May 1985: The Business of Women. Part 2: Nicholas vs. Michaelides

This whole thing has gone way too far. I’m talking about an article in the March issue, The Business of Women, written by Stephen Michaelides, the editor of this magazine. Michaelides was crying in his beer about a restaurateur called “Richard Richardson” who was profiled in another magazine and who said bad stuff about women. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Richard Richardson and you’re now sitting in Rick’s room.

If you listened to Michaelides, you’d think I fried babies and served them on sourdough and kept women in the broom closet to serve my waiters between the appetizers and the entrees. The man worked himself into such a lather because I don’t hire waitresses, that I’d hate to be there when he learns that there are millions of starving people in Africa and that we’ve got a nuclear race that could explode in our faces any day and a deficit in Washington that could choke a horse . . .to say nothing of child abuse, battered wives, white collar crime, and jaywalking. Cancer you get mad about. Whether or not I hire women is my own goddamned business.

And whether or not my 3,300-square-foot condo is filled with “statues of naked women” is also my own business (similar statues by the same artists are in some of the country’s finest museums). Whether or not I won’t “go out with a broad that’s not in good shape or good in bed” is my own business. (Could we not get off our high horses for a minute: how many of you, given the choice, would go out with women who are out of shape and not in the mood? How many women are looking for guys with pot bellies and animal breath?)


Another neon erotica in the shower
of Nick’s condo, Chicago.

Let’s talk real honest for a minute. Let’s call a spade a spade and a dame a dame. When you have waiters, you have a certain kind of restaurant. When you have waitresses, you have another kind of restaurant. When you have waiters and waitresses, you have a third kind of restaurant. That’s real simple and real basic. You all know it. You all understand it. The only one who doesn’t is Michaelides. Those who can, do; those who can’t, write about it.

I have a waiter-kind of restaurant. There is a certain ambiance—man, I hate that word—that I’m creating in Nick’s Fishmarket. It’s a romantic, glamorous joint. It’s a special, night-out place. It’s for birthdays and anniversaries and getting engaged. Couples hold hands and nuzzle and play footsie. It’s a place that makes women feel terrific. How come? Because I hire young, handsome waiters who hold out their chairs, light their cigarettes, put the napkin on their lap, hand them the menu, make a little eye contact. Women love it. They tell me they do.

Everyone today treats women like one of the boys. I won’t do that. So, they love to come to Nick’s and be treated real special. Now can anyone honestly tell me that a woman is going to get that same kind of attention from another woman? How many women do you know line up to have a drink at a Playboy Club where some bunny with her glands hanging out pours it? I know women who won’t go to Lawry’s because they don’t want some waitress with better legs than they’ve got spinning their salad. When women are dressed up, they like to be surrounded by men. And men like to be taken care of by men. Don’t complain to me. I didn’t invent this stuff. I just capitalized on it.

In Nick’s Fishmarket, waiters work. In another kind of restaurant, women work. I’ve had every kind of restaurant you can think of. I’ve hired women. When it was right, I hired them. When it’s wrong, I don’t. That’s it. That’s the long and short of it.

That’s all I’ve got to say on the subject of women in a restaurant. The right women in the right restaurant, great. The wrong women in the wrong restaurant, forget it.

Oh, yeah, and I’ve got something to say to you, Michaelides: anything you’ve got to say to me, say to me. And spell my name right.

 (Footnote: For more on gender discrimination in foodservice, see August 1982: Where Have All The Women Gone?)