To Brad, this was not prejudice. It was efficient management, the sort of practice he believed made wealthy people feel comfortable enough to return. He could point to rising average checks and shorter table turnover times as evidence that his methods worked. He did not spend much time measuring the people who never returned because they had never been given the chance to sit down.
"Table seven wants another bottle," he told Lily that evening. "And don't spend ten minutes explaining the menu to people who aren't ordering. We have standards."
Lily nodded because she needed her job. She had tried challenging a similar remark the week before and had been assigned the slowest section for three nights afterward. She carried the wine request to the bar and turned just in time to see an elderly woman in an unremarkable coat enter the lobby alone. The woman paused to admire the room, not as a person trying to impress anyone but as someone recognizing a familiar place after a long absence.
The hostess lifted her eyes from the reservation tablet. "Good evening. Do you have a reservation?"
"No, dear," Margaret said. "I was hoping there might be a quiet corner. A simple table would be lovely."
The hostess began scanning the floor chart. Lily could see several open seats by the window, including a small two-person table that had been unused since the first seating. Before the hostess could respond, Brad crossed the lobby and stopped between the elderly woman and the dining room. His practiced hospitality smile appeared, then faltered as his gaze traveled over her cardigan, old handbag, and wet shoes.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"I hope so," Margaret replied. "A quiet corner, if you have one. I don't need anything special."
Brad's eyes narrowed in an almost imperceptible evaluation. "This is Golden Harbor, ma'am. Not a neighborhood diner."
Margaret blinked once, not from confusion but from the unpleasant recognition of a voice she had seen described in complaint after complaint. The hostess looked down at the tablet, suddenly fascinated by the screen. Lily stood beside the bar with her wine request still in her hand, feeling the atmosphere shift. She knew the expression on Brad's face because she had seen it turned on people who approached the restaurant without the appearance he expected.
"I'm sorry," Margaret said calmly. "And what standards would those be?"
"Reservations. Proper attire. And, frankly, the ability to afford what we serve." Brad kept his voice soft enough to appear discreet, though not soft enough to spare the people nearest the door from hearing. "You might be more comfortable somewhere else."