Page 46 of The Beach Shack
Joey approached their table with his usual friendly greeting, but Meg could tell from his body language that the interaction wasn’t going well. After a brief consultation with the couple, he made his way to the counter where Meg was preparing iced teas.
“Table six wants to know if we have a ‘real menu,’” he said quietly. “I explained about our specialization in grilled cheese, but they seem—unimpressed.”
Meg glanced at the couple, now surveying the other diners with barely concealed disdain. “I’ll handle it.”
She approached the table with her most professional smile—the one she’d perfected in client meetings with difficult executives. “Welcome to the Beach Shack. I understand you have some questions about our menu options?”
The woman—sleek blonde hair, diamond studs that caught the sunlight—looked up with polite disappointment. “We were hoping for something a bit more... substantial. Your website didn’t mention that you only serve grilled cheese.”
“We actually don’t have a website,” Meg explained. “We’re a local family business that’s specialized in grilled cheese for over fifty years.”
“Fifty years serving only grilled cheese?” The man raised his eyebrows. “That seems rather limited. No wonder the place looks so...” He gestured vaguely at the weathered wood and mismatched furniture.
Something hot flared in Meg’s chest—an unexpected surge of defensiveness that caught her by surprise. She maintained her smile with effort. “Our focus allows us to perfect what we do best. The Beach Shack has been voted best grilled cheese in Orange County for twelve consecutive years.”
The woman looked unconvinced. “We’re staying at the Montage. The concierge recommended several local restaurants, but this clearly wasn’t one of them.” She sighed as if greatly inconvenienced. “I suppose we could try it, though I can’t imagine how a grilled cheese sandwich could justify a special trip.”
“Perhaps another restaurant would better suit your preferences,” Meg suggested, her tone perfectly pleasant despite the growing tension she felt. “I’d be happy to recommend several excellent options nearby.”
The man leaned back, studying Meg with the appraising look she recognized from countless business negotiations. “Actually, I’m curious now. What makes your grilled cheese worth keeping such a limited menu? Surely you’d make more money with a full selection.”
The question was reasonable enough—exactly thekind of business inquiry Meg might have posed herself before spending time at the Beach Shack.
Yet something about his tone—the implicit judgment of the shack’s business model, the assumption that profit was the only valid measure of success—struck a nerve she didn’t know she had.
She hadn’t meant to get into it—but the words came anyway, sharper and more personal than she expected.
“The Beach Shack isn’t just about making money,” Meg found herself saying. “It’s about tradition, community, and doing one thing exceptionally well. My grandmother has been making these sandwiches from the same recipe for fifty years, and people line up on weekends because some experiences can’t be improved by endless options or luxury pricing.”
She could hear her voice growing more passionate, more personal than she’d intended, but couldn’t seem to stop. “That ‘limited’ menu has supported families, local suppliers, and generations of regulars. It’s more than just grilled cheese—it’s a place people come back to, year after year. Not everything valuable can be measured by profit margins or expansion potential.”
“I see,” the man said finally, something like respect reluctantly entering his expression. “In that case, we’ll take two of your classic grilled cheese sandwiches and iced teas.”
Meg nodded. “You won’t be disappointed. Our cheese blend is sourced from a family dairy that’s been our supplier since 1972.”
As she walked back to the counter to place theirorder, Meg caught Joey giving her a surprised thumbs-up from across the room.
Margo appeared beside her as she prepared the iced teas. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Meg said, still slightly flustered. “Just some customers who weren’t expecting a specialized menu.”
Her grandmother’s knowing look suggested she’d overheard more than Meg might have wished. “You defended us beautifully.”
“I was just explaining our business model,” Meg said, though she knew it had been more than that.
“If you say so.” Margo’s smile was small but pleased as she returned to the kitchen.
Meg delivered the drinks to the Hales’ table, maintaining her composure despite the lingering self-consciousness about her emotional response.
“Your family has owned this place for fifty years?” the woman asked, her tone noticeably warmer.
“Yes. My grandfather started it in 1972, and my grandmother has run it since he passed away.”
“And now you’re taking over?” the man inquired.
“Just temporarily,” Meg clarified quickly. “My brother usually helps manage it, but he’s away right now.”
“That’s a shame.” The woman looked around the space with new appreciation. “Family businesses like this are becoming rare. There’s something refreshing about a place that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t try to be everything to everyone.”
