firstsgtmike
11-07-02, 09:38 PM
(I share with you a chapter from the incomplete autobiography I am writing as reference material for my children and grandchildren. It's purpose is two-fold; One, so they will come to know who their father/grandfather was, and more importantly, that the lessons they need in life can be taught on a personal level, and not from a dry textbook.)
LEADERSHIP DEFINED.
The year was 1954, shortly before my 17th birthday. The place was Lake Mohonk Mountain House, 90 miles north of New York City, my first time out of the city, the start of a five year Odyssey working vacation resorts.
His name was AL Karpowitz, the meanest looking man I had ever met. He was the head chef. Rumor had it that in the off season he taught cooking on a TV show in Maine, which we all found impossible to believe. He had the same ethnic face as Karl Malden, only without the smile. He never smiled. Most of the waitresses and busboys were college students from rural Pennsylvania and New England. I was a high school dropout, supposedly street smart, a wise-ass Brooklyn punk, but he scared the daylights out of all of us equally.
His responding "Good Morning", which seemed to erupt from the bowels of hell, forced you to double check your watch in sheer panic. How could you be late? Surreptitiously you peek at the watch, hold your breath and compare it with the kitchen clock. Verified. Ten minutes early, a tentative sigh of relief. But why is he so angry at your arrival, could they both be wrong? What will he do? What insane tortures is he capable of?
We all lived in constant, though in retrospect, unwarranted fear.
Contact was to be avoided at all costs. If he was at one end, the cautious stayed at the other. The kitchen was long and ran the length of the thousand seat dining room, with swinging entry and exit doors at both ends. Someone leaving the kitchen would indicate his whereabouts with a nod, this door is O.K. or use the other one. With eighty plus waitresses and busboys, our common goal was total anonymity. It was common knowledge that crossing Chef Karpowitz would be akin to incurring the wrath of God. No one wanted to be the first. Hell, I didn't want to be first, last, or anyplace in-between. You could have my turn, my place in line without even asking. Take it.
It was the day of the dining room crew's self-sponsored weekly cookout and blanket party. We dated each other exclusively, with couples pairing off for the season. With the exception of the bellhops, the other departments, which included several married couples, were all older than our collegiate dining room crew. When we organized an activity, all employees were invited to participate. Hotel guests were not permitted, even though many of the younger ones would have preferred our activities over the hotel's programs, which catered to first, second, and third generations of returning guests. One guest had been spending her summers at the hotel for almost fifty straight years. The only lapse occurred when she was stranded in Europe and couldn't return from a vacation cruise when the First World War erupted.
We always bought a keg of beer in town, and hot dogs, buns, beans condiments, paper plates, etc. wholesale from the hotel. I was tired of hot dogs. What I wanted was a steak. Immediately after resetting my dining room station after the dinner meal and before leaving for the party, I took two prime, frozen, steaks from the freezer and tucked them inside my shirt under my busboy's jacket. I said took, the correct term should be stole. I was able to rationalize it by considering it fair payment for the various employee meals missed on my days off, room and board being part of my pay, the rest being $40 per month plus tips.
Obviously, this story wouldn't be worth telling if I hadn't been caught red-handed by Chef Karpowitz. I was, and it is. Although I had delayed long enough for the kitchen to be deserted, it wasn't. His gravel voice summoned me over to him from the other end of the kitchen, and as I walked towards him, on wet-spaghetti like legs, my mind raced like a twig in a hurricane.
Should I run? Did he recognize me? Is the Pope a Catholic? Is he close enough to the pots and pans for me to grab one and knock him out with it? Suppose I miss? If I didn't, would I have time to run to my room and get my money before I run the twelve miles down the mountain? Forget the money and hitchhike out of town? What are my chances? None and none!
I thought the steaks would be defrosted when he took them out of my shirt from the hours it took me to walk the length of the kitchen. They must be defrosting, this can't all be sweat. Thank God it's above the belt line and not below. I think. I hope. I was afraid to look. I didn't, and it wasn't.
Of course he knew about the party. "O.K. this one's for you, who is the other one for?" Instinctively, I knew that the best answer was also the honest answer, and I named my girlfriend. "Are you ****ing her?" As scared as I was, and I was scared almost speechless, there was no way in the world I would ever answer THAT question. My code was as sacred to me as a captured soldier's name, rank, and serial number response. I thought of the movie "Purple Heart Diary" and wondered to what extremes he would go to get a confession. What business was it of his? What difference did it make? I did it, I was caught.
The Mafia's Omerta, a samarai's stoicism, a monk's vow of silence, don't fink, don't rat, never squeal, all supported my code of honor. True, I gave up her name, but not as an accomplice, neither before nor after the fact. I would have given her the cooked steak and she wouldn't have thought to ask from whence it came. Ask me about me, and you may get an answer, ask me something, anything, about someone else and I might deny even knowing them.
I remember in high school, questioned after a ten minute one-on-one fight, no, I didn't recognize the classmate who hit me, and when questioned the following day, he couldn't remember why he had stitches. Nothing heroic, nothing to be applauded, just normal behavior, doing the right thing.
There we were, just standing there, with the sound of my knocking knees echoing throughout the kitchen, resounding like the afterbeat to the throbbing bass drum of my heart. Fortunately, silence was a better response than any wise-ass remark I could have made. Chef Karpowitz nodded with a grunt, returned the two steaks to the inside of my shirt, and as he buttoned it said, "Son, don't ever forget, if you're ****ing 'em, you feed 'em." And with that, turned around and walked back to his office.
Those seven words "If you're ****ing 'em, you feed 'em" define leadership.
Chef Karpowitz, I have never forgotten. Our encounter is as fresh in my mind as if it happened this morning. Erudite books on leadership and management theory devote chapters and even volumes to postulate that which seems to be so obvious a principle, even though it was crudely expressed. Loyalty is a two way street. If you put a soldier in harm's way, you have an inescapable obligation to protect him. If a man works for you, your obligation to him is even more indelible than his is to you. You have the greater resources, the greater capacity, the greater latitude, and the greater responsibility to support the 'team' effort. Success or failure is on YOUR shoulders.
LEADERSHIP DEFINED.
The year was 1954, shortly before my 17th birthday. The place was Lake Mohonk Mountain House, 90 miles north of New York City, my first time out of the city, the start of a five year Odyssey working vacation resorts.
His name was AL Karpowitz, the meanest looking man I had ever met. He was the head chef. Rumor had it that in the off season he taught cooking on a TV show in Maine, which we all found impossible to believe. He had the same ethnic face as Karl Malden, only without the smile. He never smiled. Most of the waitresses and busboys were college students from rural Pennsylvania and New England. I was a high school dropout, supposedly street smart, a wise-ass Brooklyn punk, but he scared the daylights out of all of us equally.
His responding "Good Morning", which seemed to erupt from the bowels of hell, forced you to double check your watch in sheer panic. How could you be late? Surreptitiously you peek at the watch, hold your breath and compare it with the kitchen clock. Verified. Ten minutes early, a tentative sigh of relief. But why is he so angry at your arrival, could they both be wrong? What will he do? What insane tortures is he capable of?
We all lived in constant, though in retrospect, unwarranted fear.
Contact was to be avoided at all costs. If he was at one end, the cautious stayed at the other. The kitchen was long and ran the length of the thousand seat dining room, with swinging entry and exit doors at both ends. Someone leaving the kitchen would indicate his whereabouts with a nod, this door is O.K. or use the other one. With eighty plus waitresses and busboys, our common goal was total anonymity. It was common knowledge that crossing Chef Karpowitz would be akin to incurring the wrath of God. No one wanted to be the first. Hell, I didn't want to be first, last, or anyplace in-between. You could have my turn, my place in line without even asking. Take it.
It was the day of the dining room crew's self-sponsored weekly cookout and blanket party. We dated each other exclusively, with couples pairing off for the season. With the exception of the bellhops, the other departments, which included several married couples, were all older than our collegiate dining room crew. When we organized an activity, all employees were invited to participate. Hotel guests were not permitted, even though many of the younger ones would have preferred our activities over the hotel's programs, which catered to first, second, and third generations of returning guests. One guest had been spending her summers at the hotel for almost fifty straight years. The only lapse occurred when she was stranded in Europe and couldn't return from a vacation cruise when the First World War erupted.
We always bought a keg of beer in town, and hot dogs, buns, beans condiments, paper plates, etc. wholesale from the hotel. I was tired of hot dogs. What I wanted was a steak. Immediately after resetting my dining room station after the dinner meal and before leaving for the party, I took two prime, frozen, steaks from the freezer and tucked them inside my shirt under my busboy's jacket. I said took, the correct term should be stole. I was able to rationalize it by considering it fair payment for the various employee meals missed on my days off, room and board being part of my pay, the rest being $40 per month plus tips.
Obviously, this story wouldn't be worth telling if I hadn't been caught red-handed by Chef Karpowitz. I was, and it is. Although I had delayed long enough for the kitchen to be deserted, it wasn't. His gravel voice summoned me over to him from the other end of the kitchen, and as I walked towards him, on wet-spaghetti like legs, my mind raced like a twig in a hurricane.
Should I run? Did he recognize me? Is the Pope a Catholic? Is he close enough to the pots and pans for me to grab one and knock him out with it? Suppose I miss? If I didn't, would I have time to run to my room and get my money before I run the twelve miles down the mountain? Forget the money and hitchhike out of town? What are my chances? None and none!
I thought the steaks would be defrosted when he took them out of my shirt from the hours it took me to walk the length of the kitchen. They must be defrosting, this can't all be sweat. Thank God it's above the belt line and not below. I think. I hope. I was afraid to look. I didn't, and it wasn't.
Of course he knew about the party. "O.K. this one's for you, who is the other one for?" Instinctively, I knew that the best answer was also the honest answer, and I named my girlfriend. "Are you ****ing her?" As scared as I was, and I was scared almost speechless, there was no way in the world I would ever answer THAT question. My code was as sacred to me as a captured soldier's name, rank, and serial number response. I thought of the movie "Purple Heart Diary" and wondered to what extremes he would go to get a confession. What business was it of his? What difference did it make? I did it, I was caught.
The Mafia's Omerta, a samarai's stoicism, a monk's vow of silence, don't fink, don't rat, never squeal, all supported my code of honor. True, I gave up her name, but not as an accomplice, neither before nor after the fact. I would have given her the cooked steak and she wouldn't have thought to ask from whence it came. Ask me about me, and you may get an answer, ask me something, anything, about someone else and I might deny even knowing them.
I remember in high school, questioned after a ten minute one-on-one fight, no, I didn't recognize the classmate who hit me, and when questioned the following day, he couldn't remember why he had stitches. Nothing heroic, nothing to be applauded, just normal behavior, doing the right thing.
There we were, just standing there, with the sound of my knocking knees echoing throughout the kitchen, resounding like the afterbeat to the throbbing bass drum of my heart. Fortunately, silence was a better response than any wise-ass remark I could have made. Chef Karpowitz nodded with a grunt, returned the two steaks to the inside of my shirt, and as he buttoned it said, "Son, don't ever forget, if you're ****ing 'em, you feed 'em." And with that, turned around and walked back to his office.
Those seven words "If you're ****ing 'em, you feed 'em" define leadership.
Chef Karpowitz, I have never forgotten. Our encounter is as fresh in my mind as if it happened this morning. Erudite books on leadership and management theory devote chapters and even volumes to postulate that which seems to be so obvious a principle, even though it was crudely expressed. Loyalty is a two way street. If you put a soldier in harm's way, you have an inescapable obligation to protect him. If a man works for you, your obligation to him is even more indelible than his is to you. You have the greater resources, the greater capacity, the greater latitude, and the greater responsibility to support the 'team' effort. Success or failure is on YOUR shoulders.