Because he refused to hire women as waiters, my model of this impropriety was going to be my good friend, Nick Nicholas, owner of several successful Nick’s Fishmarket restaurants. My publisher didn’t like that idea at all. “Do you have to write this column?” he asked. Nick was a contributing editor of our magazine and our readers loved him. “Why muddy the waters?” publisher asked.
Not long after that(while mulling muddying the waters—)I stumbled across what’s best described as a tabloid tale of Nick in a slick self-interest magazine published by The Seagram Company that explicitly detailed Nick’s away-from-work romancing while explaining paradoxically, and I sensed a bit apologetically, his reasons for not hiring women. If I was looking for proof to support my argument, I need look no further. I had all I needed (not that I needed any, I told myself smugly). I quit mulling.
So, not only was publisher worried I’d piss off Nick, he was now fearful Seagram might cancel its advertising if I so much as dared to extract copy from its “magazine” to defend my disapproval of Nick’s chauvinism. After all, in its profile of Nick (I’m paraphrasing here) as “one of the most successful restaurateurs in the business,” the magazine took pains to point out that Nick’s hiring methods were exemplary of his success. Would not my column put the lie to Seagram’s ass-kissing of Nick; and, if that were true(so reasoned publisher)wouldn’t Seagram be within its rights to cancel its ads? Publisher yanked my column. One month later, I yanked it back.
A friend of mine runs a small hash house in a remote corner of southern Ohio. He is breaking the law. Oh, it’s nothing that’ll get him in trouble or in jail, but he’s a lawbreaker nonetheless. He refuses to hire women; he thinks they look dumb in uniforms. They shouldn’t have to work anyway, says he. They’re objects of art: fragile, collectible; things to be admired, loved, romanced.
He goes about his business quietly. In a good year, I figure he’ll do $150,000, $200,000 tops. Some restaurants do that in a week.
My friend doesn’t belong to any associations. He isn’t at all community-minded: doesn’t speak before any church groups or fraternal organizations; doesn’t accept any offers to sit on panels at industry functions (don’t recall anyone’s invited him to do that; more to the point: I’m pretty sure he’s never been to an industry function); doesn’t contribute to local charity fundraisers. The truth is, he doesn’t publicize how he feels. He doesn’t care to. His opinions he keeps to himself. He shirks controversy. He’s a lonely man. Even though he runs his business illegally, he harms—admit it—no one but himself. The word has never gotten out that in a remote corner of southern Ohio is a restaurateur breaking the law. If it did? What of it? Would anyone bother? Not likely. Leave me alone he says.
In the mail a month ago comes a copy of a “trade” magazine published by an international distiller. It’s nothing more than a publicity stunt, a marketing gimmick: its mission is to publish, under the guise of objective story-telling, articles, profiles, drink recipes, and so forth that subliminally promote the company’s brands and its love and support of the hospitality industry and how everyone in it drinks or ought to drink its brands. Interspersed among all of the stories are ads, every one of them featuring the distiller’s brands. The magazine is faking it; and, given its content, leaves no doubt about that.
The trade magazine is short-lived. But in its first edition is a profile of quote-unquote one of the best-known restaurateurs in the country. Not only is Richard Richardson (not his real name) wildly successful, he is colorful and flamboyant, invited often to speak at industry gatherings where he sounds off on issues he feels are crucial to the survival and growth of the industry. He is, of course, controversial. He is, of course, admired and respected for his opinions. When he speaks, people listen. He moralizes a lot, often dealing in non-negotiable truths and ditzy generalities. It is not stretching a point to state that many of his colleagues accept as gospel his moralizing. Ditto, his opinions. In many circles, he is worshipped. He is as unlike my hash house buddy as night is the day. Richardson is visible, vocal, and influential. Not so, hash house. Hash house is shy, lonely, afraid. When he steps out of line—like not wanting to hire women—I pity him. When Richardson steps out of line, espousing values inconsistent with sound business practices, I fume.
Take the profile of Richardson that appeared in the “trade” magazine. You’d expect to find in it a bunch of stuff about how he runs his restaurant and how it pours a lot of the brands the sponsor of the magazine sells. No such luck. Oh, there is some stuff, but not a lot of it. What’s in it is a narrative about how Richardson feels publicly and privately about women. He adores them. The article titillates.
Richardson collects women. Richardson surrounds himself with expensive erotica. Says the article,
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| One of three neon erotica, this one in the shower of “Richardson’s” condo high above Mich. Ave., Chicago. |
Richardson can do whatever he pleases: his private life is his business and if he wants to brag about his romancing and seductions in a “restaurant” magazine while endorsing the products the publisher/company/sponsor peddles, that’s his privilege.
What I find unacceptable is how he defends his “privileged” values of a woman’s role in his restaurant. The philosophy he advocates leaves no doubt as to how he feels about them. To insist, as a very successful restaurateur, that women are better-off in bed (at least those who are “in good shape”) than waiting tables in his restaurant’s dining room is not only presumptively dishonest, but nutty.
Maybe we should give Richardson credit for his honesty, for his sincerity and candor? Not a chance. Because he comports himself professionally in a manner that philosophically mirrors his private life, we must ask him why. And not hash house? Not hash house. Nobody knows him. Everybody knows Richardson. To many he is a role model, exemplary of the complete restaurateur. Because of that, because he maintains such a towering profile within the industry, we must hold him accountable.
The article reminds us that Richardson “loves the restaurant business. He wants to teach people, give them the benefit of what he knows . . .” A commendable sentiment. Unfortunately, for Richardson, “people” has a gender and it’s not neuter. Richardson doesn’t hire women. I’m sorry, four of them work for him, none in the front; all behind the scenes in the pantry, in the office. Out of sight, out of mind. You wonder: are they “in good shape,” and, if they were, would they be “good in bed”?
Listen to Richardson talking about hiring women: “Broads are a pain in the ass to work with [even in the pantry and the office?]. I couldn’t take a chick in here. My waiters all wear tuxedoes. Now, how would some gal look in a tuxedo? Like shit, that’s how . . .Of course, I’d hire a broad . . . It’s just that qualified females never apply.”
Of course, I disagree with Richardson. There is nothing a waiter is asked to do that a waitress can’t except maybe climb in the sack with the owner. I know that. I bet Richardson knows that, too. What’s more, I think women look just fine in tuxes—better than some men. For proof, check out any fashion magazine, circa August 1966, for pics of Yves Saint Laurent’s design, “Le Smoking,” a woman’s tuxedo. Very snappy, eh? However, if Richardson thinks women still look lousy in tuxes, let them wear something else. It wouldn’t be the first time a restaurant dressed men and women in complementary attire. “Lousy in tuxes” is a lousy excuse. I know that. I bet Richardson does, too.
There is a futility, a sadness, to Richardson’s arguments. A “sadness” because, as a professional businessperson, he should know better. Because he doesn’t, his refusal to hire women is a measure, not of his power, but of his impotence. A “futility” because inevitably reality will grind down the prejudice of his values.
Richardson sits smiling in the catbird seat: he has accumulated riches, wealth, success, and broads that are in good shape and good in bed. His waiters earn big bucks. Because of his generosity and affection, he has extracted from them undying dedication and loyalty. Richardson will never have difficulty keeping his waiters or, as attrition takes some from him, replacing them with tuxedoed clones while always—give him credit—on the lookout for a few “qualified females.” Richardson’s opinions of women and the manner with which he treats them privately he is entitled to, but his opinions of women in the foodservice workforce and his work ethic are outdated and chock full of nuttiness. What do you bet Richardson feels the same?
