Life Behind Bars Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Ownership

In all my years of living on this planet we call earth, I have never encountered a group of individuals who cry the blues more than restaurant owners.  The world is always out to get them.  The beer distributor is screwing them, the guy selling produce from the farm is jacking up his prices, coffee is through the roof, Uncle Sam just wants more and more and the damned liberals are sending us all to the poor house.  

I personally have never worked for an owner that didn’t own at least two houses, if not three.  Nor have I ever worked for an owner who didn’t own a BMW, Mercedes or Range Rover…and in most cases a half a dozen of them.  After all, mommy and daddy’s little boys and girls who have never worked a day in their privileged lives can’t be driving around in some Toyota like a poor commoner!  What would the world think?!

In the handful of restaurants I had the ultimate privilege of working in over the years, there was only one owner who knew what they were doing, and that was the Witch of Spring Street.  Other than that, the owner was pissing out rainbows and crapping gold coins out of pure stupid luck brought on by location or lack of competition.  Or mommy and daddy built up the empire and handed it to them on a silver platter. Either way, I spent most of my years making money for complete dipshits who didn’t deserve a dime.

The first set of numbskulls were known as the Brother’s Grim.  Two poor Irish immigrants who came to this country to escape the family farm and strike it rich in the land of opportunity.  And I have to give credit where credit is due, they certainly did just that.  Of course it was no secret that they were both tied to the underworld and their startup money didn’t come from a bank, that’s for sure.

One was a shifty fellow, an ex-con and part time butcher by trade.  Henceforth his moniker, The Butcher. It was said to never turn your back on him or trust him because underneath his good cop demeanor, he was only out for number one.  His brother, the Thief, was a cut throat Irishman who would stab his own mother in the back in order to get ahead.  These two were the good cop, bad cop to a tee; but when all was said and done, they were both scumbags, pure and simple.

They began their operation in the mid 1970’s, after spending years washing dishes and anything else their shifty Irish bosses needed them to “clean”. Eventually, after securing enough favors and capital, they branched off and bought a little pub of their own.  Their start-up cash came from their higher ups, and so did their first inventory of booze and food.  One hand washes the other they say, and whatever these two did for their bosses, they were rewarded handsomely.  

The 70’s were a swinging time.  Beer was cheap and highly profitable, and so was the food.  Before the days of credit cards and tip reporting, it was also an all-cash business.  Within two years of operating they not only had their homes paid off, but their restaurant as well.  Before all was said and done, they had four establishments…all of which were zooming.  They sold off two at the peak of the market.  Not because it was a wise choice financially, but because their wives were tired of them dipping their pens in the company ink on a consistent basis. Sure, the home on the golf course was nice, but they wanted that money for themselves and not going to the 20-year-old waitress at shift's end. If you catch my drift.

So with two places still in hand, the Brother’s Grim each picked which one they wanted and it was theirs to run under the family name.  Things went increasingly well and the money kept flowing, after all, you don’t have to sell that many burgers and beers when the rent and mortgages are paid off.  Stepping into an enormous pile of gold colored Irish shit, these two bozos could do no wrong.

It wasn’t until the older brother, the Thief, contracted cancer that their Irish luck started to run out.  Not being able to keep a consistent eye on his employees, or his ex-con of a brother, he took to hiring spies to keep his eyes on the prize.  It wasn’t long before he discovered the secret to his long time bartender’s success.  Not only was he giving every third beer for free, but the money collected on the fourth beer was not going into the register as previously thought. 

It was always a wonder how the original barkeep always lived in a big house, drove fancy sports cars and had the bar three deep at all times of the day.  Yes, he was a lunch time bartender and making a fortune!  After 25 years of service it was learned that his go-to guy was robbing him blind.  Once the Thief was cancer free, he took his old barkeep into the basement and fired him on the spot.  What was lost on this titan of industry, was that there were two reasons for the bar’s success…the customers getting a free drink now and again, and that the bartender was well liked. The profits were still through the roof, who gives two shits if he was giving away beers? Three houses wasn't enough?

All of the devoted regulars vowed to never step foot in his bar again, and much to their credit, they never did.  There were about a dozen or so bartenders that followed with little success as the lunch crowd never returned.  That was, until a little cocky Irish bartender walked through the door on his lunch break, stepping into his own little pile of golden Irish shit! I.e., yours truly.

The brother’s grim were no longer the same after the spy incident.  While they spent their whole lives robbing everybody around them, it cut deep that somebody else out there had returned the favor.  From that point on, they were completely paranoid and convinced that everybody in the world was a dirty rotten thief. They hovered over everybody like hawks, from the waitresses to the barkeeps to the cooks.  Every line item was scrutinized, every free beer given out was followed by an interrogation.  

“Who is that?  Why is he getting a free beer? How often do you do that?  Does he come in often?  How big are the tips he’s leaving you.  Don’t be giving the house away.  If I have to give shit away, I’m not doing my job right.”

The interrogations would go on and on.  If the bar was dead, it was my fault that I wasn’t bringing in customers.  If the bar was busy, I was giving the house away.  They were never fucking happy.  They couldn’t be told what to do, or take advice, everybody out there had an angle, and was trying to steal from them at every waking moment.  It got to the point that when somebody left a tip over 20%, I would cringe because I knew the gestapo would be hovering the next day with a raised eyebrow, pointed fingers and allegations of all out thievery.

When the economy went south things got even worse.  Free drinks, which were often discouraged in the first place, were all out banned unless it was a regular’s birthday.  Even then, it had to be documented who it was, how old they were, and how often they frequented the joint.  I can recall February being a big month for birthdays for our regulars…who knows, I guess we had a lot of Aquarius and Pisces out there, all I do know is that I would get the same phone call every February, it was kind of my own personal ground hog’s day…

“Seems to be an awful lot of birthdays this month, awful lot of birthdays.  Are you checking people’s Id’s when they say it’s their birthday?”

“Really?  Are you serious?  I have to check people’s Id’s now to give them their one free drink a year?”

“Who are these people anyway?  Are they regulars?  Do they come in a lot?  I don’t want you giving free drinks to every Tom, Dick and Harry that claim it’s their birthday!  If you don’t recognize them, check their Id’s!”

“Yes, sir, duly noted, check stranger’s Id’s to see if they are trying to pull a fast one over on me.”

“Don’t be a wise ass, I sign your check every week!”

“Yes, the check for $2.13 per hour…no health benefits, no paid vacation, no customers.  Yes, I will make sure the scammers aren’t running up and down the highway from bar to bar claiming it’s their birthday, I will certainly do just that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just do as I say. Click”

And that’s how it always would go.  I never gave two shits about being fired because I knew as an experienced bartender, jobs came easy.  I also knew the Brother’s Grim were as crooked as the day was long and I never had a problem calling them out on their ridiculous behavior.  

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It was said that if there was ever an estate sale at one of their houses after they died, that it would be in your best interest to buy up all the mattresses.  As the years went on they got cheaper and cheaper and more and more paranoid.  I would often ask them if they found a way to take it with them to the next life when making fun of their thriftiness.  I always tell my Jewish friends that they get a bad rap.  And I always tell those making underhanded comments about them that it’s obviously apparent they have never worked for an Irishman! And don't get me started on the Scotts!

All those years ago, remembering dad always being in awe of old Arthur the Great…and here I was working with two of his old buddies.  Shaking my head that I had spent a lifetime wanting to be part of this gang only to find out how shifty and underhanded they all were.  But don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t just the Irish…it was all restaurant owners.  They’re mostly a bunch of filthy underhanded scumbags who don’t deserve your business and should have a line of people waiting to piss on their graves when they pass to the great beyond.  But take it with a grain of salt, that’s just been my experience.

I’ve worked for corporate, I’ve worked for the Greeks, I’ve worked for the Italians, I’ve worked with the Irish, but the owners who really take the cake are the second generation owners.  The kids who spent their whole lives trying run away only to come back once Mom and Pop are ready to sign over the paperwork.  These are the worst piles of human waste you will ever encounter, we call them lovingly, the Prodigal Sons. 

A unique brand of idiot who struts around like he’s worked his ass off his whole life and made the ultimate sacrifices and took all the risks, putting their lives and reputations out on the line with risky bank loans and other means of funding.  Oh yes, you want to talk about stepping into piles of golden shit, well, these people did just that.  If that reminds you of our current “president”, well, then you’re drinking what I’m brewing if you catch my drift.

It’s these types that will lovingly refer to you the staff as the “help”, or in a more classy term, “you people”.  They will treat you like some white trash pile of garbage or the shit on the bottom of their shoes.  Don’t ever be fooled either, as these guys and gals think the same way about you the customer.  While they are all smiles and handshakes and so very happy to see you, as soon as they turn the corner they usually show their true colors.

“What’s that asshole’s name again? My god, I can’t stand that piece of shit and his ugly wife and his awful kids.”

“Well, sir, that’s Jimmy and his wife Reagan.  I think the kids names are Dave and Allison.  Super nice people, they come here like three times a week, spend a shitload of money.”

“Yeah, thanks for the history lesson.  HEEEEY JIMMY!  How are things going?  So great to see you!  Hi Reagan, how are you and the kids?!  My god, thanks so much for coming in today, check out the Kansas City dry rub…super delicious and only $65 dollars to boot!”

“Nice touch boss.”

“Stupid assholes will probably just get burgers and waste my time.  Upsell them…and stop being so accommodating to the customers, we’re running a business here, not a soup kitchen!”

Yes folks, that’s not a stretch, that’s the sort of conversation that occurs on a daily basis at a restaurant.  Owners are heartless money hungry scumbags who care less about customers and employees and more about squeezing out as much profit as humanly possible.  And don’t think for a second that when you get something free it’s from one of them, it’s because your server or bartender realizes just how important you as the customer are and that it’s imperative to not only make you feel welcome, but to get you and your family back into the door as many times as humanly possible.  And yes, I have been told on numerous occasions, and by different owners, that I am “waaaaaay too accommodating”, I shit you not.  Funny, I always thought that’s what being in the hospitality business was all about.  But what the fuck do I know?  I’m just a bartender (another thing I’ve been told once or twice).

The other thing about ownership, and it goes across the spectrum is they all dip their pens in the company ink.  The Greeks think they are God’s gift to women and the Italians aren’t too far behind.  The Irish are a little more discrete about it, but don’t let those sneaky freckled redheads fool you!  They’re on the hunt just like all the others. You folks out there have absolutely no idea of the misogynist, chauvinist pigs that exist in the restaurant industry.

If you ever want your daughter to get a part time job, send them to work at department store or a hospital or something as far away from a restaurant as possible!  You want to talk about sexual predators, look no further than your local burger joint.  These owners will bang just about anything that moves, especially if it’s half their age.  And hey, listen, it would be one thing if they were single and young too… I get it, I’m a human male, it’s not like I haven’t imagined such a scenario.  But these guys are old, they are married, and in a lot of cases have daughters older than the “help” they are sticking their pickles into. 

The prodigal sons would purposely hire white trash and consistently let them save their jobs with a quick blowjob in the office.  Missed a couple of shifts with a bad hangover or a three day coke and heroin binge?  Come to my house tonight and bend over while the kids are at the basketball game with the wife.  Try managing a bar, or the floor when you can’t fire or discipline your employees because they fuck their way out of trouble.  

There is nothing worse than working your ass off only to get thrown under the bus by one of these assholes in front of a customer.  Or when you show up on time and work above and beyond the call of duty only to get outshined by the girl who is willing to bend over for five minutes every time she fucks up.  Listen, the restaurant world is a fucked up place and this sort of thing happens all the time.  It was very hard for me being an honest married man and an honest bartender, especially when being around this sort of icky behavior all the time.

I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again, restaurant owners are the most despicable group of people I have ever had the pleasure of working with my entire life.  I know that every boss seems like an asshole, and I know every business has its icky side, and I know this stuff goes on everywhere…but keep in mind, in my life, I have worked at just about every vocation there is…and people who own restaurants are the icing on the cake.

I now understand why chain restaurants are picking off these places one by one.  They are run by halfwits whose greed knows no bounds, and whose unscrupulous behavior is despicable at best, and downright filthy when all is said and done.  I have never been around people who complain so much when they have everything they could ever ask for.  Money, girls, friends, respect…not to mention wives and kids at home…yet, all they want is more, more, more…Stop trying to be too accommodating, I’m trying to make money here.

You charged them for all those beers, right?!