“And Augustine’s worked?”
“At first.”
There was that phrase.
At first.
I had heard it in employee exit interviews too often.
“What changed?”
Before she could answer, Shaw appeared.
“Carter.”
Naomi turned.
“Yes?”
“Table twelve needs water.”
“I just checked them.”
“They need water.”
His tone was sharp enough that nearby guests heard it.
Naomi nodded.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Shaw looked at me.
Then at the half-finished soup.
“Everything all right?”
“Very good.”
He gave me a professional smile.
“Excellent.”
Then to Naomi:
“Move.”
She left.
Shaw remained.
I looked up at him.
“Is there a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“With her?”
His smile held.
“Naomi needs direction.”
“She seems competent.”
“You’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“True.”
He tilted his head.
“We manage based on a much larger picture.”
“I’m sure.”
He walked away.
A much larger picture.
That phrase stayed with me.
A few months earlier, our quarterly report had shown elevated turnover at Augustine’s.
Not catastrophic.
Higher than our group average.
Shaw had explained it during an operations call.
Competitive labor market.
Students leaving.
Seasonal workers moving.
Normal churn.
His regional director accepted the explanation.
So had I.
Now I wondered what the people who left would have called it.
Naomi returned a few minutes later.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
She glanced toward Shaw.
“Your steak will take about ten more minutes.”
“That’s fine.”
She started to leave.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What does Mr. Shaw mean when he says you need direction?”
Her face became unreadable.
“That’s probably a question for Mr. Shaw.”
“I’m asking you.”
Naomi looked around.
The instinctive movement was subtle.
Checking who could hear.
That told me almost as much as whatever she might say.
“Why?”
“Because he called you disposable before you came to my table.”
The color changed in her face.
“You heard that?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the service station again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because…”
She stopped.
Then shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was honest enough to hurt.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
Naomi stood very still.
Then she said, “May I bring your entrée first?”
“Of course.”
She left.
The ribeye arrived eight minutes later.
Perfectly cooked.
Naomi placed it in front of me with potatoes and greens.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“I’ll check back.”
She turned.
Then stopped.
Her hand slipped into the pocket of her apron.
She pulled out a folded piece of receipt paper.
For a moment, she held it.
Then placed it beneath the edge of my bread plate.
“Please don’t read that until I walk away.”
I looked at her.
“Okay.”
She left.
I waited.
She disappeared through the kitchen doors.
Then I opened the note.
It was written quickly in blue ink.
If you’re really a customer and not one of Shaw’s friends, please check your bill carefully before paying.
That was the first line.
The second was worse.
Ask why the service fee doesn’t always reach the staff.
I stopped reading.
Then continued.
There were four short lines.
Employees who questioned tip adjustments lost good sections.
Hours were changed after complaints.
People who spoke to regional management were labeled “difficult.”
One former server had apparently kept screenshots.
At the bottom Naomi had written:
I don’t know who to tell anymore.
I folded the note.
Then looked across the dining room.
The restaurant appeared exactly as it had twenty minutes earlier.