A Man Short: "An Insider's Tale of T.G.I. Friday's in the 1980s"

ONE

The Working Map

Jeff Ryan’s here, we didn’t think you were going to show, bellowed Vaughn Taylor as he rose from his chair to shake my hand. Come Ryan, follow me. You’ve met Betty Baker, our trusted Administrative Assistant. That’s your desk next to Blaze’s. You guys will be traveling in the same direction so we thought it wise to bunk together. He’s not here today, been up in Philly grinding away. Go ahead, set your briefcase down, and let’s meet your fellow dirt jocks. Shake hands with Sherwin Bliss and Claus Von Blucher. We felt that we needed to hire a couple of Texans for morale purposes. They will be working out west where I can keep a close eye on their progress. Then we’ll spring ‘em loose. Howdy Ryan, they drawled. Say hello to Tom Bewlinski, The Silver Fox."

Welcome aboard…my friends call me Bewly.

"Ryan, we thought the best way to get you started would be to spend the week with this guy out in Los Angeles. You can learn from one of the best, right Bewly? You can grab your things at The Crowne Plaza. The plane tickets are on your desk. Gentlemen, do more than you get paid for and later on you get paid for more than you do."

Bewly pulled underneath the hotel’s porte cochere, his silver and blue 280 ZX anxious to make the twelve mile sprint to the airport. He asked as I jumped in, Have you checked out the lounge, Ryan?

Hadn’t had time, just got in last night.

We’ll stop in on Friday when we come back. Blaze and the rest of the guys will be there. You’re going to see some good looking dollies.

Safely inside Terminal 3C, Bewly issued his first edict of the day, Ryan, we have a few minutes, why don’t you grab a copy of The Dallas Times Herald, Friday’s made the Business Section. I’m going to run a quick errand. See you at the gate. In a flash, the capricious Bewly vanished amongst the harried pedestrian horde that was Dallas Ft. Worth International Airport, DFW to our fellow road warriors.

At the precise moment the flight crew embarked on their ceremonious walk to the jet-way, a panting Bewly plunked a half-dozen roses atop my over stuffed briefcase and proffered a question, How’s the talent this morning, Ryan? Outstanding, a bumper crop, I extolled. Bewly whispered in agreement, That’s LA for ya, let’s wait and board last.

After seeing to it that each stew received a rose, we hunkered down in opposing aisle seats, one row north of the smoking section, the Boeing 727 now a buzz with curious passengers, none more than a balding salesmen-type wedged uncomfortably in his window seat to my immediate left. Sporting a Budweiser tumor tediously held up by bright yellow sansabelt slacks, he leaned toward me and in a low voice asked, Where have I seen your friend before? An episode of M*A*S*H? A guest shot on Knight Rider?

Not wanting of a lengthy conversation with a talkative stranger, I gave my shoulders a shrug as if to say maybe?

Undeterred he continued, You guys cannot be married?

My response was polite yet guarded, You are right about that.

Facing forward, he offered a final lament. I’d give my right arm to be single again.

Our post takeoff nap was interrupted by a melodic sound Bah-da Bah-da-da-da Bah-da bah-da-da-da and then singing- Monday Monday so good to me Monday Monday it was all it was meant to be as our bubbling flight attendant braked the beverage cart at our row. Bewly, the master lothario, chimed in, Great song, haven’t heard that in awhile. "Then see The Big Chill, super flick by the way. The flowers are wonderful, made our day. You guys must be with Friday’s. The menus on the middle seat gave it away, said the flight attendant. Bewly held up the Unabridged Dictionary of Food and Drink for her to examine. She gasped, My God, the Mushroom Burger on a toasted English Muffin, orgasmic. Whoops, didn’t mean to get carried away. Speaking of movies, a little birdie told us that Tom Cruise was reading a script entitled Cocktail and that a few of the scenes were to be shot at the original Friday’s in Manhattan. What say ye? As she helped Bewly lower his tray, he doubled down, Yes, do you have an inny or an outy? Without batting an eye, our flirtatious flight attendant unfastened a button with the dexterity of a surgeon and flashed a world class inny at Bewly’s baby blues. After depositing two Chicken Kiev’s and Beef Tips over a bed of rice for our man on the window, she made her way to the next row of passengers. Bewly turned to me and said, Ryan, never in my wildest imagination did I ever think I would become rock hard from looking at a woman’s navel."

After lunch, we had a chance to peruse the article in the paper about Friday’s, in particular a section that struck a chord.

The seventies taught us the restaurant business, now to ensure the company’s growth, we need to have quality-paced growth of our internal concepts. I am going to run the company without the pressures of the marketplace. I am not going to yield to multiples or anything else. We’re going to yield only to that rate in which we can absorb units. If we start having difficulty, we’re going to throttle back. If we’re able to absorb more, we’re going to push forward, but it is going to be with an eye towards quality growth within the company.

Viken Dane President and C.E.O. of T.G.I. Friday’s Inc. in remarks to the Danish Society of Kings.

So Bewly, what do you think? I asked inquisitively. Bewly responded rather vociferously, "His comments, both prophetic and ominous, come on the heels of the company netting $74 million from a public offering. In other words we are ready to swing for the fences. Not that we weren’t after Curt Carlson hitched his wagon to the company several years ago although internally Friday’s wanted to acquire Chili’s when it was on the market, only the timing did not feel right for our suitor from Minneapolis squelching further interest. Friday’s operates under the premise that volume solves everything. Look at the sales on Newbury Street in Boston, six million dollars a year out of one hundred ninety seats, our national average is the highest in the industry and stores in Woodbridge, N.J. and Westbury, Long Island are running on jet fuel. Our second concept, Dalt’s is making a statement at Sakowitz Village and we may be able to dot the earth with Fast Friday’s, if the concept is as promising as they say it is. If you are wondering what this Viken dude is like, well he is both an ogre and a czar wrapped into one, but we are damn fortunate to have him. The fucker firmly believes that there is nothing outside the four walls of your restaurant that influences your volume, The Four Walls Theory. Time after time he has been proven right. Ryan, here is the rub. We are all about company owned stores, however, you will find yourself explaining away ad nauseam, the two shoddy franchise groups in existence, one in Ft. Worth and the other in New York City. The slovenly acquaintance in the window seat hastily pardoned himself and headed for the loo. There was an undeniable smudge on the seat of his trousers, which prompted Bewly to go in a different direction with his thoughts, Remember Ryan, never trust a fart."

Friday’s had opened a unit in the relaxed waterfront community of Marina Del Rey in 1977 and followed up with a second on Canoga Park Blvd in Woodland Hills three years later. Beginning with this trip to LA, the company was looking for more bang for its buck out of this sprawling market and was counting on us to fill in the blanks. We had a lot of ground to cover so, the next day, Bewly thought we ought to get rolling at 10 a.m., reasoning that most of the rush-hour traffic would have cleared out by then. Riding shotgun, Bewly handed over The Working Map, probably the most valuable in-house tool that we produced on the road. It was this finished product that reflected our work in the field and that was brought back to headquarters. In actuality, several maps were marked up while underway, while the clean map was back at the office ready for final drafting. Blaze was the best cartographer of the group, with meticulous handwriting, multi-colored highlights, the works.

What was on these maps? Highlights of residential neighborhoods in the form of dollar signs. For example, Beverly Hills would receive $$$+ for Upper Crust, Thousand Oaks $$$ for Upper Middle, Brea $$, and on down the line. M/F 400 would signify an apartment complex with 400 units. Marina Del Rey had over 10,000 boat slips so we drew a sailboat and put the corresponding number next to it. C.B.D. in big block letters stood for Central Business District. Arrows pointed towards new growth. Major retail and office complexes were identified, as well as dinner houses, hotels, and even industrial areas. Call it an exercise in the process of elimination if you will, as, once complete, we would know where not to build.

It was not uncommon to drive 1000 miles or more to finish what we came to accomplish, and that was to know a market cold. We were only going to do this exercise once, so the goal was to leave no stone unturned and take nothing for granted. Backtracking was not an option. We were on a reconnaissance mission and did not want to blow it for the big invasion yet to come.

Bewly rummaged through his coat pocket and found what he was looking for, visine. After squeezing off two drops, one for each bloodshot eye, he offered some advice, Ryan, best to keep some of this stuff handy. Most of our information gathering takes place at night. There will not be a restaurant, bar, saloon or haunt that will pass us by. My match collection will attest to that. Hell, I haven’t taken a solid shit since I joined the company.

As evening approached, Bewly, all business for most of the day picked a spot where he thought in the back of his mind we could do some bonding. Cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard, Bewly asked me if I had ever been to a Turtle Race. I hadn’t been to one, nor did I know what it was, so Bewly decided we would go. There’s an Irish Pub up on the left hand side. They usually stage the races outside in the parking lot. Let’s go check it out, he said.

Inside the bar, Bewly grabbed a couple of beers and said, Ok Ryan, we are about to be hustled by a turtle owner who will ask us to enter their pet in the race for a rental fee of course. What do we win? I asked. A trophy, we will put it on Betty’s desk, Bewly replied. Sure enough, a voluptuous redhead wearing a ripped UCLA sweatshirt and legwarmers approached and began her sales pitch. Hey you handsome devils, let me introduce you to Max, the fastest turtle in the joint. He has been with me ever since he was little. He follows me around the apartment, sometimes into the shower. Weaned the fucker on fruits and veggies, whole grain cereal, but no dairy, and he doesn’t like to lose. Twenty bucks and we’re in the race." Bewly, fixated with her majestic chest, handed her the dough and it was off to the race course.

Max started slowly as if to size up the competition and it wasn’t until Miss UCLA jumped up and down in a frenzy, boobs flapping to the delight of the crowd, that Max got his motor going. Run Max run she yelled at the top her lungs. Max destroyed the field. The trophy was going to Dallas. She offered her congrats and a welcoming invite, Listen, if you guys are in town for awhile, stop by the Condom Connection over on Melrose. Figured with the herpes scare and all, you can use the protection. Here is my card oh and, don’t be a loner cover your boner. After exercising a tantalizing pivot, she was gone.

Aside from speaking with customers, bartenders were a terrific source of information, invariably directing us to try this or that pick-up joint in town, or tell us about a new restaurant under construction. A large percentage of our job was detective work, and asking the right questions became an art form.

The most important notation made to the map, or a notation that received the most attention, was the 100% location. In other words, if you could fly a building into the market, where would you land? It did not matter what, if anything, occupied the site; we simply marked down 100%. Ryan, we are in search of the real estate equivalent of a woman’s G-spot. By the way, the stew’s name is Darcy and I’ll be looking for hers soon. She happens to live at The Villages behind the Friday’s on Greenville Ave.

If the 100% was not obtainable, we simply spread our wings in each direction, all the while asking ourselves if this move away from the bulls-eye continued to make sense. Here is where we had to tread with caution and make sure not to, under any circumstances, allow Friday’s to become out positioned or what we referred to as getting Cut off at the Pass.

The finished maps always remained at Midway, ready at Betty’s fingertips should anyone ask to see one. Viken’s office put them to good use when looking for vectors on where to find that hot new restaurant. Brigid Slice, Viken’s able assistant might call down and ask us about a new restaurant that he would want to visit. If Viken asked about Ivy’s in Santa Monica for example, we would say, Oh yeah, we know where it is, Bewly and I were there last week. Let me show you the menu.

Callers—and there were many into the Real Estate Department—were often pleasantly surprised that we possessed this plethora of market knowledge. Stands to reason. We had likely just driven every square inch of that market.

Our first team gathering took place at the Crowne Plaza Bar. It was time to get to know the guys. Ryan, how was your trip with The Silver Fox? Learn anything? Bewly, with George Peppard looks and still in his early thirties, sported a full head of premature grey hair.

Well, he sure has a novel approach when it comes to the ladies.

Oh, don’t tell me he came out of the box with his flower routine. He’s got all the moves.

Blaze rolled on, Wait until you see him tear a hundred dollar bill in half, hand it to a girl and say ‘The other half is yours —if you come over to my apartment.’

So, Sherwin, Claus, you guys from Texas?

You bet, right here in Dallas. We’ve been with Friday’s about six months. Kind of a diverse group, wouldn’t you say? Vaughn did not want to bring in a bunch of ‘Real Estate Know-it-alls.’ You see Friday’s has its own way of doing things and I guess he feels that with the proper amount of training, we can all get the job done.

Claus continued, Shit, look at Blaze here. A Xerox transfer from Erie, PA of all places. Blaze, are you the senior member of this elite group? Shit Sherwin is…how old is Sherwin now? 36? Look across the bar, Bewly cavorting with the bachelorette wearing the Jordache acid washed jeans. Guarantee you he is feeding her his favorite line.

What might that be?

He just asked her, ‘Do you know the difference between a penis and a chicken wing?’ she shakes her head no, and then he says ‘Wanna go on a picnic tomorrow?’ Say good night to Bewly, we aren’t going to see him until morning.

Sherwin called it quits, Well, boys it’s been a pleasure, but this guy is headed home to his lovely wife. Ryan, great to have you on board. This group will have a lot of fun together, that I can promise. These Friday evening get-togethers would be commonplace from this point on.

Much like a newly formed bomber crew, the training runs continued with Blaze and Bewly alternating as pilots. We few everywhere. Harrisburg, Des Moines, Minneapolis, St. Paul, and into Canada.

Meanwhile, an astute Toronto businessman had registered the Friday’s trademark without any intention of building a restaurant. Efforts to reclaim the name by way of negotiations had reached a stalemate. Midway plotted a new course of action in a bold attempt to shake this guy out of the tree, a pincer movement of sorts. The plan was to send a Real Estate person to Toronto to find a high profile location where we could build a flagship store for all of Canada to see. To hell with the name, we’ll call it Fred’s or Bill’s Place; it didn’t matter. Let’s see if this A-Hole can live without us now.

As a rule, the first visit to a market was always a clandestine operation. Fly under the radar until the Working Map is complete and the 100% location is identified. It was Friday’s way of ‘taking ownership of the market’ and the only way to do this effectively was to keep distractions to a minimum by not letting anyone know we were in town until after we returned to Dallas. Uncharacteristically for us, the Toronto visit would be different. We issued an advanced warning to our colleagues in the real estate world that we were headed their way.

Bewly invited me to join him on the trip. Our game plan was to drive Toronto’s perimeter first and then head for downtown. The roles were reversed this time as Bewly took the co-pilot seat and control of the map. Working our way back into the city on lengthy Yonge Street, we started evaluating the competition with downtown Toronto off in the distance. This pub crawl from afar became quite festive as we bopped in and out of places, inching the Town Car towards our final destination, a hotel at Yonge and Bloor.

You may remember Red Buttons in the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts when he coined the phrase Nevva Gotta Dinna. It is safe to say that we rarely got a dinner on the road. We viewed dinner just as we did lunch: as a total waste of our time. Seldom did we sit down and fire up a nice bottle of red with a great steak. (Friday’s had a terrific N.Y. Strip hand cut to our specs by a company in Ft. Worth, reading from our menu: 1. Choice aged beef, hand-cut and charbroiled to perfection with Maison butter, 2. a platter served with baked potato, a large