I left Notre Dame because there weren’t any girls attending school there yet. I returned to one of my girlfriends, who was a professional dance instructor for Arthur Murray (remember those?).
My employment history includes a stint as a short-order cook for my brother’s Sambo’s Restaurant (remember those?) back in the early 70’s in Tucson, Arizona.
Legs.
Ouch.
To say I received no favors from my big brother is a gross understatement.
He started me on dishes and cleanup duty and I worked harder than I ever had to in my life as I not only picked up the necessary skills to eventually earn a good living in the static arena of the food service industry, but I earned the respect of every co-worker as I would eventually be their boss after Ed made me Assistant Manager.
I was 19.
When I made my way out of the back of the house I learned how hard the waitresses worked for $1.15/hr. which was the minimum wage we had to pay for tipped employees.
I never forgot that and have always maintained empathy for servers.
My career with the Sambo’s Restaurant Group ended after the company filed bankruptcy and I switched teams to the W.R. Grace company, a huge conglomerate that would assign me to open up a 300-seat Coco’s Restaurant (remember those?) in Palm Springs as the General Manager.
But enough about me.
The heartbeat of our coffee shop was the cook stations where Pancho and Joe did their things.
These two cooks were the soul of the restaurant and could not be further apart; Pancho was loud, excitable, and constantly jabbering across the counter with patrons as he tapped his grill with his spatula and held court from 6am to 2pm.
Joe came in at 7am and he was quiet and efficient in setting up his cook station to his exacting standards.
When ready, he would silently go over and close Pancho down so he could take his morning break.
Speed is penultimate when measuring a short-order cook as profit came from turnover.
Pancho was lightning fast.
Too fast.
Sloppy.
He was always having to remake or reheat orders he screwed up in his hurried state.
His station looked like a bomb went off up until about 1:45 pm. when he would cleanup his station for the incoming dinner shift which started at 2pm.
I learned speed from Pancho.
Joe merely shook his head.
What Pancho lacked was discipline.
“Pick up!” He would shout as he flung a multitude of guest checks in the air and stacked a pyramid of plates on the pass-out counter. The waitresses would scurry to pick up their orders.
Not Joe.
He didn’t say a word.
His plates came up even faster than the flashy Pancho, with no mistakes.
His station was immaculate at all times, even during rush hours.
Joe was a karate master.
Really.
His style was Shotokan and he carried himself quietly, like Caine from the Kung Fu series.
I learned discipline from Joe.
I hate to admit it, but I was more like Pancho than Joe, and both men helped forge my food service persona and I am grateful to them.
I hope they had good lives.
You too.
Stay well.
