I need to preface this first with that I spent a long time in this place, this company. I experienced some crazy highs and lows in my career here. Made my second generation of life long friends here, my family was created from this company as were many more. I’ve ingested more knowledge of the service industry from this company than any other in my career. This company built me as a lifer from the ground up. I had two mentors who started this company that groomed me, often times against my will to want to learn. 16 years i spent in that end cap in the Merovan center with Macy’s discount slacks and Perry Ellis collared shirts and cheap shoes I could never keep clean. Somethings I may mention may appear to shine a negative light on my old company, let me say that is absolutely not my intention. My transparency may come across as crass at times. Even the best of marriages have the shittiest of days. It’s like when you have siblings. You can say whatever you want about them because they’re your family. But if anyone else opens their mouth you best watch ya mouth.

At the end of the day (and my career here) this company became my family. They treated me like family. And they will always be a part of me. This is an abbreviated account of my time here. It would take a 100,000 pages to fill in the voids.

Spring ‘96

my girlfriend at the time Shannon, my fav third wheel Andy and I decided to have dinner at a fairly new establishment, Arizona Steakhouse. It was a Friday night. In fact a rare occasion for me to have a Friday night off from the service industry but due to a misunderstanding with the owner at my previous job (Blockhouse) I had some extra unemployed time on my hands. It was a packed Friday night, interior was darker than a cavern but alive with energy. As you walked into the restaurant you were immediately greeted by one of the three hosts, garbed in all black, standing curtly behind an old western relic buffet used as the hostess stand. Directly behind the hostess stand was the horseshoe ish bar with its illuminated pendants, perched perfectly between each barstool for couples to share the dim spotlight. Four top booths lined on the left the deuces on the right. Three brick steps up or come back down three steps, turn right and see the massive dining room. 48 tables were set up in the dining room and bar and 48 of them were full. Three round tops that sat 6 at the time (years later we’d update to 8 tops) all centered under elk antlers chandeliers with little miniature lamp shades over each pointed bulb. The little filaments would pop if you dusted chandeliers too rough. Cacti planters surrounded each corner and the brick interior was filled with old retro western prints and Indian portraits. Three brick window arches that settled behind the chandeliers separated the bar from the dining room. Even the open kitchen had mood lighting over the expo area. An area I would soon spend thousands of hours mentally chained to a stainless counter, calling for hot food hands and runners. Exposed brick wall ran parallel with the dining room and kitchen with a hardwood walkway that would slowly erode from all the carbon and grease wrecked. non slip shoes of the servers going in and out of the kitchen. Better not be goddamn tennis shoes. Wall sat just low enough for customers to prop their kids on the ledge at watch the 5ft hickory wood grill flame up when the grill cook would use the butter brush and splash the grill with old fry oil to bring the flames alive. It was my first experience with an open kitchen. I loved the energy of the line, all matched in pristine (from my back row seats) chef coats, matching hats and aprons, manager handling outside expo with his little moist towelette on the right to wipe smudges and excess melted potato butter off the plates. I was watching chaos transformed into symmetry. The hickory wood aromas, lighting, interior, atmosphere and well the food was fucking amazing.

The last time I had stepped foot in this building was when it was the Continental Cafe, a little deli that had launched itself from the Haywood mall . We sat right beside the upperwait station (I would permanently seal this waitstation up in a decade due to employees loitering) at the ass end of the smoking section. I was still a smoker at this time and in the 90s it was perfectly fine to establish a smoking area 3 feet away from the non smoking area. Even as a smoker I couldn’t comprehend the logic of having smoking and non in the same dining room. I ordered the Father Kino’s filet, my girlfriend and roommate both had the Table Rock Sirloin. A signature item I would eventually learn to loathe. We also split the spinach and artichoke dip. The appetizer staple of the 90s. 1996, the mid level restaurants and chains still reigned supreme. Outback, Longhorns, Logan’s, Lonestar, California Dreaming were the stars at this time, downtown was just a pup.

Arizona was similar to all of these the main difference being it was locally owned and operated. Having spent 3 years at an overly corporated Hyatt company I already knew a corporate job wasn’t a good fit for me. I like structure I just don’t like it shoved up my ass. Ironic that I would spend the next 16 years of my life helping them build into one.

My palate at the time was still mostly attuned to the like of Bennigans and Taco Bell but it was opening up. I had never experienced a steak over a live hickory wood grill nor a baked potato that wasn’t wrapped in foil. They coated rhem in bacon grease, kosher salt and then baked them naked as a jay. I cleaned all three plates I was served that evening. Even my side salad that accompanied my steak was on fucking point. The waitstaff were professional and clean cut. Adorned in heavily starched Tommy Hilfiger denim shirts and black Levi’s jeans. The aprons were equally starched with the Arizona Steakhouse crest over the left pocket. My two previous serving jobs were a lingering and dying Fatz on Wade Hampton and the Blockhouse. I was raised in a fairly strict household. Both of my father figures were ex military. I was craving some fucking structure after a three year roller coaster ride of cocaine and lunchtime mind erasers. I had made up my mind before I even signed my check.

I bought a tie the next Monday and filled out an application the following Tuesday. My intention was to work as a server there. The owner, Mark hired me on the spot.

Once upon a time in a galaxy far far away I had been thrust into the KM job at the Blockhouse before I resigned. Thrusted? More like “hey Chad can you grab an apron and jump on grill? Willy’s in jail again.” and then next thing you know I’m working 55 hours a week corralling crackheads for work and making sure the beer cooler is locked so my staff doesn’t get drunk at lunch. Listen, the Blockhouse is a whole ‘nother chapter that I’m just not ready to write about yet..

I should’ve left that off my resume because Mark was eager to hire me in the kitchen too. Cross training would be the key word for my training at Arizona. I would work on the line at lunch and serve at dinner. “With your experience and training, it’ll give you opportunity to climb the ladder in our company should you choose to do so.” I had zero fucking interest in ever being a restaurant manager ever again. I had already re enrolled at Tech for the third time. This time would be different! I had nursing school on my mind. It doesn’t take much discernment to figure out that I would never wear a pair of scrubs in my professional career. I spent one week at tech when I went back. I didn’t open up a single text book.

Kicking and screaming I had been drug back into the kitchen. I was to be trained to be the 4th man for lunch. The roll call for a regular day lunch shift consisted of your grill man, who obviously worked grill, manned the prime rib station and dropped shoestring fries from the reach in freezer to the fryer , sitting next the alto shaam that held the prime rib. The assembler was the quarterback of the line, calling all days to the grill and 4th. Palming loaded potatoes to the right side of the plates, hay stacking fries, toasting buns and pinching cases upon cases of parsley sprigs between the proteins and potatoes regardless of form. 4th man (that’s me) would work the deep fry station, scything clubs, manning chef mike(we had three when they all worked), and searing my fingerprints on the outside of 400° potatoes as I’d pop them open to load. All the while hearing assemble chanting out the abbreviated modifiers “I need an E!, E no V, BAC and three Bs! No this wasn’t a cheerleader during a football game. Cheerleading was for outside expo, these were how we synced the comms for potato building. E= everything, loaded, scrape that mother fucker on the floor gimme all you got. B= butter, S= sour, C= cheese, A= bacon (sorry butter got the b first it’s a primary abbreviation) and V for chives (see last explanation and consider cheese next). If you wanted a potato loaded it was just plain ol E. Everything but chives was E no V. If you wanted everything but chives and bacon it was a BSC. Don’t throw me a E no VA you’re fucking up the whole specs of system in place. Salad guy was the last on the line. He had his own station. You’d get pummeled with hundreds of dinner salads, specialty salads (we had one with 13 different ingredients) and manned the desserts. In the back you’d have P-1 and P-2. And on the other side of the kitchen you had the dishwasher with his boom box (wtf was a Bluetooth in the 90s?) sitting on top of the green wire racks where the dining room ovals would dry. I would spend 12 years of my career there constantly turning down the music emanating from the dish room. We affectionately called it the Hobart.

Training and prep was no fucking joke in AZ’s kitchen. Morning prep started at 6 am. You’d walk in through the back dock door and the km would greet you with your par sheet for the day. Mondays may be portion 10 club sets, 20 black beans, cut two 3rd pans of green onions and make 5 gallons of tempura batter. Listen, fuck that tender batter. We used to make tempura batter for the Tularossa platter and tenders basket. You would spend an hour of your morning cracking 90 eggs, with mounds of flower, chicken stock (that seeped for 12 hours and you better make sure it’s fucking iced down or the batter will separate) and you’d stand over this bucket like you just knocked it’s ass out on the floor and jab it with a two foot whisk until it blended into thick pancake batter. Sometimes it was so thick you’d break the stainless steel whisk in half. The kitchen staff when I arrived had it’s fair share of elitist cunts. Most were actually downright rude to me when I first started. I’d listen to some of the cooks gab during morning prep “I’ll give the new guy one week before he quits”. “You fucked up the club sets. Parchment goes in between the jack and chicken dipshit”.

I gave it a couple of weeks of getting in my comfort zone before I started punching back. Kitchens were different in the 90s. Shit talk was unabridged, words could come to blows and the KMs and or chefs would berate you for your untrained skills in front of the whole class.

Try that shit now and watch your whole line leave and get a job next door. Lord how the mighty have fallen over the years..

The steakhouse was big on food appearance and consistency. Each plate that pulled up in the window better look exactly like the last one. Your steaks better have seared diamonds don’t give them that zebra shit. Tenders better be laced with lacey, fries haystacked almost to the point that they can’t fit under a heat lamp. The carnita’s club? I hated that fucking club. It was like toasted origami on a plate.

You got 5 shifts to train on the line and then it was to the wolves with you. You’d either get hardened and knock it out of the park or you’d crumble and slide under potato warmer. My first four training shifts consisted of me doing all of my trainer’s bitch work and prep. Never saw the line until my first lunch solo, Secretary’s Day.

Secretary’s Day has evolved now to Administrator Assistant’s Day but at that time it was a lunchtime celebration. Lunch at Zona’s was always a beast. Centrally located in a huge business park on woodruff rd before the explosion and expansion of restaurants, big box chains and Wally World mart opening across the street would soon give birth to the gridlock in that godforsaken area. All you had for food options were Arizona, Applebees across the street and Boston Pizzaria. Who’d a thunk that after 30 years the pizza place would outlast us all.

I had been employed there for about two weeks, juggling between FOH and BOH training not quite getting a foothold in either one yet. I had established a friendship with a few of my orientation class alums and was planning on my first AZ employee meet up at Characters to see KC and the Sunshine band that night. I was excited to hang with my new coworkers and man I love a good disco band. One of my fellow new alums and I spent a half hour pregamming in his little pickup truck with some dank weed while dipping back into the steakhouse and chugging mini bottle shots of jager (go big or go home, what I always used to say before doing something ridiculously stupid). We rolled up and rolled out at Characters just in time to meet up with the rest of the Zona peeps and well we just had us a good ol time. From what I was told anyway. I had a nice blackout sesh that must’ve involved me hitting up my old Alma matter (Blockhouse) after the concert for some late night grub after they closed. No clue as to what I may have told the bartender that night as I made myself at home, made a salad and shoved it in a styrofoam clamshell. The only clues to this late night nosh fest was was the remnants of club cracker wrappers and smeared Parmesan peppercorn dressing on the steering wheel when I crawled in my jeep, still rolling from the night before ( I loved a good club salad as much as I liked a good disco) . Did I mention lunch shift starts at 6am? I should’ve gotten a goddamn trophy for showing up for work on time. Or a DUI.

I was thrown to the wolves that morning. We did about a $2500 lunch with a four man line. That may not seem that impressive now but keep in mind the lunch menu average was around $12 in those days and that was with beverage. I had my first taste of what it’s like to be berated by outside expo. My tenders weren’t as lacy as what spec demanded so outside expo would toss them in the garbage. I’d get a verbal notification at first and then he’d just throw them out and expect me to keep up. Carnita’s club was next. There was a specific way we cut the clubs at Zona. We didn’t use three slices of bread we used two and then stack it, cut it diagonally, not that 45° shit that would be too easy. The club bread was rectangular in a quadrilateral sense but you had to cut at a certain unmeasured angle to ensure the next cut gave you that symmetrical ridge along the top. On a slow day, newly trained, you’re batting about .300. If it’s busy maybe 2 out of 10. My clubs were getting clubbed like baby seals. Every other one I’d make would be tossed in the little trash can expo kept next to the ticket stabber. That trash can’s existence was solely intended to throw used tickets and bev naps away. I managed to fill it to the tits with unlaced tenders and clubs cut by “Stevie Wonder”.

I crashed and burned. Ticket times hit around 30 and I was alternating between playing hot potato with assembly and puking up Parmesan peppercorn dressing outside by the loading dock (a very underrated dressing). Fairly certain my boss Mark was reconsidering the money he invested in my two weeks of staggered cross training. I had a nice little pow wow with Mark and the GM at the time Kevin in the little office space beside the kitchen out door. “Buddy, you sure this is the right fit for you?” -Kevin asked me while I was visibly shaking from the all the drugs and booze I ingested the night before. I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs at that moment. “Motherfuckers you were sitting at the table with me buying my Jager Redbulls all night while me were dancing to Boogie Man!” I am literally the only person last night that made it here at 6am sharp!” I should’ve stayed in bed and choked on my own vomit but nope! My ass got here on time.” All I managed in between holding my head up with my palms was “I got this. It won’t happen again.” And by god it didn’t.

Serving was easy for me. I was quick, my memory was solid from never writing down my orders at the Blockhouse and I was a smooth sales guy. The first word they teach you in server training at Arizona was “unobtrusiveness”. You were a server not an entertainer. You didn’t introduce yourself when you greeted the table, customer didn’t need to know your life story or about your day. You were there to assist in their dining experience not to be a part of it. Sounds a little cold and unremarkable I know but hey, that’s how I served tables anyway so it was like peas and carrots to me Forrest. In fact during this era my haircut was akin to Gump’s as I quietly wrestled with my declining hairline. My ass fit right in service side of AZ.

Line ups

Morning and afternoon line ups were semi- militarized. At 11:10 every fucking morning we had line up. So of y’all call it pre- shift. At the Blockhouse we didn’t have a name for it because it didn’t exist. We’d literally line up shoulder to shoulder while the manager on duty would inspect our uniforms. Let me educate you on our spec

– professionally laundered and starched Tommy Hilfiger denim shirt

– white issued apron with Arizona Steakhouse logo above the pocket. Starched and laundered just like its fellow shirt mate.

– three to five spec pens. Spec was black, clear click. bic pens. They could be found at Staples across the street. They’d also keep them bulk, locked up in the office safe. $1 per pen. If you forgot your pens on the way to work you were out $3 before you even started your shift. I never bought pens after my first year. I’d steal them off the tables of the servers I thought were shitheads. There were plenty to be found on both accounts.

Arizona pleather server pad. Don’t try to individualize yourself by putting any cutesy stickers on them. They’ll make you pull em off or buy another one. If you are buddies with the keys you got em for free.

-Black Levi’s red tab jeans. They were $35 back then. I would wear the 550s for most of my red tab career. We’d ritz them in black dye if they started to fade to gray and we’d patch the holes in the thighs if our balls started hanging out. Most of the time we wouldn’t even do that. The aprons helped conceal the goodies just watch out when you sit down to roll silverware at the end of the night. I can recall some of the male servers remarking about how they sat in gum and would pull their ball sacks out of the hole like dried up playdough. This was way before the movie Waiting came out. We did it first.

-Black socks inside of non slip black shoes. Don’t try that white sock shit. MOD would make everyone stick their legs out to inspect. I wonder how many pairs of black socks were purchased 5 minutes after pre shift at the Walmart across the street? I never wore white socks at work. With black pants? Gross.

The guys has to be clean shaven, no facial hair unless it’s a well kept mustache or goatee and you’d have to grow that shit fast on your days off. The gals had to keep their hair up at all times, no earrings bigger than quarter and no body sprays or perfumes. Customer needs to smell the food not your whore ass I always would say to me fellow servers.

It was strict structure y’all and honestly I was here for it. This was the equivalent of service industry boot camp. I needed to be reined in for a bit after my time spent at Fatz and the ‘House. I had gotten a little fat, drunk and lazy.

Like the BOH, the front had its share of comfortable cunts with seniority complexes at first. When you’re the new kid on the block you don’t walk into the restaurant on day one and get the closer’s section even if you’re closing. When they tell you there are no “bad sections” they are full of shit. Listen I had to sing the same song and dance to the kids when I was a manager. I get it but we all know it’s a giant pile of bullshit. The new kids also get the shit side work. If you’re lucky one of your fellow veteran servers might come in late or god forbid get busted with the wrong pen their apron and they’d get to share that shitty sidework with you. Or you and the other new kid get to tag team it together and share encouragement and words about getting c fold distribution as your sidework just one time this week. The sidework nobody fucking liked was the condiments. My first full week I had condiments every. Single. Night.

Electric word, condiments, it takes forever and that’s a mighty long time..

All of how many did I say earlier? 53 tables? Each had one bottle of Heinz ketchup sitting next to the sugar caddies. At the end of every shift those ketchup bottles would be turned upside down into the ketchup cow (a plastic bucket who’s sole creation was for the purpose of hanging ketchup bottles upside down to drain to the bottom of container. You would place an used ketchup bottle under the little slide opening and carefully watch the bulk ketchup drain into the bottle like a cow teet. Hence the name. When it got to right under the top label you’d shut it off. Grab a warm wet bar towel and rim the bottle to rid it of any excess ketchup around the top. The lids were soaked in hot water, rinsed and placed back on the bottle to give the ketchup bottle that new purchased look each time it went back out to the table. We kept back ups in the kitchen and upperwait for high volume times when the server didn’t have time to do it in between table turns. You’d sometimes get up to 80 bottles of ketchup that needed a solid rimming after a busy Saturday. When rinsing these lids in hot water it was important to remember to wipe them down and drain completely. A little hot water in a ketchup bottle can go a long way when you open it up after it’s been festering for a few days. On slow days you could hear the bottle pop open at the table like a shaken bottle of champagne when Joe Consumer was about to smother his steak with it. I gave out quite a few free app cards and paid several dry cleaning bills. Sometimes you’d forget you left the little slide open, throw four half empty ketchup bottles in the cow and walk away to grab more. Come back to a pile of ketchup diarrhea on the dining room table you were doing your diligent sidework.

And then there were the multiple steak sauces. You were trained at day one to never encourage or ask if they wanted steak sauce with their steaks but for the sake of hospitality and geography we still kept our shelves stocked with multiple choices of sauces to pair with your well doners. They were also a part of the condiments opus. These you would individually marry together and like the ketchups they got their hot and wet rim jobs to make new once again. I’m talking to you A-1, Worcestershire sauce and Heinz 57. On the weekends two people would deal with this and it would take a solid hour. Sometimes you would watch grown ass servers cry when they saw their name next to condiments on the laminated chart.

When the condiments were married, rimmed and wiped down they were placed on a shelf in a storefont manner, label facing forward (just like you see in those fancy grocery stores) so when the customers walked by the cabinet they would see clean, professional uniformity. When you were finished you had to get your paperwork signed by the closer. Some closers were alright folk. They’d inspect a bottle or two, check the rows just to make sure they are straight and sign you off. Some you could payoff to “see” your silverware rolls. Then there were the cunts with a chip on their shoulder. They’d open up every single bottle, white glove the rims and sniff the bottles. If there was a bottle facing the wrong way they wouldn’t adjust it. They’d leave it and just tell you your sidework was incomplete. Sometimes coworkers can be cunts. Some people don’t deal well with condiment power.

So yeah I had that shit 5 days in a row, solo and I get it. I was being tested and I can be a tough SOB when it’s necessary but I also have zero tolerance for bullshit so by day 5 I was close as I could get to vocational violence. One of the closers had a thing for me, I won’t say his name but let’s just call him Cocksucker. My server schedule always seemed to pair with Cocksucker’s so he always did the sidework chart even though it was the MOD’s responsibility. After the fourth consecutive day of condiments (I kept score) I had made some snide off hand comment such as “man I think I’ve aced condiments after a week’s worth of practice” to the closer to see if maybe he hadn’t paid attention to his flagrant consistency . I got a smirk of attention and later that night got condo # 5. I gritted my teeth but went about my business. Regardless of the cunt I was happy with my job there. Money was good and my kitchen prowess had recovered. When it came time to get my paperwork signed Cocksucker went through the motions of checking each bottle again and found one bottle where the inside of the lid was discolored but not dirty. In fact it still had the plastic seal around it. The teeth holding the lid to the bottle had not been disturbed until he opened it. He tossed me the bottle and told me it was dirty and to fix it. I had just worked an open to volume Saturday, finishing up my 5th day of condiments and now Cocksucker had just tossed a brand new condiment of Worcestershire at me and talked to me like I was his dog. I smiled through gritted teeth and told him to shove the bottle up his ass. In a respectful manner of course. Like the Cocksucker that he was my attitude was reported to the AGM Robin. We had a similar conversation about this job being the right fit for me. I never mentioned my predicament of having condiments multiple days in a row or that Cocksucker had a thing for me. I nodded my head and said “yes ma’am. Won’t happen again.” I stayed in my jeep for an hour after close to have a one on one with Cocksucker when he left after work. He personally never assigned condiments to me again.

I lumbered through the first couple of years at the steakhouse like a worker bee. I showed up on time, worked the open to volume doubles like a good boy, did my job diligently and kept my nose clean. I was made a key employee not because I wanted it but because they needed it and eventually was made into full time front of the house. There was much better money to be made in the front. $10 an hour wasn’t bad in the 90’s but I could triple it waiting tables and now I was weekend bartender so I was a made man in the steakhouse of Zona. My intention from the day I was hired was to work a little and focus on finding my niche in the world. I refused to see the service industry as my be all you can be I would consider myself nothing less than a failure if I was still waiting tables in my 30s. This was my own personal pov and not meant to imply that this in someway defines anyone else’s choices or career. I had my own timeline I built in my head and it was lingering sideways. My girlfriend at the time had made some friends with some mortgage brokering folk while she bartended happy hour at Rio Bravo. She hit them up to give her man a chance at an office job. That’s right 9-5 Monday – Friday, my own desk, my own office. The great American fucking dream of one hour lunch breaks, weekday happy hour specials to be enjoyed on the other side of the bar wood and weekends to enjoy in the gridlock of everyone else’s weekend activities.

I was hired to work for a local mortgage company right off of Roper mtn rd. I had a little unassuming office with a window facing the outside of a unassuming office building inside of an unassuming business park.

My training consisted of sitting in front of a computer screen retaking tests on origination points and fees. Up until this moment I didnt know who the fuck Fanny Mae or Freddy Mac or how they met. Even after I passed the test with an 80 I still had zero clue what in the actual fuck was going on. Then they handed me a telephone and a stack of printed out numbers. “Cold call these people and sell em a refinance. You’ll get a base salary of $400 a week plus a percentage of what you make on origination fees.” I had come into the playing field when interest rates dropped 3 points from 9 to 6% apparently this was a big deal. Again I didn’t know shit at the time. I couldn’t go to google and research I learned it all through ease dropping and one test.

Ok sounded like a solid plan. I called about 200 people that week, got hung up on about 30 times and was told to fuck my mother a few times and it made me to rethink my future plans in th 9-5 world. I didn’t broker a single deal my whole time there. What it did do was give me a enough insight into the banking world to never ever trust a bank again.

I also found out that maybe that 9-5 life wasn’t a good fit for me. I found it herd -like and too much pressure. I only had one hour out of the day to do my bank run, grab lunch and any other errand that had to be run before 5pm. The world was a tad less accessible in the 90s y’all. You couldn’t buy shit online. Internet was just pirated music, chat rooms and slow streaming porn. A lot of places business hours mirrored the the 9-5 dream. To me it sucked. I was used to having Mondays or Tuesdays off and sort of having the world to myself. Malls were slow, bookstores were quiet and I didn’t have to plan ahead to eat out. Weekends it felt like I was being followed or pursued by half the population of Greenville when I went somewhere. Everyone was on my time or reverse. I had become one of the herd. Careful for what you wish for. Sometimes I’d get anxiety while trying to cram my errand running into one hour lunch breaks. After work I fell into the happy hour abyss during the week. I’d be by 8pm drunk, cooking ramen and continuing my happy hour at home untll bed time. Get up, throw up, rinse and repeat my day. I kept my job at the steakhouse and worked part time. Fully intent on leaving once my commission checks started rolling in.

I lasted about 3 months. Maybe. Gained 20 lbs all in my face and gut. Every single job I had I worked on my feet. Sitting still didn’t fit or suit me. Or my knickers . My happy hour visits had slowly turned me into a functioning alcoholic just like the rest of my loaner gang. Little did I know the impact it would have one me over the next two decades. I was just getting started.

I resigned to no surprise from my supervisor and went back to Arizona with my tail tucked between my fat thighs.

When I returned to my one person ticker tape parade celebration I told my boss “use me any fucking way you want to. I’m yours.”

One week later I’d make AGM about a year later I’d make GM.

I had worked under two GMs during my early tenor at Arizona one of that would become a mentor to me and later become VP. The other had a solid hand in helping learn things you shouldn’t do as a GM. Don’t get me wrong I liked the guy and we worked well together but we weren’t on the same playing field when it came to professionalism and conduct. Rich loved the company of women, hell most of us men do but he used the steakhouse server schedule like a dartboard for his dating pool. Many a women would get cornered in the produce cooler by lover boy and he’d use that cooler to try to stick his tongue down their throats. Or the office behind closed doors, or behind the dumpsters or bar cooler when he made his girlfriend at the time head bartender. The Me Too movement was still decades away but I bet his name and face were brought up in conversation a time or two. On Sundays he’d open up still wearing his pajama bottoms until we opened the doors. Later on he’d just keep them on the whole shift sometimes borrowing a starch uniform shirt from the office and tucking them into his flannel jammie. I seem to recall his sebagos were always filthy. By this time we had opened up Steakhouse number two 8 miles down 385. The first thought that ran through my head daily was “this wouldn’t have been tolerated a few years ago.” Travinia was already in the talks by this time too.

Rich saw the writing on the wall after a couple of years and resigned quietly. I was put into his position by proxy and by experience. I had soaked in a few years of the steakhouse by now and I exuded the company fabric and tact. I was now the guy that gave opera like pre shifts and line ups. I’d throw your cellphone in the safe if you couldn’t keep your damn hands off of it and I’d inspect your uniform like you were standing next to your bunk at Parris island (don’t drink the water). For the first real time in my life I was and felt like a company man. My name was finally on that front fucking door. I had a good salary, benefits and a house, soon to be 2 properties. I had a girlfriend I liked and maybe down the road we just might live together. At 32 and 6 years with the same company life wasn’t so bad. I had built up an amazing circle of a support system with friends I had made with the company. Many I still consider family to this day. We had an Italian restaurant right down the street making waves, a successful upscale steakhouse in Atlanta and of course the little brother AZ down the road in Simpsonville. The company, what I considered to my future for years to come was on the up and up. I was smitten as smitten can be. We’d throw giant anniversary parties and pass out gifts to all the tenured employees. My second year I got my first real wristwatch. I wore that motherfucker with pride. I earned that little prize.

One thing I don’t think anyone had accounted for because let’s face it I don’t think we really did our homework on demographics during that time was when we opened up Simpsonville or what we referred to as B town at the time put a little dent into Woodruff road’s location. Sales dropped a little. Not enough to warrant a worry but yeah it was noticeable. Wait times shrunk a little, lunches dropped a little. When I’d go visit Simpsonville I’d see some of my old regulars there having lunch. When we’d chat I’d hear this a lot “well this location is actually a mile closer to us! It’s easier to get in and out of when we are in a hurry.” Well good for the company I suppose as long as the entity is preserved.

I failed to mention one of our steakhouse adventures in Chattanooga. I suppose for the brief time it was relevant would make sense as to why I forgot about it. Before the ground was broken in Simpsonville, the company had turned a turnkey property in Chattanooga, Tennessee into a makeshift Arizona. I went to visit only once I believe at this time I was still working for the banking world. My ears wouid get filled with some not so good stories of how things were ran and already hearing the all to familiar “we do things differently up here.” Not sure as to what that meant exactly but all it took was a bandaid in a Sedona salad to shut that place to shit in a year. I can barely recall what the interior looked like.

The company was growing. I was excited. I was there when it was just one and now we were at 4 and buying shovels to break more ground. I lived and breathed this place for years. It was my family and my life. And it was expanding . The one thing that kept popping up in the back of my head was “how much can I grow with this company?” I was all in and then some. I wanted to grow and learn with the company. The bigger they grew the more I wanted to learn, to grow also. I wanted to sit in the meeting with architects, engineers and purveyors I wanted to soak up every inch of knowledge. I had the service aspect down, I could throw down on grill on a Friday night if needed. I wasn’t privy to p&ls other than what I was emailed at the end of the month. I knew food costs and purchase habits just fine. My mind craved proprietary knowledge. I watched the big cats smoking cigars and riding Harley’s. A goddamn private jet was just around the corner. I wanted that life. I loved the company but in the back of my mind I was getting a little frustrated of watching cigars get smoked from others all of my work and sacrifice. There were others in the company that came after me and had better pay and future restaurants set up for their liking. One chink in my boss’s armor was he liked to surround his business with his friends. Nepotism was stinking up the place a little bit. A lot of his friends took advantage of it and I was helpless to do anything. You have to really understand my old boss to get it. The man takes hardheadedness to a new level at times.

The larger we grew the more “partners” we accrued. By the time we opened Travinia number one down the road it was like I had inherited 15 new partners that treated most of the staff like they had been working for them for years and well some of these characters were the shadiest pieces of shit I had ever met. I have no problem referencing in that direction nor did I make my dislike for them hidden during that time. There was just something about them buying $200 worth of take out from an underperforming restaurant and then waiting outside for their friends to roll up and handing them the bag of food and driving away. When I would bring this to the attention of the owner I got the runaround for a bit and eventually was told to stay in my lane. Yeah, sure sir but the well being of this company that I’ve given a decade of my life to is my goddamn lane and I’m driving. Was I overstepping my bounds? Maybe but I was fully invested into the company. I gave a gigantic shit. These clowns did not.

As time went by went we continued to grow. More and more. Soon we’d have a Travinia in Columbia, then two along with another steakhouse.

The company was growing but I was still perched atop woodruff rd. I had pretty much reached my max pay for my position and I wanted to grow more. My restaurant was showing some signs of age. Tables were getting sticky, bathroom tiles were cracking, ceiling tiles were cracking and falling, the tile grout was so bad that it had permanent seeped water in the cracks. The last few years I’d spend my time when we were closed for holidays fixing and repairing projects over years of dilapidation. One thanksgiving one of my friends and I grouted that broken ass tile in the kitchen. One New Years I spent all day refinishing tables to get the icky sticky off the wood grain. I’d paint or replace kitchen ceiling tiles during the slow times between lunch and dinner and finally when I couldn’t repair anymore holes in the tile in the bathrooms I started hanging the art work that had carboned its outline on the brick walls over the years to hide the holes and broken wall tiles. We got a fat $40k upfit check that was available from the Merovan center and used to put stacked stone over the bricks. It looked good. But my bathroom were barely tooched. We did get new partition doors that didn’t match and a new shitter in the men’s room. The holes were left alone. The hard part for me being the long time operator for one location was having to deal with customers melting my face off with discredits of having a nice steak dinner plans and then walking in a nd talking a shit on a cracked toilet and and holes in the bathroom walls. At least we got stacked stone.

By year 12 the open kitchen had become an eye sore. The ceiling tiles were sagging, I could no longer replace some of the fluorescent lights (the ceiling was a tangle of wires and I don’t fuck with electricity I draw the line on that one). Walk in coolers were coming apart literally at the seams. Summertime was a fucking nightmare with kitchen and coolers. The hvac unit over the kitchen shit the bed so winter time the kitchen would get as low as 55° which was fine. We had a fucking 5 foot fireplace right in the middle. Summertime the kitchen would get up to 110° which sucked complete ass because we had a fireplace right in the fucking middle. Imagine having me glad handling a table with sweat pouring off of my face and pit stains under my Perry Ellis shirts. It was worse for the waistaff , what walking around with fucking denim pressed into cardboard with black jeans and that heavy ass apron. I’d lose quite a bit of staff every year around June.

But I still loved and lived that company. It was my family and my life.

Right around my 35th year of existence and a decade of my career already spent at the steakhouse things went a little sideways for me mentally. At this time I was all in. All in at work, all in for my girlfriend but a little part of me started having doubts about myself. My primary steakhouse was steadily underperforming and I was having personal issues. I had just sold my main living quarters/condo and made a decent buck. I was going to move in with my girlfriend at the time. Things seem to be going good for us after a few shaky years. The year started off great and ended in a giant pile of shit. I had lost my brother recently to an accidental overdose and man it kinda hit me hard. Later on my girlfriend right after I sold my condo decided she liked someone else better than me without telling me and that became a hard pill to swallow. In a few weeks I’d do something completely dumb and try to play chicken with a rather large pickup truck while riding my bicycle and would proceed to wreck my brain somewhat permanently although I’ll say regardless, I’m one lucky mother fucker. I may talk more about that in another post although it ties right into everything I’ve become from that era.

I missed the truck but hit my head hard. Real hard. Won’t ever wear that helmet again. I did keep it around as a reminder of stupidity at that time along with an iPod that also suffered from my upcoming mental break down I was about to experience. I had parked my truck at the Simpsonville location and took a ride to Gray Court and back. After my little crash I walked my bike a few miles back to the restaurant and asked the gm for some bar towels. I was covered in asphalt and blood literally come head to toe. When I cleaned up I and went home to take a bath to get some more of the road rash off my legs and arms. I took a solid 4 hour power nap while in the tub. I guess you could say I passed out. I awoke to about 30 missed calls from my agm and best friend Jenny because it was 5pm, Sunday afternoon. My schedule was 4:30 and had been for years. I’m punctual to a fault. If I’m late, real late something has happened to me and that’s why Jenny called me and then 29 more times. And then sent her husband Tony to check up on me. I gained consciousness right before he arrived I think. I didn’t tell anyone about my stupid stunt. I had only said I wrecked my bike. And like the dedicated dumb ass I was programmed to be I went into work with a full blown concussion. Can’t tell you a damn thing about that shift. I know when I got home I started to get a fever and shakes. Not fever shakes I mean my goddamn hands were shaking from my concussion. Jenny was my landline for these emergencies I was talking to her about it. I didn’t tell her specifics but she knew I had hit my head. She called my very recent ex and asked if she could come check on me. I really wanted her too also because I wasn’t dealing with the breakup well at all. She never showed. She was playing hackeysack with her friends outside at her house. I didn’t die that night. I woke up at dawn covered in sweat, throw up, piss and shit. My ex never called, text or did shit. Again. I didn’t die that night but a large part of the last 34.9 years of me did. That concussion took a lot out of me in a hundred different ways. I went to the emergency clinic the next day and found out that no one really knows shit about the human brain or injuries pertaining to it. I was alive, somewhat. I honestly didn’t care at the moment. If a blood clot came along and zapped me into a corpse I would’ve given it my address to speed things along. I gave it my best shot. Saw a few therapist, took some antidepressants, broke down in front of my mentor and told him “hey buddy I need a break before I kill myself.” I told him I could wait it out for a few days until they get the schedule worked out. “Fire me if you need to I’ll understand.” I of course knew they wouldn’t but I felt worthless and was suddenly tired. Like I’m tired of breathing tired.

I walked outside and my mental breakdown officially started counting down. I made it to zero before I could light my cigarette. Jenny my bff, someone I had met through the steakhouse, who worked side by side with me for 15 of my 16 years. Met her husband through this company and grew her family from this company, the one I will always affectionately call Assman (not what you think) came outside, kissed me on my cheek and told me to go home and rest. Work was no longer my problem. My few day notice lasted 10 minutes. She had front seats to the meltdown show but she was my friend. I’d do it for her too. She’s family.

I spent a month away from work. Most of that month I drank and drank. Tried to drink myself to death. Its harder than you think. My friends were my best support system. Much better than the antis and therapy was ok. I cried enough tears to flood my condo that I would soon be moving out of because I sold it. I was going to be somewhat homeless if I didn’t deal with this breakdown. I made sure I reached out to my friends and they in turn kept tabs on me. They saved my life a dozen times during that ridiculously dark time and are clueless about it. After a month I went back to be with my work family. I missed them and needed to go back to the real life and fix all of my head plumbing. Crying on the floor every night for two weeks didn’t help my circuitry either.

The steakhouse never tried to replace me, never even took me off payroll even though it was discussed that when I was taking a leave of absence it was by my own accord. They werent responsible for anything. I didn’t want to be dead weight. Company man to the end.

Later one of my wine rep buddies would tell me about a conversation he overheard from my boss after I went loony for a month. “Do you think he’ll be back?”

“I don’t know it’s up to him. He needs time to sort it out.”

“How long you going to give him “

“As long as it takes. He’s family”

Anytime I think about that it makes me cry. And currently I am.

I changed a little after that. From head to toe I did. My therapist had said something to me about not putting all my eggs in one basket. It’s cliche as fuck but when he said it it clicked. Because I had done that all my life. I was balls deep in my company and completely dependent on its future for my financial security and my ass had put my entire heart that wasn’t calling for hot food hands and gave it all to my girlfriend at the time. I’ve never forgiven her for not checking on me that night.

Be it being brain fucked, heartbroken, burned out or a little of three. I’ve found out over the years that I move and go so fast for so long that when I do finally stop it’s like a freight train chugging up a 9% grade to get me going in the same direction ever again. Just ask Southern.

Listen, I loved my company, my friends I met there, my mentors and I am and forever will be grateful for every single thing they taught me good and or bad. But when I returned a silent countdown went off in my head. That month off started a reckoning. At the time I didn’t see it as that but in retrospect I was slowly reinventing myself. No not some phoenix rising from the ashes bullshit or butterfly from a cocoon. I’m not that asshat. My perspective on things changed is all. Apparently hitting your head can do that to you. Or sometime off to think or a slurry of both.

-10

When I came back to work I had to refocus. Ten years I had spent in the same building, doing the same line ups, taste plates/ shit I never touched base on that. Oh well. I had only been gone for 4 weeks. I knew the world hadn’t changed a bit but I had. When I returned my favorite restaurant in the world looked haggard and old. I took some responsibility for this because it had been under my care for the last 5 years or so. Regardless of lacking funds I did my best to keep the restaurant fresh. It was frustrating to watch my establishment slowly erode while new restaurants from the same company were being erected in their own stand Taj mahals up and down the coast. Sales were still struggling. My schedules and staff were shrinking one by one due to business slowing down. 2007 market crash really hurt the steakhouse. Several of those little Merovan offices became vacant. Steakhouse leaned on those offices for lunches and happy hour. For each new restaurant there would be a new partner I’d have to deal with. My table face got harder and harder to smile. I was just burned man. The company was growing but I felt I had reached my growth limit. Company started taking some hits. Come to find out it’s illegal to charge employees for uniforms and dry cleaning. One of the managers decided not to pay one of their employees overtime in one of the other restaurants and in came the labor board and their audits. Let’s just say it was ugly. Really ugly. I won’t air out my conpamy’ s old grievances too much. I’m not trying to sell tickets.

Sometimes really bad shit happens and creates really good shit. I started dating my future wife a year after my bad breakup and I’ll be damned but we got crazy and had a beautiful little baby a couple of years down the road. I needed to make some changes in my life. It just got really real. Being a GM of a steakhouse that was going through its twilight years wasn’t going to work anymore. There were already rumors of Travinia being the star of the show in the future. I’m just not a pasta and wine guy. I went job shopping for the first time in a decade. A headhunter usually called the restaurants about three times a year and I always told them in a polite manner because I know what cold calling feels like, no thanks I’m happy where I am. I got another one around this time and before I said “no thanks” I hesitated. Instead I said. “Tell me what you got.”

-9

“I’m representing two companies actually. Both are looking for energetic GMs. California Dreaming and Copper River.” I always respected Dreaming. Hard to knock a restaurant that’s been around that long and is still killing it. Facilities were always maintained and the salary for both Cali and Copper were more than I was making. Substantially more. I was a family of three now. Loyalty became more challenging. Directions and instructions to life change. I did something I hadn’t done in over a decade. I updated my resume. I loved the company CentraArchy (CD) and interviewed with both companies. Out of courtesy I had breakfast with Kevin and told him I was looking for a new start. He was very supportive and offered his help in anyway he could assist which as always the par for the course with Kevin. Caring to a fault.

My hands were shaking in my first interview. My nervousness showed and it was obvious. Cali pretty much said no. Their regional recruiter checked out the steakhouse and didn’t like the digs. The old beat up interior bit me in the ass. Copper hired me on the spot if I wanted it. All I had to do was stage for two different places. I agreed to stage on Haywood. Got cold feet the day before and informed the GM that I needed some more time. Something about that place just didn’t do it for me. Money was good but it always had that Fatz vibe I couldn’t shake off. I never submitted a resignation. I returned back to my company never missing a beat.

-8

Economy wasn’t so great for us for some time. To save payroll I started scheduling myself to prep in the mornings and I’d go back on the line and watch the grill while the KM of the month did prep and we’d cut the kitchen loose. Az had dipped about 25% in sales over the years. Woodruff rd was a force to be reckoned with. Over development and a reputation for shit traffic had put an ugly zit on our business. We were one of a hundred different restaurants now. Brand new shiny restaurants popping up all around the archaic Merovan center. I was knee deep in gorilla marketing, passing out flyers around the Merovan with margaritas specials and patio entertainment. After 10 years the owner had lightened up on menu changes and I was slowly coming around to my kitchen side again. I actually had items that made the menu cuts. This only intensified my passion for working in the kitchen more. Upon my return to work after my breakdown my affinity for cooking exploded. Some would and still say it was my concussion rewiring my brain. No clue I’m not a brain scientist.. but I enjoyed going back there with the other cooks and prepping. Their expressions changed when I worked back there. I was no longer the pretty boy in slacks barking food abbreviations and yelling for hands. I’d come on the grill on a Friday night and knock it the fuck out. I did orders with the km and did p-1 on the slow days. I’d do daily specials that sold out. Love the thought of creating food on my own and watching it get noshed. I was making this shit and people were digging it. I might get to enjoy this little change of scenery.

-7

I got a fucking promotion. I made regional manager over the steakhouses. I bought myself a fancy traveling machine (Camry XSE) and hit the road. I loved it. I was no longer tethered to one restaurant. I was officially introduced to the GMs in cola and Atlanta. We had met several times mind you but not in a supervisor role. I finally got my hands on all the P&Ls and I studied them and broke them down until I could manipulate the shit out of them. I used them to corral the managers together and taught them how to read and understand them because my company hadn’t done it for me. I made the GMs sit down with their KMs and we would break down every mother fucking line until they finally understood wtf all of those checks they wrote really meant. I broke down p mixes, reorganized kitchens and updated every single recipe in every store. Somehow everyone’s had manage ti quietly evolve independently under different supervision

The P&Ls weren’t great. Some changes I made were positive. Others were hands off. Nepotism was still an issue. I started spending more and more times in the places farthest away. For the longest time I only focused on my spot and it’s slow deterioration. It wasn’t alone.

-6

Columbia was the little big restaurant that couldn’t. It became my stepchild for the next two years due to its underperformance. We had four steakhouses at that time. Maybe Prime in DC had opened I can’t keep up anymore but I had the other 4 to look after. Az 1 and 2 were Gville and B town. Our menus mirrored one another. Az 3 and 4, Atlanta and Columbia had more of an upscale approach. Higher pricing and bread service. Atlanta had nailed its market sometimes doubling the sales of the other three. I learned over time that they did do things differently down there but it worked. So I didn’t fuck with the machine. Cola on the other hand wasn’t doing so well. It didn’t help that it wasn’t in a development that was shiny and new and mostly deserted. I loved that place and the staff. They cared they were just a little miss directed. By the time I got down there the writing was already on the wall.

Atlanta on the other hand was always busy. After I made peace with how they did things we got along just fine. Several occasions after work the GM Marcus would take me out to dinner. At that time my palate stayed fairly simple. My menu specials were elementary but still decent but all I had to leam on was the foodie town of Greenville.. Marcus introduced me to some of Atlanta’s finest. I got to try out South City, Optimist, JCT kitchen, Rosebuds. We dined at the 421, had cocktails at Two Urban Licks far too many places to name. I love you Greenville but you are not and never will be on that level. Sorry Charlie. On days he couldn’t make it I started checking out my own spots. Jotting down notes and ideas for my company. Using examples to push the company higher. Even going back to the OG Houston’s. I was learning quite a bit through my observations. It was no longer foh studying, service and plate tasting. I started taking in decor, menu writing, architecture, ambience. I felt like I had powered up in the service industry. Little things started clicking into bigger things.

-5

I started writing menus at home for fun or while I was in hotels on the road. I created concepts out of mid air. My creativity was growing with each new place I’d discover when I travelled. The places I enjoyed I’d go a dozen times more. Watching, observing, learning. I started to fantasize about my own place. I had made peace somewhat with knowing my company would never offer a partnership. The more I made peace with it the further I drifted off into my own dream of owning my own place.

-4

The writing was on the wall by then I loved traveling for my company and I did it diligently. But I also had a brand new toddler up to three hours away that would grow an inch each time I came home. I was falling in love with the road. I was in no damn place to be a rambling man I had a family I loved dearly. By this time my good buddy and I were drinking cocktails and discussing opening a business together. We had a little coffee shop called Fix we built together in the little flat iron looking building across the new Harris Teeter waaay before it opened on Wade Hampton back in ‘09. We kept her around for a year and let her fly. We wanted to test our compatibility together before we tried for something bigger. As in a restaurant.

-3

I had in the back of my mind a little transformation of the steakhouse on woodruff rd. She was dying. Not on life support but she was over that hill. My fav restaurant in the world was getting old and about to be taken out to pasture. I had designed a new concept during my downtime. An upscale southwestern taco joint (this was before the other 487272 taco places opened). I named it the Taco Social. Jazzy little club with indoor outdoor bar, upscale southwestern dishes and live entertainment. I worked on it for months. My very first menu concept completed. I even had it professionally branded and printed off to give it more character to show to my boss Mark.

I had it one a nice card stock 11×17. It was pretty damn good. I thought so anyway. I met with Mark to shoot the breeze for a bit. When I got the nerve I put the folder on his desk and told him “I have a great new concept idea I’d love to throw at you to maybe update the old Merovan building. Whatever Mark was reading seemed important. Without looking up he pushed the folder back to me and said “Travinia is too much of a bear. I don’t have time to look at another concept.”

I said ok grabbed the folder and put it in his trash can on the way out.

-2

I wasn’t mad. You have to know Mark to understand his quirks but man I was dejected. The Arizona brand was wearing off. I read the P&Ls every month. I fucking lived them. But what it did was kick me in the ass. My time with AZ was coming to end. I had the option of waiting out the storm and see where I land in the company or get off the goddamn pot and pursue my dream. 15 years I had given to this company and it had always been given back. I knew that it wouldn’t be that way for much longer. I got hungry for another adventure. It was time to control my own destiny. No offense guys I’ve loved you since day one back in ‘96 but you were moving along and I was not.

-1, 2012

My soon to partner again and I had looked a several properties over time. Liked a little spot in downtown Anderson, put our names out there for a few spots in downtown Greenville. Never really set our hopes up for any of them. In fact I was about one more place away from saying fuck it and taking my chances with wine and pasta. No exaggeration I was done. Tired of pointless dreams and nothing to show for it. We happened upon a little spot in Cherrydale by the name of Briosos that had recently closed. My partner called me up and dubiously we walked through. Something about that spot lit my ass on fire. We both looked at each other and smiled. He turned and looked at me and said – “Whatcha thinking buddy?”

“Something along the lines of southern cuisine.”- I replied. We had other concepts we had talked about. Mostly bar and pub. They wouldn’t fit here not with the giant chandeliers and fire places. I had a flashback to my first experience at Zona (just an fyi that’s how we referred to it). “Love the fireplaces, chandeliers.” My partner pointed the far wall on the right. “Perfect place for a stage.” I agreed.

That very next day I wrote my next full size menu. I had always had a little rockabilly spot on my mind but this wasn’t the right fit. I stayed in character for a bit as I was listening to one of my favorite bands at the time – Southerm Culture on the Skids “Fried chickens and gasoline”

I opened up my laptop and started on my creation on my first true opus – Southern Culture

We have take off. July 14th 2012

We sat around a large table in our future landlord’s office with blue ink pens in our hand. My partner looked go at me and said “are you ready?” And I said “you’re goddamn right”

After signing the biggest contract of my life I stppped by my old beauty in the Merovan center and did a shot. It wasn’t enough so I did another and then another. I drove that short drive to home office and sat in my car trembling. “Holy fuck this is really happening”. Shit was official. Shit was signed on the dotted line. I looked over and saw the all too familiar Acura in the office driveway. Turned off my car and walked inside.

I could write a thousand more pages about this place and how it made me, evolved me.

Chadcuterie would never existed if it weren’t for Southern. Southern would’ve never existed if it weren’t for Arizona. Just the facts ma’am. I will always love that company and will come to blows if you insult it. It’s like insulting my own family. I still think the world of Mark and Kevin and hope one day those two hard headed fuckers start talking to each other again. It’s funny now that I look back on it of all the places I’ve worked, owned, started up I’ve only got one of those that have been permanently tattooed on me. A ridiculous kokopelli on my left shoulder from all the koko shit from Zona’s. Even went to Arizona first the first time two years ago and put faces to the names of all the landmarks associated with that menu.

Thanks for all the memories Zona.