system.
A lot of his time was spent figuring out ways to make the restaurant run
more efficiently, more smoothly, faster and cheaper. And one of the
earmarks of a Bigfoot operation is the tiny design features: the
conveniently located hot-water hose for bartenders to melt down their
ice easily at the end of the night (into convenient drains, of course), the
cute little plastic handles on any electrical plug near any station where
the workers' hands might be wet. And everything is always easy to clean
and easy to store. Pots hang from overhead racks, always in the same
place. Bottles at the bar are arranged in mirror image, radiating out from
a central cash register. Careful consideration is taken with every tiny
detail, from where employees store their shoes to custom-cut inserts for
the steam table.
I can still walk into a West Village bar and tell immediately if the bar
manager is a graduate of Bigfoot University. The bottles are arranged in
the classic pattern, free (but spicy/salty) bar snacks are laid out,
equidistant from one another, along a flawlessly clean, wiped and
polished bar. Ashtrays are always empty. And more than likely, the
juices are freshly squeezed. Bigfoot's Presidential Guard—in addition to
their cleaning and tunneling duties—also squeezed cases of grapefruit,
orange and lemon juice every night, keeping them in appropriate storage
containers (glass only), as approved by Bigfoot.
Bigfoot's bar customers had every reason to love him. There was a
house-approved buy-back policy. Bartenders were chosen for their
personalities as well as their ability. A television was always readily at
hand, football pool a must, and Bigfoot made regular visits to the bar,
handing out box seats to Knicks, Yankees, Giants, Jets, Mets and
Rangers to favored customers. On Super Bowl Sunday, if you'd plunked
down a C-note for the Super Bowl pool, drinks were free, and food was
brought in from the Second Avenue deli—a kosher smorgasbord
replenished throughout the game.