I was in elementary school when my father bought the steakhouse in downtown Dallas. He had bought the restaurant from an elderly couple eager to retire and was eager himself to take the restaurant to the next level. Now, Texas is known for its cattle and that means its known for its steak. So, it would seem a steakhouse in Texas was destined for success.
It was well located and reaped the rewards of a steady lunch crowd and staunch regulars. It had a spacious first floor that included a long bar area and plenty of booths. It also had a lower level that gave diners a view of the street. Then, there was a huge staircase leading to the banquet hall on the second floor. The lighting was steakhouse dark and very cozy.
The place was a palace, so much so my brother and I could get away with playing hide and seek and not disturb anyone. My father would pick us up from school and take us to the restaurant, which double as day care. We were from the suburbs and so our perspective consisted mainly of cookie-cutter houses and not much more. But when our father took us to the steakhouse, there was always something to learn.
My father was the man -- the big cheese. He was the guy in charge. Seeing him wield his authority and placating customers was pretty exciting. When I saw him give an order to another adult and they complied, I was perplexed. We never did what he said, even when he raised his voice or threatened to ground us.
We spent most of our time in the office located on the third floor. We'd glimpse the day-to-day happenings from the slatted windows and tried to zap each other with rubber bands. On his desk was a plethora of self inking stamps that we'd use to cover every piece of exposed paper. We'd stamp envelopes, invoices, receipts -- everything. Those were magical days, ones I won't soon forget: stamping, hiding and enjoying the greatest steakhouse this side of the Mississippi.
Author Resource:
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