Just What They Deserve.
At eight o'clock this morning, the sweatiest restaurant in Chatham was full. Diners masticated upon reconstituted offalburgers and indeterminate items fried for several hours by a local youth.
Greasy Sid, the owner, grunted disdainfully at my comment that I'd been there for fifteen minutes with no acknowledgement. "Can't you see I'm busy?" he complained.
Imagining a stream of ever-fattening bodies invading this establishment every day made me shudder. Then I looked over the place and realised that for more than a decade, Sid has refused to compromise his standards. Or repaint the walls. There are dozens of coronaries that would disappear if only he wasn't catering to the lunch crowd as well, but that doesn't worry Sid.
Letting your customers set your standards is a game he epitomises and together they've won the race to the bottom. But he doesn't care because at heart he's a Keynsian and as he explains "in the long run, me and most of my customers will be dead."
With apologies to Seth.