When I called her house, her granddaughter answered.
“Grandma’s fine,” she said. “She just doesn’t want to eat out anymore.”
That troubled me.
Mrs. Kowalczyk had been visiting every Sunday since Rosie’s opened.
Something was wrong.
One evening, I stopped by the original restaurant after closing to collect paperwork.
My longtime cook, Luis Ortega, was cleaning the grill.
Luis had worked with me since opening day.
He was in his sixties, quiet, dependable, and one of the few people who could prepare my mother’s soup exactly as she had.
When he noticed me, he glanced nervously toward the manager’s office.
“Boss, can we talk outside?”
We stepped into the alley behind the kitchen.
Luis hesitated.
“I’ve wanted to tell you something for months.”
“What is it?”
“You need to see how Kyle treats customers who look like they don’t have money.”
I waited.
