My first night working for Bigfoot—a man I knew nothing of other than
the rumor, and the fact that everyone appeared terrified of him—I
knocked a few hundred meals out of his cramped kitchen, finished the
evening feeling discouraged, exhausted and resigned never to work in his
claustrophobic galley again. But the intercom at the bar rang as I was
preparing to slink away, and the bartender gave me a curious look and
told me, "Bigfoot wants you downstairs in the office." Downstairs, in
Bigfoot's lair, the big man looked up at me, complimented me on a fine
job, and picking up the phone, summoned a waiter with two snifters of
brandy. "We are pleased with the job you did for us this evening," he
began (Bigfoot loves to use "we" when talking about the management of
his restaurants, though in his domain there is never any "we"). "And we'd
like you to stay on with us—if that's agreeable. Saturday nights . . . and
Sunday brunches." I can't adequately describe the gratification I felt at
having pleased the imposing Bigfoot. Though we quickly agreed that
he'd be paying me only 40 bucks a shift, I felt, going home that night,
like a million. Bigfoot, you see, had purchased my soul for a snifter of
Spanish brandy.
I was not alone in handing over my soul to the man. He retained, among
other deeply flawed outcasts who'd inexplicably sworn loyalty oaths and
joined up for the duration, a Presidential Guard of blue-uniformed
porters whom he had personally trained in the manly arts of refrigeration
repair, plumbing, basic metal work, glazing, electrical repair and
maintenance. In addition to the usual tasks of cleaning, mopping, toilet-
plunging and porter work, Bigfoot porters could lay tile, dig out a
foundation, build you a lovely armoire or restore a used reach-in
refrigerator to factory specs. Nothing pissed off Bigfoot more than
having to pay some high-priced specialist for a job he thought he should
be able to do himself.
One day I was sitting at the bar, enjoying an after-work drink, when
Bigfoot approached and began giving me an uncharacteristic shoulder
massage. I thought this a remarkably kind gesture until he told me that