My Three-Dollar Plate and Their Million-Dollar Lie
The sign on my window read “Simone’s Kitchen,” but everyone in The Willows just called it the Three-Dollar Place.
It was a name born of disbelief, then grudging acceptance, and for a precious few, genuine gratitude.
For three dollars, you got what I called the Community Plate: a rotating daily special of hearty, American comfort food.
Monday was meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans.
Tuesday, a creamy chicken pot pie that steamed when you broke the crust.
Wednesday, baked ziti oozing with mozzarella.
The menu was simple, the ingredients fresh, bought every morning before the sun had a chance to properly wake up Port Blossom.
The point wasn’t to make a profit.
The point was to honor a promise to my late father, a man who’d once been saved by a two-dollar meal from a stranger’s kindness.
This kitchen, this little corner shop we owned outright, was my way of paying it forward.
That morning, the rich, savory aroma of braising beef for Thursday’s stew filled the small dining area.
It was a smell of warmth, of home.
§02
The bell above the door didn’t just chime; it screamed.
Judith Pritchard stood framed in the doorway, her face a thundercloud of righteous indignation.
Behind her, a half-dozen other seniors from the neighborhood shuffled in, their expressions ranging from confused to vaguely hostile.
They weren’t customers.
They were a posse.
I wiped my hands on my apron, managing a tight smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pritchard. A bit early for lunch, but I can get you some coffee.”
She ignored the offer, her eyes scanning the empty tables as if looking for evidence.
She marched forward, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and pulled out a chair with a grating screech.
She sat down, planting her handbag on the table like a battle standard.
“Simone,” she began, her voice dripping with the false sweetness of a saccharine packet.
“I am just so disappointed in you. We all are.”
I felt a familiar knot tighten in my stomach.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something wrong with the food?”
§03
That’s when Marlene Cross, Devin’s mother, stepped forward.
She held up her smartphone like it was a holy relic, the screen glowing.
“Wrong? Oh, something’s wrong, alright,” she sneered.
“My Devin showed me this. It’s time you stopped playing Saint Simone and we all saw you for what you are.”
On the screen was a shaky, overly saturated TikTok video.
A charismatic influencer with blindingly white teeth stood in a gleaming kitchen in Los Angeles, pointing to a line of homeless people.
The caption read: “THE 4000-10000 MEAL CHALLENGE! This is REAL charity!”
Judith Pritchard leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, loud enough for the entire room to hear.
“One dollar, Simone. In Los Angeles, of all places.”
She tapped a wrinkled finger on her own table.
“You charge three. Three dollars.”
Her gaze swept over her followers, a jury already convinced.
“He charges one. You charge three. You’re pocketing a two-dollar profit on every single plate.”
§04
The accusation hung in the air, thick and greasy as week-old bacon fat.
“Two dollars a plate,” another man echoed, doing the math aloud with a sense of dawning horror.
“You probably serve a thousand plates a day… that’s two thousand dollars! Sixty thousand a month!”
“Seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year!” Judith shrieked, the number exploding from her lips like a gunshot.
“You’ve been getting rich off of our backs. A young girl like you, taking advantage of us seniors… It’s a disgrace.”
I stared at them, the absurdity of it all making my head spin.
I wanted to explain about the cost of beef, the price of fresh produce, the electricity bill, the fact that my mother and I worked sixteen-hour days without a salary.
The fact that our property being mortgage-free was the only reason we weren’t bankrupt.
But I saw the look in their eyes.
They didn’t want an explanation.
They wanted a confession.
§05
“From now on,” Judith declared, her voice ringing with the authority of a queen, “you will provide our meals for free. Every day. Until that seven hundred thousand dollars of our money you stole is paid back in full.”
She wasn't finished.
“And after that, the price will be one dollar a plate. Like a real charity.”
Her final words were a chilling ultimatum.
“Or you won’t have a kitchen to run at all.”
My mother, Annette, emerged from the back, her face etched with worry.
She had heard the commotion, the raw, ugly tone of it.
She moved with a gentle, placating energy that I had long since lost.
“Now, now, Judith, let’s all calm down,” she said, her hands fluttering nervously.
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