The whole time here it was a little surreal. Sometimes I think it was a dream and I never actually worked at Fatz at all..

Fatz was during a low point of my life (looking back on it I had quite a few). Fatz was one of those jobs I took because I had no choice. I had recently lost my job at the Hyatt as head bell captain due to a very costly DUI and spent quite some time trying to find a job that I could either walk to or my roommates could alternate taxiing me to and from. I roomed with four Furman football players next to the college in a house that could’ve hosted a Brady Bunch special. Tri-level home filled with shag carpet and testosterone. The front yard was essentially a parking lot filled with empty beer cans and revolving BMWs of the college ladies that hung out (just kidding there never any ladies there, just sweaty men)

I would have one of my mates chauffeur me around while I dropped off applications in every establishment that was hiring. I tried my damnest to stay away from restaurants. I had no interest in waiting tables.

You’d look through the newspaper want ads to find jobs in the early 90s or you’d just cold call places and say “Yo! Y’all hiring?” Lot of fucking footwork is involved. Door to door filling out applications.

After about a month I went to any and every place I could find and the only place that called me back for an interview was a small Fatz cafe adjacent to Walmart on Wade Hampton. Right down the street from the bowling alley. I applied there on a whim and finally got a call back. The location wasn’t ideal. It was almost 8 miles from our house. I was going to have to do some major ass kissing and bribery with my roommates to get a consistent ride to work. My ex at the time was also kind enough to give me a ride but that wouldn’t last too long due to the choice of my future girlfriend. I may or may not go into that. It’s an entertaining story but doesnt really apply here.

So yeah! Fatz fucking cafe, I had managed to go all this time in my short career without waiting tables and away we go. I was anxious. I had already built up my bullshitting portfolio from years at the Hyatt but the clientele here was vastly on the opposite spectrum of high rolling Hyatt regency folk. I had never eaten at a Fatz and when I finished my tenure there I made goddamn sure well that I never did again. Uniform was khaki pants or shorts, white tennies and factory made green shirt. No hue will accurately describe it on a palette Its just Fatz fucking green. It’s like they made thier own unique hue of green and trademarked it.

Why did I call this Fatz ish? Well right around this time this particular location had gone through a ownership change. Big Jimmy was no longer affiliated with this establishment and it was now owned by a local greek family. Meanwhile in the background of the transition the daughter of the family was about to be wed to the managing partner of the restaurant. Or the wedding would secure his partnership with the family and restaurant. Wasn’t really sure which came first. I wasn’t on that committee. The operator Mike, was an alright guy. Strong Applebees background (that was considered a good pedigree in the mid 90s) and I’ll give that man credit where it’s due, he worked his ass off. He was building his dream where he could create it. I’ll never fault anyone for that.

When I was hired here it was the first thing they told me. “Yes we are still called Fatz but a new concept was coming soon!” Well hell yeah! I thought. Because this concept was terrible.

The restaurant blended into the fabric of the Taylors shopping plaza that at the time hosted a Walmart, Blockbuster video and then your obligatory nail salon, hair place, dollar store and maybe some boutique- like and a free standing Ruby Tuesdays right in the middle. The parking lot sloped its way down and reservoired at the Walmart that corralled all of us into one blue collar resort. Gimme two fucking tickets to the Taylors Resort please! You’d walk into the dining room and we had a cash register up front with the dining room split into two rows. Each row mirrored the other. Booths hugged the walls and the four tops ran parallel to the booths. The bar sat on your left up two steps with a few high tops overlooking the herd munching roll eaters. The bar itself had the aesthetics of most early 90s bars, mini bottle storage lockers horse shoeing around the bar with the wood. If you sat dead center you could see the two fat tvs behind the bar or if nothing for shit was on you the tube could stare at yourself in the bar wall fashioned into a segmented mirrors to make the bar appear larger. The bar looked like some money and care had been thrown into it. The dining room was just green (Fatz grew) painted walls with wainscoting and cheap booths. The kitchen was nothing out of the ordinary other than you felt like you were walking through a swamp with seeping fry oil residue like thick, sticky dew on a hot and humid summer morning. I can remember the head cook Glen. Short, small ex con that was all in because if he lost his job he would have to go back to jail. There was another cook there for a bit, the owner’s brother and one other cat, can’t remember his name but he looked like D.B. Sweeney at the time. The only reason why he stands out is because we almost got into a fist fight over a mistaken song lyric. Stone Temple Pilots unplugged version of Plush was playing on repeat on every radio station and MTV during this era. I loved Stone Temple but that song needed a break. Sweeney would also play this goddamn song on repeat every morning while prepping. He would always fuck up this lyric. “Where ya going for tomorrow? Where ya going with the mask I found?”

Sweeney crooning at the top of his lungs “Where ya going for tomorrow? Where ya going with the master plan?”

I started calling him Master P. And then everyone else did even though I didn’t explain why they thought I’d came up with some whimsical nickname for him and hell he liked it too. Even referred to himself as that in third person. Ouch. Sweeney and I would get into some screaming matches on the line. He was the consummate Fatz cook. He talked a great game of culinary skills but his delivery was terrible. He wasn’t good. With my brief experience in high volume atmosphere I had already discovered Sweeney’s pedigree topped out at microwaver. Even his calabashing got bashed. One heated moment after he told me to go fuck myself as I was standing over a 50 gallon trash can, scraping calabash parts into the garbage. I threw the plate into dish and screamed “ITS THE MASK I FOUND NOT THE MASTER PLAN YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOUVE BEEN SINGING WRONG THE WHOLE TIME”. My boss would have that all too familiar talk with me “You sure this is the right fit for you?” I’ve been privy to several of these conversations.

Calabash

I still cringe when I hear this word. Calabash. Fuck you calabash. Calabash chicken was our signature dish. Every restaurant has that one dish that when you order the server immediately turn around with their eyes rolled back into their skulls while they walk into the kitchen screaming “HERE COMES FIVE FUCKING MORE!” The fry cook had a big ass lexan laced with two buckets of ice soaked in kosher salt and three deep assigned 3rd pans filled to the rim with naked tenders, dredge and flour. The prep table holding this monstrosity would lean sideways between two 75LB fryers holding it steady to keep it from collapsing from the weight of the fried chicken carnage. After each shift the table would be hosed off from all the dredge and discarded mixing bowls caked with old flour and chicken juice. One of my sideworks as a server was to set up the premade salads. We’d use our hands and scoop lettuce on a small oval plate, throw two cucumber slices, one tomato wedge and two purple onions. We kept a little stand for dressings and when customers ordered their entrees the server would scoop the dressing on the premade salad that could sit on a sheet rack in the kitchen at room temp for up to 4 hours on a slow day. This was my first experience in a high volume kitchen. When I barbacked in the 80s the kitchens were mostly utilized for snack purposes and only manned with one cook on the weekends. I had no interest in the goings on in the kitchen. I didn’t like the idea of my forearms blistering up like the fry guy’s or come home covered in flour ash, reeking of three day old fry oil.. Also I’ll take the 72° dining over the fiery pits of hell any day. The only menu items my memory will focus on are the calabash chicken and those damned rolls. If Fatz cafe can take credit for anything, it gave me prejudice towards table bread. You know those rolls I’m talking about. Goddamn little baked bundles of Wade Hampton crack. We would bring a basket out to each table after beverage service. One roll per guest unless they requested more which they absolutely would. I’d average four trips per table. The owner would scream at you if you tried to sneak more than per table and yes he’d do his walk about and audit your bread per head. Plastic ramekins filled with whipped butter and honey. Apparently there were no gluten allergies at this time. Or after ingesting 14 vessels of yeast you’d run to the bathroom and shit yourself thinking “that’s peculiar” and then shoving another roll in your pie hole or purse before you shimmy back into the booth. The record was 16 baskets. That’s right 16. Every Friday, same table, same Butterbean. Always in my section. The owner’s face would turn deeper shade of red for each additional basket carried out.

If you’re a up and coming restauranteur do and I cannot stress enough NOT have free table bread as an option. Unless you’re a high end restaurant. You can shove the cost up the consumer’s ass in high end. The people that will consistently pay for a $75 plate of food will usually save their appetite for that plate and not a whole pack of knock off Hawaiian rolls. Just for a frame of reference one of the steakhouses I worked for spent over $2k in table bread a month. 24k of annual profits padding guts while forgoing appetizers because who’s hungry after 4 loaves of bread?

This was my first experience with how demographics can have affect on your clientele and check averages. Which would also apply to your tip average. Fatz was a blue collar restaurant with blue collar pricing, fare and somewhat continental setting. It was a restaurant of convenience in Taylors. You took family out here to eat. Not to entertain. Business folk didn’t bring clients here to wine and dine, you didn’t get dressed to the nines to eat calabash chicken.

I grew up somewhat poor. Sometimes days were more poorer than others but I was taught to mind my manners and be polite. My mother was a waitress in a diner with three kids to support. I’ve always tipped well. I was serving $2 tables. Rude fucking tables. Some of the patrons it would seem they were embarking on their first adventure outside of the RV park up the road. Didn’t matter what the check amount came out to be, calculators weren’t pulled out of purses to calculate 15% they gave you whatever change they had left over. Credit cards were hardly used at this establishment. Some lunches I’d have one whole side of the dining room and on the rare occasion it filled up I might walk out with $35. My biggest bank was $80 on a Friday night. I had friends come in and see me. These patrons were the type if they ordered tea as their drink choice they’d get offended if you asked “sweet or unsweetened?” If they ordered a steak the muscle memory in my hand would already go through the motions of writing that short handed “W” that would be incased inside a circle to represent the desired temp for that 1/4 inch cut ribeye. Well done bitches. Steak sauce and ketchup was abundant. Ranch might as well have been a beverage choice. I recall one regular that insisted on eating with a disposable fork and knife. We would keep a stack of paper plates on hand to serve her because “I’ve just always ate on paper plates with plastic forks it’s what I prefer. I won’t eat no dinner if it’s on a regular plate.” Someone actually brought this bitch out in public to eat. Maybe I would’ve been more appreciative to her toddler needs had she tipped me more than her plastic fork’s net worth.

After 6 months of serving I had approached the owner and inquired about picking up some bar gigs. He looked me up and down, paused and said “grow some tits and we’ll talk.”

Any day I worked there was a double. I didn’t have my license most of my Fatz career so going home to take a break on my double wasn’t an option. Transportation was a pain in the ass. Uber was still learning the alphabet with crayons and Greenville had 6 taxi cabs and one dispatch that never answered the phone. Some nights my 4 roommates would watch the phone ring at 11:00pm when I’d call for a ride home because no one would commit to picking me up until they all fought over who’s turn it was. Somedays no one would pickup. So I’d walk. From Wade Hampton, up Rutherford, right at Pleasantburg by the Shriner’s club and follow it to Poinsett, turn right and hit those peaks and valleys all the way to Furman U. I just googled the distance- 9.2 miles. I did this walk 3 times. Always after a double. It would take me 3 hours. Remember this next time you have that second drink before you drive home. Once I started making work friends I’d hit them up for rides or I’d be a transient for the evening and couch surf. I’d go out and get hammered with my coworkers at Crocs (the OG off of Howell) and pass out on one of their crusty sofas with whatever cover or blanket that was available. Never brought an overnight bag, I’d roll right out of bed (sofa), put my sneakers on and head into work. One night as I was slowly fading to black, on a coworker’s sofa , settling in after a slew of Jager and shooting pool at Crocs, I was jarred awake by some elevated conversation. Two females that were kind enough to share their sofa for the night had procured a drug deal with two rather large men in their kitchen. It was the exaggerated whispering that woke me up from my liquor coma. I pulled my head out of my borrowed blanket and witnessed what I assumed was an under financed drug transaction. Apparently if you call this “company” for services they don’t do layaway. I’m oblivious to how it started or what was involved. Sometimes I wonder if I was dreaming. Two very large men were having a very serious chat with my two coworkers about a transaction and lack of funds. The two females were hyped out of their minds, literally bouncing and sobbing with smiles on their faces . They weren’t concerned by the danger of the situation, their dilemma meter was focused on the score. I don’t think either one of them knew the smaller one of the two had a revolver sticking out the back of his jacket. Payment needed to be made. Not enough money to cover it? There were other means. And they obliged, both of them right there in that little galley kitchen. Dude’s gun never fell from his belt as he loosened it.

That next morning I crawled out of the sofa, quietly grabbed my things and walked to work. My two coworkers worked dinner that night. We made small talk even talked about going to Crocs again after work and I declined. I needed a shower, mouthwash and a fucking therapist asap. They never brought up that night. I don’t think it was their first rodeo as they say.

Fatz was transitioning into another concept the time I worked there. They kept it pretty hush, hush and little was discussed about it. By this time I was fairly comfortable there. I had made a good connection with one of the servers there and we began to date. Thank god I had finally found a ride to and from work. Bless that cute little, blond, angel’s face for knowingly becoming my taxi for the next 6 months. She was a sweetheart, we just never had that much in common. I made some solid friends there. The restaurant was closed on Sundays so we would all get together and plan some day trip. Either the lake, house party, bowling, Asheville. This would be my first work family. The Hyatt never did that for me. Too stuffy and too proud. I enjoyed the time I spent with those guys and gals. Restaurant drama was a thing. Sometimes we all hated each other during rush but we’d make amends over pool at Crocs. We were a close knit group for the short time we hung out. It’s odd though, of all my jobs that I’ve worked that lasted longer than a month, I still touch base with friends I’ve met over time in those places and some are social media friends, some are great friends. I do not have one representative from this era as a friend on any platform. I spent 14 months here.

Legends Cafe

For some reason I want to spell this with a Z “Legendz” not sure if they spelled it that way or I’m craving Zaxby’s at the moment but this was the name of the rebranding concept launch. We went from Fatz Cafe to Legends(z) cafe in on week. The hoopla surrounding the new concept and been unveiled. The interior got a new paint job from the Fatz green (like our shitty itchy shirts) to khaki (like our stained Walmart chinos). New artwork appeared on the walls of at the time current sports legends(z) and past favorites. We had sketched posters of Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordon, The “Golden Bear” Jack Nicolas and a few others I can’t recall. Menu didn’t change a bit. To my chagrin I’d still be dealing calabash and rolls to the masses.

I felt terrible for the owner. He had planned a big bash for the rebranding, radio station came out to play, there were games and shit to be had for the kids. I’d say around 30 customers showed up the whole day. The owner was crushed.

His wedding gift was shitting the bed financially.

Legends(z) opened up with a fizzle burp. That was my sign to start another chapter in my work resume. After weeks of ADSAP classes and signing my first born child to Leon Hix for SR-22 insurance, I got my license back. I was no longer tethered to that strip mall side of Walmart Supercemter. One of my best friends had a job at the Blockhouse. After hearing about my tip average he insisted that I come by and fill out an app. So I did. And thus begun my foothold into becoming a restaurant lifer.

Fatz, Legends(z) became my first stepping stone into the restaurant business side of service industry. It was a blur of fry oil stains, new friends and for the most part a fun time aside from all the walking I had to endure. I still remember most of their names, Mike, Jason, JB, Chad. Nicole, Misty, Trish (I called her Trisher) Tim, Laura, Gene, Master P and I’m sure I could remember a few more. Ive always enjoy the movie Waiting. It reminds me quite a bit of that crew. I’ve always linked myself to Justin Long’s character at that time in my life.

Mike (the owner) would later work with me for a bit at Zona’s after Legends(z) shut down. I liked Mike he worked his ass off and treated me with respect for the most part. He would later tragically die in a car accident. His brother who also worked in the kitchen, killed himself a few months after I left. Tim (one of my server friends) died of AIDS a few years later. The others? No clue as to their whereabouts but I wish them all well.

Fatz, I didn’t really like you. I liked the job because of the people I met. The serving experience not so much. The clientele, over all was terrible. It definitely started my all too familiar dislike for entitled consumers and cheap cunts. When I quit, I never walked into that space again.