Then she quickly served the scraps of food onto plates and distributed them to the children. So Ruiz was taking the leftovers from the customers’ dirty dishes and feeding them to her children!
George was outraged. How could this happen in his beautiful Kettle of Fish?
He was going to put an end to this. He slipped away quietly without the woman or the children seeing him.
The next day, when the restaurant staff came in to prepare for the dinner rush, George was there. “Farrow,” he called.
“Come here please, I need to speak to you.”
Farrow followed George into his office. “Mr. Carson,” Farrow greeted him with an unctuous smile.
“What a lovely surprise!”
“That remains to be seen,” George said coldly. “There are a few things going on in the restaurant that I disapprove of, Farrow.”
Farrow frowned. “Anything that displeases you… please, let me know and I will remedy it immediately.”
“I was in last night at closing time, Farrow, and I saw one of the women scrape the leftovers from the dishes and take them home — presumably to eat.”
Farrow looked suitably shocked.
“Really? I wasn’t aware…”
“Yes, you were,” George snapped. “I heard you talk to the woman.”
“Sir,” whined Farrow.
“I assure you…”
“I gave orders that leftover food and ingredients from our kitchen were to be delivered to the shelter,” George said. “And you knew that. And you also knew one of our employees was living off leftovers from dirty dishes?”
“Erh…” Farrow cleared his throat.
“Well, yes, but I’ll put a stop to it! It’s this woman — Ruiz? We took her on temporarily.
She’s an immigrant, and you know how they are!”
“Yes,” said George coldly. “I do know how they are. Desperate, willing to work for a pittance, sometimes starving.
I know how immigrants are. You see, Farrow, my grandfather was an immigrant too.”
“Sir,” gasped Farrow, “I assure you…”
“I presume you’ve been hiring Ms. Ruiz at a fraction of the salary I budgeted for her position and pocketing the rest,” George accused and Farrow turned a dark beetroot-red.
“You’re fired, Farrow.
You have been exploiting these poor desperate women, driving them to feed their children on scraps,” George roared. “But it’s over!”
Then George called Consuelo Ruiz. “Ms.
Ruiz?” he asked the frightened-looking woman gently.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I know you’ve been taking scraps home to your children, and I’m here to tell you that it’s over,” George told her.
“Please, sir,” Consuelo said with quiet dignity, “Don’t fire me. I just have no one, and I need the food… The money is not enough.”
“I know,” George said gently. “Which is why you will be getting a salary increase and a work contract.”
Consuelo stared at him and her mouth hung open.
“An increase?”
“Also,” George added, “my grandfather bought this whole building, and at the back, there is a small apartment that we’ve been using as dry-goods storage. I’ve ordered it cleared out and cleaned.
“It’s small but better than an abandoned factory, and it has electricity and hot and cold running water. You and your children will be moving in today.
And no more scraps, you get proper food!”
Consuelo was crying. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Helping us?”
“Because,” George said gently, “many years ago, my grandfather came to this city, this country, with nothing but his dreams, and someone helped him.
I’m doing the same for you.”
“Maybe one day, you or one of your grandchildren will lend someone else a helping hand. That, Ms. Ruiz,” George smiled, “is the true American Dream.”
