They’ll know exactly how to include it in the story.”
Mr. Caruso beamed. “Ma’am, you’re a blessing.
What would you like for dessert? It’s on the house.”
She laughed. “Chocolate lava cake!”
That night, as I sat in front of a camera for the local news, I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.
But when I started describing the awful treatment I received, my voice grew steadier. “No one should be treated that way,” I said, meeting the camera’s lens. “It’s not about the money.
It’s about basic respect.”
The news station aired Nadine’s footage, blurring the Thompsons’ faces, just letting their behavior speak for itself. By the next morning, the story was everywhere. Social media was ablaze with comments.
Some praised my patience, and others condemned the family’s behavior. Our restaurant’s page was flooded with messages of support, and customers started showing up in droves. I should’ve been thrilled, but the whole thing still felt surreal, like I was watching it happen to someone else.
Then, just as I thought things might settle down, the Thompsons showed up. It was during the lunch rush. Mr.
Thompson stormed in, his face red and his finger raised to point at my face. “Where’s your manager?” he bellowed. Mr.
Caruso stepped out from behind the counter, looking as calm as ever. “Sir, what can I do for you?” he asked. “You released that footage!
It’s defamation! My wife and I are being harassed, and we’re prepared to sue! We’ll press charges too!
Take it down immediately and retract what that lazy waitress said!”
Mr. Caruso folded his arms, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Sir, the news story didn’t show your face or your name.
So, you’re welcome to call the police. But that would mean admitting that it was your family that dined and dashed on an $850 bill. Would you like me to dial for you?”
Mr.
Thompson faltered, glancing around as other customers pulled out their phones to record. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Stepping closer, Mrs.
Thompson tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s just pay and leave,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Realizing he had no other option, Mr.
Thompson reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, slamming his credit card onto the counter. “Fine,” he muttered. “And a-add a tip.”
Mr.
Caruso arched an eyebrow, smiling widely. “How generous,” he said as he ran the card. The room buzzed with quiet murmurs.
Seconds later, Mr. Caruso handed the receipt back to Mr. Thompson.
“Thank you for settling your account. I’m sure you’ll sleep better tonight.”
As they turned to leave, Mr. Thompson glanced back over his shoulder.
‘You’ll tell people we paid, right?’ he asked, his tone pleading now. Mr. Caruso smiled again, this time with an unmistakable glint of mischief.
“We’ll see.”
The Thompsons hurried out. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, the room erupted into applause. I stood there, stunned.
Although it may sound amusing, I wasn’t the kind of person to enjoy such drama. For the rest of the day, the restaurant was buzzing. By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted.
That evening, Mr. Caruso called me into his office. “Erica,” he said, gesturing for me to sit, “I’ve been watching how you’ve handled all of this, and I’m impressed.
You’ve shown patience, grace under pressure, and the kind of professionalism that’s hard to come by.”
“Thank you,” I said, still feeling a little dazed. “I think it’s time we made it official,” he continued. “I’d like to promote you to assistant manager.
It comes with a raise, better hours, and, of course, more responsibility. What do you say?”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he replied with a grin.
“You’ve earned it, even before the Thompsons.”
“Wow!” I said, feeling my tiredness draining away. “Thank you!”
We discussed salary and some of my new responsibilities. Later, Mr.
Caruso told me to go home. We would pick up this discussion the following day. But as I walked out of his office, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that we should’ve handled things differently.
“Mr. Caruso,” I said, turning back, “do you think we should’ve called the police straight away? I mean, they did dine and dash.”
He smiled, leaning back on his chair.
“Justice was served, Erica. Look at the support we got. That’s all that matters.
Some dine-and-dashers get away with it, and the restaurant never sees that money. Instead, you helped us make more.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in. Maybe he was right.
The restaurant had turned a bad situation into a triumph, and the good guys had won.
