Our little family pizzeria has been a huge part of my life, making it feel like a second home to me.
Hi, I’m Avery, and I’m in my late twenties these days. When folks inquire about my childhood, I often chuckle and mention that I spent my days kneading dough and sprinkling mozzarella. My grandmother, Geraldine, was the one who taught me nearly everything I know. Ever since I could reach the counter, I’ve been lending a hand—starting with folding pizza boxes, then moving on to spreading sauce and cheese, and finally taking charge at the register. Some of my earliest memories involve me sneaking a glance around her apron, taking in the lively scene of busy customers, while the delightful scents of fresh dough and zesty sauce enveloped me.
Geraldine’s Pies & Slices is not just your average pizzeria. It’s a warm and inviting space filled with red-checkered tablecloths, rustic wooden chairs, a large chalkboard menu showcasing our daily specials, and a wall adorned with photos of family and staff. Many people mention how warm it feels as soon as they walk in, and I believe that’s largely due to Grandma being there. She stands behind the register in her floral-print apron, welcoming customers with a warm word or a soft smile. She seems completely unfazed by anything. She’s the peace amidst all the chaos.
As time has passed, we’ve created a dedicated group of regulars—local folks who stop by for a slice or a whole pizza, families looking for a quick bite, and teens swinging by after school. Sometimes, travelers passing by on the nearby highway notice our sign and decide to stop in. I’ve always loved the friendly atmosphere in this place. If conflict comes up or we encounter a difficult customer, I used to feel my nerves start to fray, but Grandma? She remains calm and composed, no matter the situation. She handles them with such patience, easing the tension with just a few gentle words. It feels almost like magic. I kept reassuring myself that I would eventually learn that skill, even though I was never quite certain about the way to go about it.
On a cold winter evening, I had been working since noon. The day was smooth—lots of orders coming in, but nothing overwhelming. Just as I was wrapping up my shift and getting ready to take off my apron, Beatrice burst through the door. When I say she stormed in, I really mean it: The door swung open with such force that our overhead bell rang out loudly, and Beatrice walked in with a fierce energy that made me instinctively take a step back. She had on a sharp, high-quality coat, with the collar turned up. She held the pizza box tightly, treating it like a dangerous weapon ready to explode at any moment.
She slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the pizzeria as if it could rattle the very walls. In that moment, time seemed to stand still: a couple by the window stopped mid-bite, a father and his little girl in the corner set their slices down, and I froze, apron half-untied, mouth half-open. The silence was charged, as if the atmosphere sensed that a clash was about to unfold. It truly was.
“Where’s the manager?” she asked sharply, her voice cutting through the unexpected quiet. She was looking around the shop, trying to find someone in charge. So there was Geraldine, standing at the counter, quietly counting tips or jotting something down in a little ledger. She celebrated her seventy-eighth birthday last month, yet you wouldn’t know it by her posture—she stands tall and confident, much like a venerable oak tree.
Beatrice focused intently on Grandma, yet she didn’t bother to offer even a simple hello. She simply pressed on. “Who’s running the show here?” She let out another bark, this time even louder.
Grandma glanced up from her ledger, her expression calm and untroubled. “I can help you,” she said, her voice calm and reassuring as always. “Is there an issue with your order, my dear?” She always had that soft way of saying “dear,” which could either catch you off guard or warm your heart, depending on how you took it.
Beatrice scoffed, forcefully dropping the pizza box onto the counter. “You ruined my pizza.” This just isn’t right! So, what’s your plan moving forward? Her words were charged with anger.
My heart raced. Throughout the years, I’ve encountered my fair share of rude people, but her level of hostility was truly exceptional. I set the dough tray aside, prepared to jump in if Grandma needed my help. Grandma simply kept her warm smile, looking serenely at the slightly ajar box. “Let’s see,” she said softly.
I kind of thought she would apologize immediately, check in to see what was wrong, or suggest a replacement. That’s just how it goes: when a customer is upset, you calm them down. Grandma simply stared at the pizza, then shifted her gaze to Beatrice, remaining silent for a moment. That really got the woman going even more.
“Are you really not going to say sorry?” Beatrice insisted, pointing an accusatory finger at the pizza. “I clearly requested extra cheese, mushrooms, half pepperoni, and half vegetarian.” Instead, I ended up with… who knows what! Are you really just going to stand there?
A few customers shifted in their seats, looking a bit uneasy. An older man at a nearby table cast a sympathetic glance at Grandma, but she wasn’t looking for any sympathy. She let out a gentle breath. “I understand,” she replied. “Oh, so you’re telling me this isn’t what you ordered?”
Absolutely! Beatrice’s voice climbed an octave. “I expect a full refund and a new pizza, or I’ll have to let everyone in town know about your incompetence.” Are you able to understand what I’m saying?