by Frank Martinet
I wasn't born rich. I worked my way up from nothing, starting out as a rag boy, wiping down tables and learning everything I could about business. I cleaned the bathrooms, slaved in the hot kitchens washing dishes and chopping and peeling endless vegetables. Eventually, I became a bartender. There's good money in that and I did well, but I wanted more. I wanted to own the restaurant. I got promoted to manager, saved my pennies and quarters, and when the economy took a turn for the worse in the 1970s and the owner hinted he was interested in selling, I gave him a lowball offer which he accepted.
That first restaurant in Brooklyn was little more than a bar that served food. I made a few modifications and turned it into a hot nightclub. Within a few years, I'd opened two more, and then a high-end place in downtown Manhattan serving tiny portions of French cuisine at obscene prices. The money was rolling in, but so were my expenditures. I always worried. I was never secure. I opened a hotel, and then invested in a casino in Atlantic City. My share was miniscule, but it got my foot in the door. Within five years I used the profits to buy a failing casino. I revamped it, brought in some sexy dancing girls, and it became a hit joint. I worked ninety hours a week and loved every minute.
That, of course, was a long time ago. I'm fifty now and I've got an empire of over a hundred ventures from Manhattan to Miami. I work from an air-conditioned office on the top floor of a skyscraper, and I rarely get to see the actual places I own. That's why, every now and then, I like to visit undercover. It's a great way to see how the place is really running, to get the typical customer experience. If I don't like what I see, changes get made.
A few weeks ago, I stopped by one of my restaurants. It's a small place in Soho, modest and unassuming, yet with delicious food, high prices, and luxurious service. The trick to a place like that is to make it seem like a hole-in-the-wall so that when people discover it, they think they're the first and that it's special and unique. That way they not only spread the word to their friends, but they never complain about the bill. Customers are treated like royalty, and I only hire genuinely gorgeous waitresses who know how to flirt without being obvious. I bring in top chefs and give them carte blanche in the kitchen, so they are loyal and motivated. Attention to detail matters, so my managers have to be perfectionists.
Unfortunately, I'd heard some disturbing stories about this particular restaurant. Revenues were still good, but one of the key indicators I track is repeat business, and it was down 27% from the previous year. Raw income can be a deceptive statistic because it just means you're bringing in new customers but repeat ones are the heart and soul of any business. It costs a lot more money to bring in a new customer; repeats bring themselves in. Whenever I see repeat business dropping, it's a red flag that something is wrong and I need to find out what.
I'm not a public figure and I keep a low profile, even amongst my many ventures, so few of my tens of thousands of employees have any idea who I am. Going undercover is easy. I take out my contact lenses and put on a pair of black plastic frame glasses that make me look like a real dork, ruffle my graying hair a little, and skip shaving for a day or two so there's some stubble. I used to try to do something more elaborate like wear a fake mustache but finally I realized that the more complex the disguise, the more open it is to failure. You're better off to just be real. No one has ever recognized me until I've come clean with who I am.
The manager of this place - for simplicity's sake I'll call it Rick's though that's not its real name - was a stunning blond woman named Ava Gordon. She was tall at nearly six feet in her spike heels, elegantly dressed in a simple low-cut Versace gown of midnight blue. Her willowy body swayed as she moved, barely contained milky white breasts shivering in their cups. I could hardly take my eyes off the scrumptious ass, basketball round and solid as a drum, the dress pulled taut over every glorious curve. She led me to my table with a haughty sniff, dropped the menu in front of me, and departed without a word.
I hadn't dressed the part of a rich client. I wore an off-the-rack suit, a crooked tie, and a haggard expression. The question was, would I be treated differently than an obvious millionaire? My first impression was yes. I'd heard good things about Ava, but I certainly didn't feel especially welcomed.
My waitress was a girl I didn't know (I had studied up on Ava). She told me her name was Erica and she was a lovely thing: long glossy black hair, dark eyes, thick full lips and flawless white teeth, an impressive bosom, and curved swelling hips. Her dress was the standard for Rick's: a black halter top with a scandalously short hem, not even halfway down her splendidly thick thighs. She wore black hose on her legs and sturdy heavy-heeled pumps. Unfortunately, she'd added long dangly silver earrings and several thin bracelets to her wrist to her attire and these were dangerous and inappropriate.
Erica was polite and nice, but seemed distracted, and I noticed she spent most of her time at a table with a bunch of young studs, flirting and chit-chatting and ignoring me and other customers. The young guys were not our ideal clientele, either, as they wouldn't buy much or leave a good tip. I saw several older couples and businessmen frowning when Erica dismissed their simple requests for an extra napkin or more coffee with an "Oh sure, Honey," and then failed to deliver.
Another waitress, a cute blond of similar physique to Erica, was obviously her crony and hung out with her at the table with the studs, performing the same sort of lax service.
I asked the couple nearest me if I might borrow their pepper and pretended to use it on my salad. When I returned it, I casually asked them if this was their first time at Rick's.
"Oh no, we've been coming here for years," the woman said, but I caught a hint of dissatisfaction in her voice.
"Has it changed?"
"The food's still wonderful, but the service is definitely not as good as I remember."
The couple had confirmed my fears, that this wasn't an isolated incident. Service is about the little things, and a fine meal can be ruined by a small thing like not having your water glass refilled. People forget the countless good things about the meal and only remember that one negative incident. It's like hitting a home run and then forgetting to touch home plate.
I stayed late, pretending to be a luxurious eater, ordering dozens of items and sampling only a few bites of each. Erica looked at me puzzled one time, asking me if I was a food critic or something.
"No, just curious about all the dishes."
I took thirty minutes sampling the cheese platter. She seemed impatient to see me go, especially when eleven o'clock drew near and the place slowly emptied. "Are you finished, sir?" she said, bringing out my check before I'd asked for it.
"Might I see the dessert menu?"
"Sir, it's nearly closing time."
"Oh dear, really? Is that a problem?"
She looked annoyed, but to her credit at least she didn't complain to my face. While she put in my order for profiteroles and an espresso, I slipped off to the restroom, making my way in a roundabout fashion so that I passed near the hallway to the kitchen. I overheard her whining to the blond waitress about the "awful man at table seven who won't go home" and I smiled. When I came out of the restroom, Erica was whining to Ava about the same problem. "Can't you make him leave?" she asked. "I don't want to be here all night."
As I was tasting the ice-cream filled profiteroles the manager stopped by. I was nearly the only customer left, the last table a large group that had settled their bill and were gathering their coats and departing.
"Everything all right, sir?"
"Delicious."
"We are closing shortly, sir."
"Are you kicking me out?"
Ava looked startled by both my bluntness and my lack of motion. I seemed in no hurry to leave despite showing that I knew it was time, and that confused her.
"Uh, well sir, we do need to start shutting down."
I nodded. "Don't let any of the staff leave, yet. I wish to talk to everyone before they go home."
"Excuse me?"
"Particularly you and the two waitresses: Erica and the blond. I think I heard her name is Catrina?"
"I don't understand. Sir, it's late, we're tired, and we need to go."
"But we have much to discuss," I said. I slipped her my business card. She stared at it for a moment, puzzled, and then recognition of the corporation name that appeared on her paychecks dawned.
"CEO?" she whispered.
"And chairman of the board."
"You own the restaurant."
"I do."
"You're... you're my boss."
"I am."
"Oh." She squirmed, her haughtiness gone. She smiled, but it was filled with nervousness. "Is there something wrong?"
"I will talk to the entire staff, please. Have them assembled."
A few minutes later I gave a short speech, praising the work of everyone. I pointedly left out Ava, Erica, and Catrina. I finished by announcing that everyone but those three could go home when they were finished, and the trio followed me to a dark corner of the restaurant while I dealt with the unpleasantness.
I went over my experiences and observations of the evening. I pointed out the number of times I'd seen Erica and Catrina loitering around the table of the young men, ignoring the needs of paying customers. I explained to Ava my theories about the warning signs of decreased paying customers and detailed my conversation with the couple.
"I'm not saying the service here is terrible, but these are serious problems. You may think they're minor and I'm overreacting, but it's like the broken window theory of crime - you know, where small crimes such as graffiti and littering lead to bigger crimes like mugging and rape. If we eliminate the small service errors, we'll prevent much bigger problems down the road. I'm glad I caught this in time. If I hadn't, this place would be closed within the year."
Ava looked shocked and Catrina eyed me with wide, astonished eyes. Her eyes were very round and I saw her face really was flawless. Next to her, Erica did not look convinced, frowning doubtfully.
"It's a shame, really," I said sadly. "The three of you had great potential."
Ava gasped. "Sir? You're firing us?"
"What!" shouted the two girls. "You can't do that!"
"What choice do I have?"
"We'll get better. We'll work harder," said Erica desperately.
"What about me? I'm included?" asked Ava, stunned pale. "What did I do?"
"Your job is to oversee these two. You failed."
"But... but sir! Mr. Monroe, the ladies are correct. We can fix this."
"How?"
"We'll change."
"Just like that."
"Now that we know the problem, we know what to watch for." Her blue eyes shot toward the waitresses. "Trust me, sir. I will keep an eye on them. They will not mess up again."
I pretended to consider her proposal.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.