It was cool. Jordan Ellis, the proprietor of 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 low over his forehead. He used to wear tailored clothes and fine shoes, but now he seemed like a regular middle-aged man, or even a homeless person to others. But his new look was exactly what he needed.
Jordan became a millionaire. In ten years, his cafe went from one food truck to a network of restaurants around the city. But lately, consumers had been complaining about delayed service, unfriendly staff, and even reports of maltreatment. Reviews on the internet have gone from five stars to nasty rants.
Food
Jordan decided to do something he hadn’t done in years: walk inside his own firm as a regular person instead of dispatching corporate spies or putting up extra cameras.
He chose the branch in the downtown area, which was the first one he opened and where his mother used to help him make pies. He could hear the bustle of automobiles and early-morning walkers as he crossed the street. The smell of bacon cooking filled the air. His heart raced.
He spotted the usual red booths and checkered floor inside the diner. It hadn’t changed a lot. But the faces had changed.
There were two cashiers behind the counter. One was a thin young woman with a pink apron who was typing on her phone and chewing gum noisily. The second one was older, heavier, and had tired eyes. Their name tag said “Deпise.” They both didn’t see him come in.
He waited for around 30 seconds. No hello. No. “Hi, welcome!” Nothing.
“Next!” Denise eventually yelled, but he didn’t even look up.
Denise eyed him up and down, taking in the wrinkles in his sweater and the holes in his sneakers. “Uh-huh.” What do you want?
“I want a sandwich for breakfast.” Eggs, cheese, and bacon. Please give me a cup of black coffee.
Denise sighed heavily, clicked a few buttons on the computer, and said, “Seven-fifty.”
He pulled a crumpled ten-dollar cash out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it and put the money on the counter without saying anything.
Jordan sat in a corner booth, drank his coffee, and watched. There were a lot of people around, but the staff appeared bored and even furious. A mom with two small kids had to repeat her order three times. Someone aggressively blew off an old man who wanted to know about a discount for seniors. One worker dropped a plate and swore so loudly that kids could hear it.
But what he heard next made Jordan stop dead in his tracks.
The young cashier in the pink apron leaned over the counter and asked Denise, “Did you see the guy who just ordered the sandwich?” He smells like he has been sleeping on the train.
Denise laughed. “Yeah, I know.” I thought we were a restaurant, not a safe place. Watch him try to acquire more bacon like he has cash.
They both laughed.
Jordan’s grip on his coffee cup got tighter. His knuckles grew pale. The comment didn’t upset him personally, but the thought that his employees were making fun of a customer, especially one who might be poor, really hurt. He had started his firm to aid people like this: honest, hard-working, and in need. And now, his workers were treating them like garbage.
While he was waiting for his order, he spotted a man in a construction uniform come in and ask for water. Denise stared at him with distaste and said, “Don’t hang around if you’re not going to buy anything else.”
That’s enough.
Jordan got up cautiously, leaving his sandwich on the table, and went to the counter.
Jordan Ellis stopped a few steps from the counter, still holding his breakfast sandwich. The construction worker was astonished by how cold Denise’s answer was. He gently moved back and sat down in the corner. The young cashier with the pink apron was laughing and looking through her phone again, not knowing that a storm was on the way.
Jordan coughed.
Neither of the women looked up.
“Excuse me,” he continued in a louder voice.
Denise finally looked up after rolling her eyes. “Sir, if you have a problem, you can call customer service at the number on the back of the receipt.”
Jordan remarked in a hushed voice, “I don’t need the number.” “I only want to know one thing.” Do you treat all of your clients this way, or only the ones you think don’t have any money?
Denise blinked. “What’s going on?”
The teenage cashier remarked, “We didn’t do anything wrong—”
“Didn’t do anything wrong?” This time, Jordan shouted it again, but his voice was louder. “You made fun of me behind my back because I looked like I didn’t belong here.” Then you talked to a paying customer like he was trash. This isn’t a private club or a place to gossip. It’s a meal. “That’s my dinner.”
The two women stopped moving. Denise opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
He took off his knit hat and drew back his hood. He also said, “My name is Jordan Ellis.” “I own this place.”
During supper, there was a lot of stillness. A few customers nearby stopped to look. The cook gazed out the window from the kitchen.
The younger woman answered, “No way.”
Jordan responded in a chilly voice, “Yes, way.” “I opened this dinner with my hands.” This is where my mom used to cook pies. We made this place for everyone. People who work in construction. People who are older. Mothers who are taking care of their kids are also featured. People who are having trouble getting to payday. “You’re not the one who decides who deserves kindness.”
Denise’s face had become pale. The younger one let go of her phone.
“Let me explain,” Denise said.
Jordan answered, “No.” “I’ve had enough.” The cameras have too.
He looked up at the corner of the ceiling, where a camera was hidden. “Those mics?” They do work, yes. They are recording whatever you say. And this isn’t the first time.
A middle-aged man named Ruben, who was the manager of the restaurant, came out of the kitchen at that point. He seemed astonished when he saw Jordan.
“Mr. Ellis?!”
“Hey, Rυbeп,” Jordaп said. “We need to talk.”
Ruben nodded, his eyes wide open.
Jordan looked back at the woman. “Both of you are out of work.” Right away. Rυbeп will decide if you can stay if you come back after retraining. For now, I’m going to stay here and work behind the counter for the rest of the day. “Watch me if you want to learn how to treat customers.”
The young woman began to cry, but Jordan didn’t give in. “Don’t cry because you got caught.” You change because you don’t feel well.
They silently walked out with their heads down as Jordan got behind the counter. He put on an apron, made a new cup of coffee, and walked up to the guy who was building something.
Jordan said, “Hey man,” as he set the cup down. “On the house.” And thanks for being patient.
The man seemed shocked. “Hold on—you’re the owner?”
“Yes.” And I’m sorry for what you had to go through. We don’t do that.
Jordan worked the counter by himself for the next hour. Jordan smiled at each client, refilled their coffee without being asked, and helped a lady move her tray to the table while her toddler cried. He talked to the cook, picked up napkins off 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 used their phones to take pictures. “I wish more bosses would do what you’re doing,” said an aging man.
Around noon, Jordan walked outside to get some fresh air. The sky was blue and the air was warmer. He was happy of what he had made for supper, but he also felt let down. The business had expanded, but at some point, the values had started to fade.
But not anymore.
He pulled out his phone and sent a message to the HR manager.
“New required training: Everyone on staff has to work with me for a whole shift.” No exclusions.
After that, he went back inside, tightened his apron, and took the next order with a smile.