The manager brutally fired a stunning waitress for serving a “bum” for free, but the next morning, the restaurant was surrounded by security in black who were only looking for her.
The restaurant “Le Grand,” in the heart of New York, was a place that mere mortals didn’t dare enter. The walls were covered in silk, the lamps were made of genuine crystal, and the cheapest appetizer cost as much as someone’s monthly rent.
Jessica worked there as a waitress. In her thirties, she was a woman who could stop traffic. A single mother drowning in debt, she worked double shifts. Her uniform—a white shirt and a tight black skirt—was required by restaurant rules, but on Jessica, it looked different. The shirt was so tight across her ample bust that it seemed about to burst with every breath, and the skirt accentuated an hourglass figure that drew the attention of every male customer. Even so, Jessica was a professional. She ignored the leering glances and focused on her work.
Her manager, Tom, was her complete opposite. A short, insecure man who hated poverty and hated Jessica even more because she refused to go out for a drink with him. He looked for any excuse to humiliate her.
That rainy night, a man who didn’t belong there at all walked into the restaurant. He was an elderly, thin gentleman in a worn gray suit who had seen better days. His hair was wet from the rain, and he clutched an old hat in his hands. It was Mr. Smith. Tom immediately ran toward the entrance.
“Stop! Where do you think you’re going, old man? This isn’t a soup kitchen! Get out before I call the police! You’re scaring my customers!”
The old man lowered his gaze.
—Just… just a glass of water, please. And let me warm up for five minutes. I’m feeling dizzy.
“Get out!” shouted Tom.
Then Jessica approached. Her heels clicked on the marble floor.
“Tom, leave him alone,” Jessica said firmly. “He’s clearly not well. I’ll take care of him.”
Tom turned red.
“If you listen to him, you’ll be out on the street with him!”
Jessica ignored him. She led Mr. Smith to a small table in a corner, out of sight. She brought him not just water, but also hot soup and a basket of freshly baked bread. She charged everything to her personal account, knowing it would take a good portion of his earnings for the day.
“Thank you, daughter,” Smith said, her voice trembling as she ate her soup. “Why would you risk your job for an old man you don’t even know?”
Jessica smiled, adjusting her tight uniform.
—Because my father died alone and hungry, sir. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else while I’m around.
When Smith finished and headed towards the exit, Tom intercepted them.
—That’s it! Jessica, you’re fired! Pack your things and get out! You’re a disgrace to this fancy place! And take your homeless “boyfriend” with you too!
Jessica took off her apron, threw it in Tom’s face, and went outside in the rain, holding Smith’s arm so he wouldn’t slip. She called him a taxi and paid for it with her last bit of money.
“Good luck, Jessica,” Smith said as he got into the taxi. “See you soon.”
Jessica went home crying, not knowing how she was going to pay the rent.
The next morning, Jessica returned to the restaurant just to collect her final paycheck. But there was chaos outside. The street was blocked. A helicopter was in the middle of the road, surrounded by five black limousines. Men in black suits, with headsets in their ears, circled the restaurant entrance. Tom stood in the doorway, trembling like a leaf, bowing to someone.
Mr. Smith stepped out of the helicopter. But he was no longer the drenched old man from the night before. He was wearing an Italian silk suit, expensive shoes, and a watch worth more than the entire restaurant. The mayor himself was standing beside him.
“Where is she?” Smith asked, dryly. His voice was as cold as steel.
Tom began to stutter:
—Mr. Smith… O-owner… W-we didn’t know… She… she’s… fired…
“Owner?” Tom repeated to himself, understanding a horrible truth.
Mr. Smith wasn’t homeless. He was Jonathan Smith, a multimillionaire who owned a whole chain of hotels and restaurants, including that one, and was famous for dressing up to evaluate his employees.
Then Smith spotted Jessica in the crowd. His face lit up.
“Jessica!” he called.
The security team opened a corridor. Jessica approached, confused, wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt.
-Mister…?
“Jessica,” Smith said loudly, so everyone could hear, “yesterday you were the only one in this town who saw the man in me, not the suit. Tom only saw dirt. That’s why Tom…”
He turned to the manager, who was as white as chalk.
—Tom, you’re fired. And I’ll make sure you never work in this city again.
Then he turned to Jessica.
—Jessica, this restaurant needs a new manager. Someone with heart. The salary is ten thousand dollars a month, plus a percentage of the profits. And yes, the taxi you paid for me… I’ll pay you back with interest. In that envelope is a check for 100,000 dollars for your children.
Jessica burst into tears. Smith hugged her like a father. Tom was escorted out of the restaurant amidst jeers from passersby, and Jessica became a New York legend: proof that kindness, even in the concrete jungle, is always worthwhile.