Finding identity in a touchy-feely world

“Any business that can define a purpose bigger than their product…will outperform businesses that are just selling product.”

—Mats Lederhausen, Managing Director McDonald’s Ventures, and a director of Chipotle, speaking about the burrito chain in CNNMoney

I’m feeling my age, I admit it. I’ve been revving up for another one of those sessions where I talk about the importance of mission statements and company vision and Unity of Purpose, and I just want to go out by the dumpster and smoke with the cooks.

It can’t be helped, I know. When you have, say, 600 units, identity doesn’t come from the inside like it does with a single boss, crew and set of walls. What once was a simple matter of shared arrogance and after-work beers now has to have these touchy-feelies as part the infrastructure. But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.

In a simpler time, identity used to emerge from shared suffering. Crappy tippers, whiny diners, long hours, and sore feet used to mix with an obsessive pride in the job to yield an ample sensation of collective self-importance. I’ve worked at maybe a half-dozen places where the whole staff knew they were the best in town, and there’s no feeling quite like it. Turnover was rare, cooks and waiters liked each other, and when faced with a threat to their livelihood, they turned into antibodies to squeeze out bad hires.

A more common situation is one in which some workers get it and some don’t. I can remember being on a line when a new waitress started, and watching the way she scoped out the cooks. It was like an engineer with a clipboard and a checklist—okay, I can get food from this guy; he’s a pro. This one’s an idiot, work around him; this one is prickly but really fast, win her over; this one is great on steaks but his plates are sloppy—deal with it and carry an extra rag.

Meanwhile, the evaluation was going on from our end: she asks smart questions about the food and doesn’t assume we’re ex-felons because we work in a kitchen. She doesn’t turn in all her tickets at once and she brings us pop. Probably a keeper.

By the end of the first day she was better than about half the wait staff, simply because she treated her job as one which required her whole attention. On the other side of the line, those who were similarly disposed recognized this characteristic immediately, and tacitly welcomed her to the secret restaurant within the restaurant. You could call this group the Loyal Order of the Rodent’s Posterior (“We Do Give a Rat’s…”).

Most restaurants operate with a group like that at the core and another which orbits around it. “Identity” here comes more from the top, and not everyone buys into it. This is a more dicey way to run a restaurant, because it can’t be relied on to run itself: those in charge have to schedule a critical mass of those who work. The orbiting group is less consistent about the quality if its labor than about providing entertainment and angst, often combined. I can still see the look on my sous chef’s face when the new guy said—out loud—“Well, it looks like we’re all set up. What could go wrong now?”

Real restaurant people know that if you ask a question like that, it is reasonably certain to be answered. I have observed before that the Devil likes to hang around restaurants in his off-hours, when he’s bored with genocide and the debate about Internet downloads, and is hoping to scrounge something to eat.

And he’s never heard a rhetorical question he didn’t like. The evening was a disaster, of course, and when the new guy set the fryer on fire it seemed like someone was sending a thank-you note for the invitation.

The next level down is where the Loyal Order is thinly populated and vastly outnumbered. I have been in one or two of these, and it’s scary. A few people try their hardest, the majority are marking time, and after a while the Rodent’s Posteriors can be found jumping ship. “Identity”—what the restaurant feels itself to be, the soul behind the mission statement—has by this time gone to a better land, and the restaurant is a hollow shell supported by a feeding tube and a ventilator.

The best restaurant chains find themselves in the improbable position of aspiring to join that first group—with low turnover, universal professionalism, high esprit. And since you can’t build a team the old-fashioned way—with hazing, tantrums, and tequila—it has to be done structurally, a much more difficult proposition. We’ll talk about it next time, assuming the tequila doesn’t get me first.