I disguised myself as a homeless.s. man and entered the restaurant I owned to find out how my staff treated customers who couldn’t afford a proper meal. I expected to discover some rude behavior or poor service. But what I witnessed that afternoon was far more serious, and it eventually forced me to involve the police.
My name is Frank, and I’m fifty-two years old.
Two decades ago, I earned six dollars an hour washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen.
Today, I’m the owner of Rosie’s, a restaurant I named in memory of my mother.
Lately, something about the business had been bothering me.
Customers who’d eaten there for years were suddenly disappearing.
Several regulars had even contacted me to say they were unhappy with their recent experiences.
Nobody mentioned one particular incident.
They simply said the place didn’t feel the same anymore.
The friendly atmosphere was gone, and the employees seemed less interested in making people feel welcome.
