitude and service quality. They report only to me. And they are to be ruthless. No sacred cows." This new "Customer Experience Oversight Committee" would be his unseen army, ensuring that every Mount Foods Corp establishment upheld the values he believed in.