I fired back a cold reply: "The price is a bit steep. Any chance you could knock ten percent off?"
The message had barely gone through before Gloria was already calling.
"Oh, Mr. Dickerson! You think that price is steep?"
"I sat there with a calculator, crunching the numbers over and over—what I quoted you is straight-up cost, down to the penny! I didn't dare tack on a single cent of profit!"
"You have no idea what it's been like this year. It's impossible out here!"
"Pork's up! Vegetables are up! Seafood changes price by the hour! Every single supplier is crying about losses, and they won't float me even a day on payment!"
"And labor—do you know how hard it is to hire servers these days?"
"Anyone with a shred of experience wants five or six thousand a month with room and board, plus triple pay on every federal holiday, no exceptions!"
"I'm not hiring employees at this point—I'm hosting royalty!"
She paused to catch her breath, her voice taking on a theatrical, tear-choked wobble:
"Mr. Dickerson, my restaurant might look big and fancy, but it's all smoke and mirrors!"
"Every month I open my eyes to tens of thousands in rent and utilities crushing the life out of me! The quote I gave you—that came straight from the bottom of my heart!"
"Ten percent off? I wouldn't just be working for free—I'd be paying out of my own pocket to host your banquet!"
"Mr. Dickerson, have a little sympathy, please. After all these years we've known each other, you'd really stand there and watch me take a loss?"
I listened in silence, letting her entire tearful monologue run its course before I spoke, my tone perfectly even:
"Gloria, I hear you. I understand your difficulties."
"But here's the thing—funny coincidence."
"I had my people reach out to a few five-star hotels yesterday. The Grand Hyatt, places like that."
"Same specs, comparable menu, and honestly better ambiance and service. Their quotes came in at..." I let the pause hang deliberately. "Less than three-quarters of your total."
Dead silence on the other end.
Three, four seconds ticked by before her voice returned.
"F-five-star hotels?"
"Mr. Dickerson, you can't just look at the price! Do you know what kind of ingredients they use? You think they can compare to mine?"
"My pork comes from local heritage farms—slaughtered fresh that same day! My fish comes off the first boat at the docks before dawn, still flopping when it hits my kitchen!"
"My vegetables are sourced straight from organic farms outside the city! Those hotels use frozen goods—cheap bulk imports!"
"There's no comparison in freshness or flavor! I use nothing but the real deal, and I'm not making a dime off you!"
She was talking faster and faster now, pivoting to the emotional angle: "And besides, Mr. Dickerson—how many years have we worked together? Thirteen, fourteen?"
"My restaurant wouldn't be where it is today without your continued patronage."
"That kind of trust, that kind of history—can some cold, impersonal hotel match that?"
"They give you a low price today, and tomorrow they jack it right back up! Me? I've been consistent for over a decade. Fair and square, no tricks!"
Fair and square.
I nearly laughed out loud.
The memory flashed through my mind—that pack of tissues marked up to ten dollars. The whispers among my staff about twenty-eight-dollar peanuts, fish that wasn't fresh, the runaround every time you asked for a receipt, how she treated her own workers...
Whatever patience I had left evaporated. I had no interest in continuing this pointless back-and-forth.
"Gloria, if your ingredients are truly the best money can buy, and you're really not making a profit—"
"Then I'd feel terrible letting you take a loss on my account."
"This year's grand opening banquet, I'll find somewhere else. That's that."
