This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Reviews. They're everywhere these days. Reviews for hairdressers, turtle shell shiners, car washes, and tandem bicycle washes. You can find and leave reviews for everything, and it's great. It helped me find the very best laptop cases to give as birthday gifts to the spiders who reside in my studio. You're welcome. But also, one bad review can have an outsized impact, especially for a restaurant. That's what our story is about. And I will tell it to you in two parts. Let's get to it. It's called the Restaurant Review. Part one. Take it away, Amelia. Remember, there are no pictures. You have to imagine some pictures in your mind. You can imagine the pictures however you want. Okay, here we go! Arthur Mousington swung a leg over his bicycle seat, but stopped short before sitting down. Oh, it was a gorgeous morning between the waning heat of late summer and the sweet early days of autumn. The trees were lush with leaves. The sky was a calm blue. There was an inch worm on Arthur's bicycle seat. Here you go, little fella. Arthur said, lifting the worm and holding a paw up to a broad leaf. The creature hesitated. Come on, you're going to make me late. The inch worm stretched its front feet off the edge of Arthur's paw. It grasped at the air for a long moment, flailing, before finding its footing on the leaf. It continued on its way as if this change in terrain was entirely expected. Arthur too continued on his way. He swung a leg over his bicycle seat and sped into the woods. Arthur glanced at his wristwatch as he rode down the trail through the trees. Hmm, he'd be just on time for the weekly staff meeting at Forest Foodie Magazine where he worked as a restaurant reviewer. Not that he wanted to attend it. Arthur thought back to last week's meeting when his boss, Flip, was even more intense than usual. Circulation is down. Mice don't read anymore. We've got to lure them back. With cheesy bites? Oh yeah, good idea. I can get some for my uncle. He's a wholesaler. No! Not with cheesy bites. We've got to get the mice chattering about new restaurants. Trudy, Arthur, you hear me? Yes, sir. Next week, you better bring me the names of restaurants nobody has ever heard of. You get me? We've got to surprise our readers. You hear me? Yes, sir. Are you going to show up here next week with those same blank looks on your faces? Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. No, sir. Because I may not have the luxury to keep two restaurant reviewers on this staff for much longer. Arthur felt a knot of dread settle in his stomach as he pedaled onward because in the week since, he had not come up with a restaurant to review. And while Arthur had built up a decent reputation by writing honest, punchy reviews, he had never put a restaurant on the map. He had never single-handedly shown a light on an up-and-coming gem, a place yet undiscovered by the scurrying masses. He longed to publish the kind of glowing review of an unknown little hole in the wall that skyrocketed it to fame. But he'd never done it. And he knew that if Flip were to fire someone, it would be him. He was suddenly torn between wanting to pedal slower, give himself a few extra minutes for an idea to drop into his mind, or maybe one of those new gourmet salad shops, and wanting to speed up to avoid Flip's annoyance. Wait again, Arthur. He sped up slightly until he heard a pop, then a soft whistle. Can't ride on this. Arthur muttered moments later, pulling a thorn out of his flat tire. Reluctantly, he stood the bike upright and began walking alongside it. He whispered to himself as he went, definitely be late now, and I'm going to show up with a blank look on my face. Great. Until... Excuse us. A pair of power-walking mice breezed past him, cutting off his train of thought. They scurried ahead, demonstrating, starkly, how very slow he was walking. He was about to return to his pity party. When he heard, Yeah, we just went to this charming new little hole in the wall for brunch the other day. Oh, what's the name? Hmm, let me think. Charming new little hole in the wall? Arthur quickened his pace, but the mice were still too fast. He sped up to a jog. I know, it's called Molly's Restaurant. That's it. Molly's Restaurant? Arthur had never heard of it. Wait a second. Apparently, he and the mouse's friend had the same exact thought. You must mean Molly's Restaurant. They said at the same time, though Arthur said it in a whisper to himself. No, no, it's Molly's. A little confusing because it's just found the corner from Molly's. It's literally a hole in the wall of an abandoned farmhouse. The one on Mulberry Lane? That's the one. Arthur jogged ever faster, straining to hear more details about this mysterious restaurant. But the mice moved on to discuss their latest book club read. I had to put it down. There was just no one to root for. By the time he reached the Forest Foodie Magazine office housed in a maple tree, he was sweating. He was also miraculously on time. Well, almost. Trudy, Arthur's ever-diligent, ever-kind fellow restaurant reviewer, had already been approved to review a new tea shop in town, though Flip did not seem thrilled about it. Tea? What's exciting about tea? They have lots of herbal varieties. All right. Arthur, nice of you to join us. Yes, sir, Arthur said, taking a seat. Hit me with it. What restaurant will you review this week? And it better be good. Arthur took a deep breath and opened his mouth. But the words did not come. He was a professional restaurant reviewer. Was he really going to take some random power walking mouse's recommendation? Well, we're going to have a little chat with it, Arthur. We're on a schedule here. Remember, I may not have room for the two of you if things don't pick up. Yes, yes he was. I'd like to review Molly's restaurant. Arthur said, the meeting room, filled with rodents and rabbits and a couple of birds, erupted in whispers. You ever hear of that? Ever. It's supposed to be very charming. Arthur went on, encouraged by the response of the staff. But Trudy interrupted. You mean Marley's restaurant? I reviewed it last spring, gave it three and a half cheese wheels. Trudy said, pushing up her bright blue glasses. Arthur, you know we never review the same restaurant twice. You know the rules, Flip said with a frown. No repeats. Arthur felt a drop of sweat on his brow. What if this place doesn't even exist? What if, no, no, he said, casting off his doubts. It's called Molly's. It's new. Up and coming. Huh, Trudy murmured, twitching her nose. Huh, interesting. Flip flashed Arthur a rare smile and rubbed his paws together. Something like shining a light on a new hot spot to get the mice chattering. I want the review on my desk by midnight. We'll run it tomorrow. Yes, sir. Flip immediately moved on to other matters. The all forest fundraisers coming up next month. Arthur, I want you to be there as usual. The food may not be good, but it's good for the magazine to be there for the community. Showy care. Arthur sighed deeply. He had just taken a gamble and had no idea if it would pay off. He set out to find Molly's restaurant that evening, desperately hoping it existed. Charcoal gray clouds had threatened rain all day. And as he reached Mulberry Lane, the sky opened and fat drops fell on his fur. A large farmhouse with faded shingle siding loomed ahead. Please exist. Arthur whispered, lightning crackled above and Arthur hurried forward to escape the storm. Please exist. Oh. At the base of the siding was a sign with beautiful chalk lettering, promoting daily specials at Molly's restaurant. The power walking mouse had not been exaggerating. It was indeed a hole in the wall. Huh. From the outside, it did look charming. And through the window, he could see the warm glow of lanterns on the tables. It seemed cozy inviting. This is it. I'm going to put this place on the map. I'll get the mice chattering. Flip will be thrilled. I might keep my job. But as soon as Arthur stepped inside, a knot of dread twisted in his stomach. Chaos. That was the word that came to him as he surveyed the small dining room. Taking up most of the restaurant was a long table, or in fact, several small tables pushed together, filled with over a dozen rats talking and laughing. Aside from the large party, there was just a single customer, an elder mole sitting by himself at a small table in the back. Hello. The mole called. Molly, you back there? A loud crash came from somewhere in the back, followed by muffled words. It's fine. It's fine. Let's get this cleaned up. There was not a restaurant worker to be seen. Arthur glanced at the charming wooden clock on the wall. He'd been standing there for over a minute. His right eye twitched. Seven more minutes passed. By this time, Arthur's nose was twitching as well. The table of rats was getting restless. Will our food ever come? Hello. The mole called again. Could I get that glass of water? A frazzled looking dwarf rabbit with petite ears and an apron tied around her midsection burst from the kitchen door, limping. She swiftly filled the mole's glass. Cliff, how's your hip doing these days? I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Oh, it's creaky all right. Molly, you know I've got nothing but time. I'll take the usual. The rabbit nodded to the mole, then zipped over to Arthur. Thank you so much for waiting, she said, as she showed him to a small table in the corner of the restaurant. As Arthur glanced at the menu, the rabbit lifted the water jug to fill his cup, but missed and poured its contents directly onto his lap. I'm so sorry. The rabbit said, wincing, let me get you a towel. I'll have a bowl of the carrot ginger soup. Arthur called after her, thinking he might not get another opportunity to order anything, given the spotty service up to that point. Of course, the rabbit called, limping away. Smoke began billowing from beneath the door to the kitchen. Is that smoke? Is there a fire in this establishment? Uh, nothing to worry about. All is well. Came a cry from somewhere in the back. Arthur remained, fixed in his wicker chair, lap drenched, as the reality of the situation landed with a heavy weight on his shoulders. New hot spot indeed, was I thinking listening to those power-wogging mice. Many minutes passed, during which the large group became increasingly frustrated. Where's that rabbit? No one ever brought me a word of lemon. The service here is atrocious. Finally, a nervous-looking chipmunk emerged from the kitchen with a large tray, teetering precariously on his paw. He proceeded to distribute several bowls of soup to the table of rats, then approached Arthur. Uh, here you are, sir. The chipmunk set the bowl on the table and scurried away before Arthur could ask for a spoon. With a sigh, he plucked one from a neighboring table. He had to admit, the carrot ginger soup looked delicious. He had ordered it because it was marked on the menu as one of Molly's favorite dishes. He always tried to order chef's favorites, items selected as standouts, to be fair in his assessment of a restaurant. And he really did want to be fair. Yes, the service had been beyond disappointing thus far, but he allowed for the possibility that this soup could salvage things a touch. He dipped his spoon in the bowl and tasted the soup. He had to stop himself from spitting it out. What was that awful, awful taste? It was the strangest sensation. There was an element of carrot ginger flavor that formed the base of the soup. It was rather lovely, but it was ruined by some rotten tasting spice or herb. He stared at the soup, wishing he could give it another chance, just one more spoonful. But knowing, he simply could not. It was dreadful. The rats agreed. Ugh, what did I just eat? Take it away, someone take it away. And suddenly, in the midst of that chaotic dining room, with this inedible dish staring up at him, Arthur knew precisely what he had to do. It is a sad truth that there are two kinds of restaurant reviews that get mice chattering. One, the kind Arthur had very much hoped to write, was a glowing five cheese wheels review. The kind a restaurant owner proudly pinned on the wall. The kind that got the village mice lining up reservations for years to come. But there is another kind. The other kind is the scathing, awful negative review. The I wish I could give zero cheese wheels review. The kind that makes mice run for the hills. The kind of review that can shudder a restaurant in a matter of weeks. Arthur had never written such a thing before. Almost all of his reviews fell somewhere in the middle, a gray area that his boss couldn't stand. Three cheese wheels again? Where are the fives? Where are the ones? He didn't want to do it. But what choice did he have? Flip expected the review by midnight. He couldn't rush out and review another restaurant. Anyway, the whole experience had been a disaster from start to finish. Besides, Arthur told himself, it was best for everyone involved. Molly included. Plenty of restaurants hung around longer than they should, costing thousands of walnuts, delaying the inevitable. Every reviewer knew that nearly half of all new restaurants closed within just a few years, often at great cost to their owners. Telling the unvarnished truth was a kindness, really, if you thought about it. Arthur got out his typewriter and a bag of cheese crisps. He was terribly hungry after having a single, ghastly spoonful of dinner. He said about writing a very honest review of Molly's restaurant. It was just a bad day. Molly told herself as she shuffled out of bed the next morning, every restaurant has them from time to time. Only Molly never did. Sure, there had been hiccups here and there, wrong deliveries, poor crop yields leading to shortages, all the usual snafus one had to expect. But in truth, the biggest problem Molly had faced in the 10 months since opening her restaurant was that no one knew about it. If I could just get the word out, that was her biggest problem. Well yesterday, as Molly made herself some coffee and a slice of toast, she recalled the nightmarish cascading events of the day before. It started with Molly's pet beetle, Jeffrey. He'd been under the weather for days, but suddenly took a turn for the worse with a high fever and chills. Molly had taken him to the vet's tree office, which was unusually busy. She waited for so long, she started questioning herself. He is just a beetle. What am I doing? But as soon as the thought entered her head, she and Jeffrey were called in from the waiting room. Five minutes later, she left with a bottle of ridiculously expensive medicine. It came in the form of flakes, which she was to sprinkle on Jeffrey's food for a week. She dropped Jeffrey at home, then headed straight to the restaurant. She was so behind schedule that she practically ran. At least Betty will be there, getting everything ready. Molly thought, expecting her ever reliable employee to greet her with that sparkling smile of hers. But when Molly arrived at her little restaurant, Betty was not there. Instead, there was a note affixed to the door delivered by Old Crow Messenger Service. Oh no. Molly read the note several times, hearing Betty's distinctive voice in her mind. Molly, I'm so sorry, darling. My mom ended up at the tree hospital overnight with a broken ankle. I need to be with her today. I'll be in tomorrow, I promise. I'm so sorry, hun. Betty. Molly sighed. Take care of your mother, she whispered. If only she'd arrived at the restaurant earlier. If only she'd had more time to think. But it was nearly time to open. Molly rushed in, frazzled from the busy morning. She had to laugh when she realized she was still holding Jeffrey's medicine in her paw. She set it down in the kitchen counter and swiftly drafted a note to Freddie, who worked for her on the weekends, and often came in if she needed extra help during the week. Excuse me? She called to a dragonfly out the window. Can you deliver this? I'm happy to pay you extra for speed. Sure thing, Molly. Within 20 minutes, she received a response from Freddie. Can't today, Molly. I promised my son I'd take him to the Fra Museum. Molly wracked her brain, trying to come up with a solution. Mondays were always the slowest day of the week, but it was still unwise to try to run things all by herself. Molly glanced at the clock on the wall. Hours had dwindled down to mere minutes, and looking at the lovely wooden clock made her think of her uncle, who had gifted it to her when she'd opened the restaurant 10 months ago. He had been her mentor because he'd run a restaurant for many years. He had been frustrated with her for having a single employee. Molly, you're going to get in over your head. But Uncle Magnus, I can't afford a bigger staff. You can't afford not to have one. No one knows my restaurant exists anyway. And besides, my food is good. That'll make up for everything else. That's where you're wrong. The food is important. But you have to manage your business well. Uncle, I can make do. Only for so long. One day it will catch up to you, Molly. She cringed at the memory. I could close for the day, leave a note on the door. The thought made her stomach turn over. Then she remembered. Chip. Chip showed up the other day asking about a job. Molly had gamely interviewed him, even though he didn't seem like a great fit. Do you have any experience dealing with customers? Not customers per se. I've said hello to neighbors a few times. Molly had filed away Chip's application with little intention of revisiting it. But that was before Molly was desperate for help. One of the marks of a good business owner was being able to make decisions under pressure. So she waved away her doubts, told herself business would be slow, and she would have time to bring Chip up to speed on the basics and sent another dragonfly. Chip showed up just as she flipped the sign from closed to open. Thank you for the opportunity. I'm ready to learn. Great Chip. Glad to hear it. Come on in. Molly's prediction was correct. Business was slow, mercifully slow. Molly showed Chip how to set the tables. Oh, the fork goes on the other side. Imagine that. And how to wash dishes. Make sure you get all the crumbs off the plate. Good to know. At home I usually leave some as a treat for later. Molly was able to manage the cooking herself while Chip largely managed the front of the house and ran food out to the tables. This'll be fine. She told herself it's not ideal, but I'll be able to hold things together until Betty is back. And that plan seemed to be working out until late afternoon when storm clouds gathered outside and a huge party of rats gathered inside. Hmm, what is going to happen? You'll have to listen to part two of the restaurant review in order to find out. Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. Thank you to Amelia for the super important reminder message at the beginning. And thank you, as always, for listening in.
