"You, there! Waiter!"
The harsh voice, followed by the impatient snapping of fingers, jerked Dominic out of his lofty daydream. He traced the command to a table in the center of the large room, weaving swiftly around others as he made his way to the customer.
"Good day," Dominic began calmly. "You called for—?"
"This was not what I ordered," the man stated curtly, cutting Dominic off without remorse. For emphasis, he dropped his plate rather aggressively on the table, causing the ceramic to clatter loudly with the cutlery.
"Well…" Dominic scratched the back of his neck. "What was it you ordered, sir?"
The man—quite young from his facial appearance—frowned with a raised eyebrow. "Are you dumb? My steak is overcooked, the asparagus is charred, the sauce has less cheese and too much spice, and the cranberry is too sour."
He waved his hands over his food like he was trying to cast a spell. "This is definitely not what I ordered."
Dominic cleared his throat as he straightened his black and red uniform. Ever since he began working as a waiter at the Royal Diner three months ago, part of his training has been knowing how to respond to and pacify complaining customers. In his relatively short time, he'd already handled a handful of cases in ways he felt proud of. All he had to do was speak calmly, ask only necessary questions, and try to diffuse tension before it became an unsavory scene. If all that failed, then he'd call his manager to address the matter. Easy peasy.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Dominic apologized gently. "The chefs in the kitchen are some of the best at what they do, but even they can make mistakes on rare occasions. Perhaps if you tell me how exactly you want your meal to be prepared, I can pass the information across."
The young man crossed his arms and eyed Dominic with disgust. "Believe me, waiter, I know how the chefs here work. And they know exactly what I like, too. If there's anyone to be blamed here, it's you."
Dominic—who was in the process of pulling out a pen and a notepad from his pockets—immediately froze at the accusation. "Me, sir?"
"Yes, you idiot," the man reiterated with a scowl. "You brought this disgrace of a meal to my table. It was you I gave my order to. You went to the chefs and messed it up. This is all your fault."
At this point, curious eyes and heads from other tables in the restaurant were beginning to turn towards the scene of loud complaints and insults. But Dominic barely noticed—instead, he was too busy trying to comprehend the allegations being hurled in his direction.
"No, no," he said as he shook his head. "That wasn't me, sir. I didn't mess up your order."
The young man's frown deepened. "Did you just call me a liar?"
Dominic's head shook even more vigorously. "No, sir. Absolutely not. I brought your dish from the kitchen, yes. But I only just resumed my shift from the person who took your order. He must've made the mistake, not me."
The young man clapped his hands loudly and released an unpleasant laugh. The sudden gesture caused Dominic to jump slightly, and it was then that he noticed the uneasy silence around the establishment. Even the other waiters did nothing but watch from the corners of the room, making Dominic wonder why none of his colleagues came forward to help him.
"Unbelievable," the young man remarked as he leaned forward with an intense look in his green eyes. "What did you say your name was again?"
Dominic hesitated. A customer having to ask for a name was never a good sign.
"Dominic," he finally replied, deciding to go with the truth. "Dominic Heathley."
"Dominic," the man repeated with a grimace, like the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. "How pathetic. Tell me something, Heathley. Do we look like we're running a charity organization for incompetent lowlifes here?"
Dominic flinched. The restaurant had become so quiet that it seemed everyone was waiting for his answer. "Pardon me, sir, but you said 'we'. Who's 'we'?"
The amused expression on the young man's face fell instantly, revealing a scowl so deep he almost growled. "Where's your manager?"
Dominic's brain shut down for a brief second as the sudden heat made his brow sweaty and his palms sticky. He blinked rapidly as a stutter escaped his trembling lips. "H-hold on, sir. T-there's no ne-need for—"
Suddenly, the man shot up to his feet and slammed his fists on the table, rattling the piece of furniture so loudly that it resembled the effects of an earthquake. Horrified, Dominic took a step back and stared with wide eyes as the young man stabbed an index finger at him.
"My father toiled for many years of his life," he started scornfully. "He worked hard—and unapologetically so—to have his dreams fulfilled on a scale larger than what you average people are capable of. One of those dreams was to have this reputable restaurant providing quality service and adding to his already extraordinary legacy after he died. So what I will not tolerate is having a worthless, mediocre, low-life piece of trash like you drag its name to the dirt with your incompetence and stupid inexperience. Now, I will ask you one last time… where is your manager?!"
"Right here."
For a second, Dominic was too stunned to notice that his boss had already made the trip from his office on the floor above. Then he quickly stepped aside, gladly giving the floor to the more experienced middle-aged man. The younger man adjusted his navy blue tie, straightened his black suit, and shook his dark, curly hair to the side as he walked up to the manager with a stern expression, as if he was squaring off for a fight. The older man, who was slightly taller, didn't even flinch; his amber eyes sparkled with amusement instead.
"Mr. Gregory Embers," he began. "How wonderful to see you here again. I was unaware you'd returned to the city."
The young man—Gregory by name—regarded the manager with a look that would've wilted the brightest flowers. "And you are…?"
"Fredrick," the manager quickly supplied, offering his hand in greeting. "Fredrick Bowers. I'm the appointed manager of this branch."
Gregory ignored his outstretched hand and turned a scorching stare towards Dominic. "It seems that your choice of staff is far below the standard of this establishment."
Fredrick followed his gaze and settled his eyes on Dominic for a moment, who was beginning to look pale. "Him? He was only brought on about three months ago. He's still getting used to the customs around here, but he's a fast learner. That's why I hired him."
"Obviously, you made a mistake," Gregory said stubbornly, finally peeling his eyes off Dominic. "That buffoon doesn't know his left from his right. He couldn't tell who I was right away. And, to add insult to injury, he not only ruined my meal, but also destroyed my appetite as well. The fool doesn't deserve to wear the esteemed uniform of the Royal Diner."
"Sir, I can explain," Dominic said defensively, referring to Fredrick. "It wasn't me who—"
"It would be in your best interest to stay quiet, Dominic." Fredrick didn't yell or snap, but something in his calm tone immediately made Dominic cut his explanation short.
"See what I mean?" Gregory asked with a grimace. "Even when he's in the wrong, he doesn't want to admit it. The Royal Diner has no place for people who can't be loyal and willing to serve. I want him gone, immediately."
Fredrick sighed. "Mr. Embers—"
Gregory wasn't listening. He grabbed his keys and phone from the table and gave another distasteful glance at the food. Without turning, he said, "If you value your job here, Mr. Bowers, then you know what you have to do."
After another stony glance at Dominic, he was gone, stomping out of the restaurant like his feet were on fire. Just when Dominic thought the nightmare was finally over, Fredrick slowly turned to him, with what seemed like tired regret in his eyes.
Dominic's stomach sank at the sight. Surely he couldn't really be considering firing him, could he?
"Clear up those dishes and grab all your things," the manager instructed as he brushed past him. "Meet me in my office afterwards."