It was cool. Jordan Ellis, who owns Ellis Eats Dinner, walked out of his black SUV on Monday morning. He was wearing jeans, a faded hoodie, and a knit cap that was pulled down over his forehead. He used to wear tight clothes and good shoes, but now he seemed like a regular middle-aged man, maybe even a homeless person to some. But he needed a fresh look.
Jordan became a millionaire. In ten years, his cafe went from one food truck to a chain of restaurants all across the city. But lately, clients had started to complain about poor service, unfriendly workers, and even reports of mistreatment. Reviews on the internet have gone from five stars to nasty rants.
Food
Jordan decided to do something he hadn’t done in years: go into his own business as a normal person instead of dispatching corporate spies or putting up extra cameras.
He chose the downtown branch, which was the first one he opened and where his mother used to help him make pies. As he crossed the street, he could hear the hum of engines and the footsteps of people walking in the early morning. The smell of bacon cooking filled the room. His heart was beating fast.
He spotted the usual red booths and checkered floor inside the diner. It hadn’t changed much. But the faces had changed.
There were two cashiers at the counter. One was a thin young woman in a pink apron who was chewing gum noisily and typing on her phone. The second one was older, heavier, had tired eyes, and a name tag that said “Deпise.” Neither of them saw him come in.
He waited for almost half a minute. No hello. No. “Hello, welcome!” Nothing.
“Next!” Denise eventually barked, but he didn’t even look up.
Denise eyed him up and down, taking in the wrinkles on his sweater and the scuffs on his sneakers. “Uh-huh.” What do you want?
“I want breakfast with a sandwich.” Eggs, cheese, and bacon. And kindly give me a cup of black coffee.
Denise heaved out a large sigh, clicked a few buttons on the computer, and said, “Seven-fifty.”
He pulled a wrinkled ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it and put the money on the counter without saying a word.
Jordan sat in a booth in the corner, drank his coffee, and watched. There were a lot of people around, but the staff appeared bored and even furious. A mom with two young kids had to repeat her order three times. A unpleasant person waved away an old man who wanted to inquire about a discount for seniors. One worker dropped a dish and yelled so loudly that kids could hear him.
But what he heard next made Jordan halt.
The young cashier in the pink apron leaned over the counter and asked Denise, “Did you see that guy who just ordered the sandwich?” He smells like he slept on the metro.
Denise laughed. “Yes, I know.” I thought we were a restaurant, not a shelter. Watch him try to acquire more bacon like he has money.
Both of them laughed.
Jordan’s grip on his coffee cup got tighter. His knuckles went white. He wasn’t wounded by the slur, but the thought that his employees were making fun of a customer, especially one who might be poor, really hurt. He started his firm to aid people like these: honest, hard-working, and having a hard time. And now, his workers were treating them like dirt.
While he waited for his food, he saw another man in a construction suit come in and ask for a drink. Denise gave him a dirty look and said, “Don’t hang around if you’re not going to buy anything else.”
That’s it.
Jordan cautiously stood up, leaving his sandwich alone, and went to the counter.
Jordan Ellis stopped only a few steps from the counter, still holding his breakfast sandwich. Denise’s cold answer stunned the construction worker. He softly moved back and sat in the corner. The young cashier with the pink apron was laughing and scrolling through her phone again, not knowing that a storm was coming.
Jordan coughed.
Neither woman looked up.
He said, “Excuse me,” louder this time.
Denise finally looked up after rolling her eyes. “Sir, the customer service number is on the back of the receipt if you have a problem.”
Jordan remarked in a low voice, “I don’t need the number.” “I just want to know one thing.” Is this how you treat all of your clients, or only the ones you think don’t have any money?
Denise blinked. “What’s up?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” remarked the teenage cashier.
“Didn’t do anything wrong?” Jordan said it again, but this time he spoke loudly. “You made fun of me behind my back because I looked like I didn’t belong here.” Then you treated a paying consumer like trash. This isn’t a private club or a place to gossip. It’s dinner time. Dinner for me.
The two women stopped moving. Denise tried to say something, but nothing came out.
He took off his knit cap and drew up his hood. He went on to say, “My name is Jordan Ellis.” “This is my place.”
The dinner was really quiet. Some customers nearby stopped to look. The cook in the kitchen peered outside.
“No way,” the younger woman answered.
“Yes, way,” Jordan responded coldly. “I opened this dinner with my bare hands.” My mom used to bake pies here. We made this place so that everyone could use it. People who build things. People who are older. Also included are mothers who are taking care of their kids. People who are having trouble getting by until payday. “You don’t get to pick who deserves kindness.”
Denise’s face had gone pale. The younger one dropped her phone.
Denise started with, “Let me explain—”
“No,” Jordan answered. “I’ve heard enough.” And the cameras have too.
He looked up at the corner of the ceiling, where there was a hidden camera. “Those mics?” Yes, they do work. Everything you say is being taped. And it’s not the first time.
At that point, a man in his 50s named Ruben, who was in charge of the restaurant, came out of the kitchen. He was astonished when he saw Jordan.
“Mr. Ellis?!”
Jordan remarked, “Hey, Rυbeп.” “We need to talk.”
Ruben nodded and opened his eyes wide.
Jordan turned back to the ladies. “Neither of you has a job.” Starting right immediately. Rυbeп will decide if you can stay if you come back after retraining. I’m going to stay here for the rest of the day and work behind the counter. “Watch me if you want to learn how to treat customers.”
Jordan didn’t back down even when the young woman started to cry. “Don’t cry because you got caught.” You change because you feel bad.
When Jordan got behind the counter, they discreetly left with their heads down. He put on an apron, made a new cup of coffee, and went to talk to the person who was building something.
“Hey man,” Jordan replied as he set the cup down. “On the house.” And thanks for being patient.
The man looked surprised. “Wait—you’re the one who owns it?”
“Yes.” And I’m sorry for what you went through. That’s not how we do things.
Jordan worked the counter by himself for the next hour. Jordan smiled at every client, filled their coffee without being asked, and helped a mother move her tray to the table while her toddler cried. He talked to the cook, picked up napkins from the floor, and made sure to shake hands with Ms. Thompson, a regular who had been coming in since 2016.
People in the store started to whisper, “Is that really him?” A few folks took pictures using their phones. “I wish more bosses would do what you’re doing,” said an aging man.
Jordan walked outside at midday to get some fresh air. The sky was blue and the air was warmer. As he looked back at his dinner, he felt both proud and let down. The business had expanded, but at some point, the values had started to fade away.
But not anymore.
He pulled out his phone and texted the HR manager.
“New mandatory training: Everyone on staff has to work with me for one full shift.” No exclusions.
Then he went back inside, tightened his apron, and smiled as he took the next order.
