Jordan was a self-made millionaire. His restaurant had grown from a simple food truck to a citywide chain in 10 years.
It was a crisp Monday morning when Jordan Ellis , owner of Ellis Eats Diner , stepped out of his black SUV dressed in jeans, a faded hoodie, and a wool hat pulled down over his forehead. He usually wore tailored suits and expensive shoes, but that day he looked like an ordinary middle-aged man, even homeless to some. And that was exactly what he wanted.
Jordan was a self-made millionaire. His restaurant had grown from a single food truck to a citywide chain. But lately, customer complaints were piling up: slow service, rude employees, and even rumors of abuse. Online reviews had gone from glowing five-star ratings to bitter comments.
Instead of sending corporate spies or installing more cameras, Jordan decided to do what he hadn’t done in years: go into his own business as an ordinary customer.
She chose the downtown branch, the first one they’d opened, where her mother used to help out baking cakes. As she crossed the street, she felt the bustle of cars and early morning pedestrians. The smell of sizzling bacon wafted through the air. Her heart raced.
Inside, he was greeted by the same red seats and checkered floor as always. Not much had changed. But the faces had.
Behind the counter were two cashiers. One was a thin young woman in a pink apron, chewing gum loudly and checking her phone. The other was older, heavier, with tired eyes and a name tag that read “Denise.” Neither of them noticed me come in.
He waited patiently for about thirty seconds. No greeting. No « Hello, welcome! » Nothing.
—“Next!” Denise finally barked, without even looking at him.
Jordan took a step forward.
—“Good morning,” he said, trying to disguise his voice.
Denise looked him over, noticing his wrinkled sweatshirt and worn shoes.
« Uh-huh. What do you want? »
—“A breakfast sandwich. Bacon, egg, and cheese. And a black coffee, please.”
Denise sighed dramatically, pressed some buttons on the screen and murmured,
« Seven fifty. »
Jordan pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill and handed it to her. She snatched it and threw the change on the counter without a word.
Jordan sat in a corner, sipping his coffee and observing. The place was packed, but the staff looked bored, even annoyed. A woman with two small children had to repeat her order three times. An elderly man who asked about the senior discount was rudely ushered out. An employee dropped a tray and let out a curse so loud that all the children heard.
But what made Jordan freeze was what he heard next.
From behind the counter, the young cashier in the pink apron leaned toward Denise and said,
« Did you see the guy who ordered the sandwich? He smells like he slept on the subway. »
Denise giggled.
“I know, right? I thought we were a restaurant, not a shelter. You’ll see, he’ll be asking for more bacon like he’s got money.”
Supermarkets
Jordan’s hands tightened around his coffee cup. His knuckles turned white. It wasn’t the insult that hurt him personally, but the fact that his own employees were mocking a customer, and worse, someone who might be homeless. These were the kinds of people he wanted to serve: hardworking, humble, resilient. And now, his staff was treating them like garbage.
She saw a man in construction uniform come in and ask for a glass of water while he waited for his order. Denise looked at him disdainfully and said,
« If you’re not going to buy anything else, don’t stay here. »
Enough.
Jordan stood up slowly, his sandwich untouched in his hand, and walked towards the counter.
Jordan stopped a few steps away, still holding the sandwich. The construction worker, surprised by Denise’s rude response, backed away and sat in the corner. The young cashier was still laughing, distracted by her phone, oblivious to the approaching storm.
Jordan cleared his throat.
None of them looked up.
—“Excuse me,” he said louder.
Denise rolled her eyes and finally looked at him.
« Sir, if you have a complaint, the customer service number is on the receipt. »
“I don’t need the number,” Jordan replied calmly. “I just want to know something. Do you treat all your customers like this, or only those you think don’t have money?”
Denise blinked.
—“What?”
The young woman intervened:
—“We didn’t do anything wrong—”
“Nothing wrong?” Jordan repeated, his voice firm. “They made fun of me because they thought I didn’t belong here. And then they treated a customer like garbage. This isn’t a private club. It’s a restaurant. My restaurant.”
The two women froze. Denise opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
“My name is Jordan Ellis,” he said, taking off his hood and hat. “I own this place.”
The silence fell like a hammer. Several customers turned to look. The cook poked his head out from the kitchen.
—“It can’t be” —whispered the young woman.
“Yes, you can,” Jordan replied coldly. “I opened this place with my own hands. My mother used to bake cakes here. We built this to serve everyone: laborers, retirees, mothers with children, people who are barely making ends meet. You don’t get to decide who deserves kindness.”
Denise’s face turned pale. The young woman dropped her phone.
—“Let me explain—” Denise began.
“No,” Jordan interrupted. “I’ve heard enough. And so have the cameras.”
He pointed to a discreet camera on the ceiling.
—“The microphones? Yes, they work. Every word is recorded. And it’s not the first time.”
At that moment, the manager, a middle-aged man named Ruben, came out. He opened his eyes in surprise when he saw Jordan.
—“Mr. Ellis?!”
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