Realizing he had no other choice, Mr. Thompson reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slammed his credit card on the counter. “Fine,” he muttered. “A – and add a tip.”
Mr. Caruso raised an eyebrow, grinning widely. “How very generous,” he said as he swiped the card.
The room filled with quiet whispers. Moments later, Mr. Caruso handed the receipt back to Mr. Thompson. “Thank you for settling your bill. 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 now pleading.
Mr. Caruso smiled again, this time with a definite twinkle of mischief. “We’ll see.”
The Thompsons scurried out. As soon as the door closed behind them, the room erupted in applause. I stood there, stunned. As much as it might seem like a funny story, I wasn’t the type to relish such drama.
For the rest of the day, the restaurant was abuzz. By the end of my shift, I was exhausted.
That evening, Mr. Caruso called me into his office. “Erica,” he said, motioning for me to sit, “I’ve been observing how you handled all this, and I’m very impressed. You’ve shown patience, grace under pressure, and a level of professionalism that’s hard to find.”
“Thank you,” I said, still feeling a bit dazed.
“I think it’s time to make 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, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”