Short: O Charlie, Part1: The Store
Bishop’s first restaurant job was for a soulless regional chain, a steakhouse designed with Walmart-loving America in mind. You know the type. Constructed of brick and tile, and decorated with cheap nostalgia. These restaurants are passionless formulas, tried and true, right down to the drink specials and open floor plan. They have catchy slogans involving fun and hoopla and a basic menu of grilled meats and burgers. Mention it’s your birthday and they’ll give you a slice of caramel pie while singing Happy Birthday. And of course, they offered yeast rolls. Free, ass-fattening, light and pillowy, slathered in butter yeast rolls, the delight of adults and children alike. Bishop quickly learned most customers overlooked unfilled drinks and dirty plates, but hell hath no fury like an angry redneck demanding more free bread. And all of it- the intersection of food, service, and power dynamics of a restaurant such as Charlie’s- fascinated him.
The first wonder, according to Bishop, was the ruthless efficiency of the restaurant. Enough to make the most ardent capitalist happy, dishes were formed from a handful of common ingredients, with most plates containing some bland variation of beef, chicken, or salmon. And every item on the menu was designed to be prepared and on the customer’s table in under eight minutes. And management leveraged favorable labor laws to keep the place clean and stocked. Of course, the corporate office utilized their massive buying power to lower fixed costs. Something a mom and pop could never do.
Some days, Bishop felt this machine pushing on his soul. The smell of industrial sanitizer and fry oil drove permeated his uniform- a white oxford dress shirt and blue jeans. And he hated coupon cutters, the Sunday brunch crowd, and cringed at the way management bent over for any customer with a complaint regardless of validity. Better to keep the customer happy than have them call the home office, he was told. All this is normal enough, but what really got under his skin was the never-ending “Kids eat free” promotion.
You may let your mind run wild as you picture the type of person willing to abuse such an offer. Single parents would claim a fifteen year-old was twelve, the maximum age as defined by the fine print. They’d order a bowl of soup instead of an entree as required. Or worse, a cheap schmuck might order ten chicken wings on .25 cent wing night and get the kids meals for free too. (And why, might you ask, were people allowed to abuse the promo? Recall what you read above, management didn’t want anyone raising a fuss.)
Bishop once served a family of four whose entire bill including meals, enough lemon wedges to make lemonade, and free bread was a mere $8. After an hour of running him ragged for every free item in the store, they left him a single crumpled up dollar bill as a tip. Rats don’t work this hard, he thought.
Still, the restaurant held his attention, even on the worst days. Shifts were short and he was usually able to score free food by doing extra side work. And management liked him. They like him because he worked hard and was honest, two uncommon traits in the food service world. But more than that, we was willing to pick up extra shifts. Naturally, he rose quickly through the ranks, from lowly server to trainer and bartender. And when trouble did come calling for Bishop, management covered for him…
