Buca Big House

the pope’s table

Joe Micatrotto was sentenced yesterday to 13 months in prison for his illegal actions as head honcho at Buca di Beppo.

I have such odd feelings about this.

As a young something, I believed in the crazy fun and cool world of Buca. I was the first Training Coordinator and running around the country opening restaurants and learning how to grow a national concept.

It was the hardest work I’d ever done and the most fun I’d ever had. We were Una Famiglia and it was great to spread the Buca love to a bunch of fresh and wide-eyed innocents. I talked about humility and having fun and working together as a team, and I believed in every word I spoke. For a while.

The restaurant world is a counter culture, normal rules of “office etiquette” usually don’t apply. So you don’t bat an eye when the dirty jokes flow from all levels, it’s really not that big of a deal. But sometimes, when you’re the only female traveling with an all-male executive team, it wears a little thin.

And when you grow a company, things change, that’s a given. Systems are refined and streamlined to be more efficient. Shorten training to save money? ok. Stick the trainers in the cheapest, rattiest furnished apartments to save money? Uh, ok. Cut a day of learning and add a training party so the Big Cheese can feed all his friends for free? Huh?

The day I truly lost my religion, the day I realized that every word from my mouth was fluff was a sweet day in Pasadena. For over a week I had spent countless hours in front of the trainees talking about how we were there to support them, giving them everything they would need to be successful and confident in their jobs. That night the training party was meant to be a training exercise: we invite people in and buy their food in exchange for their patience and understanding as we practice on them. The number of people invited is held to a manageable amount, so that each server is well paced but never slammed. That way they have the chance to focus on the smaller things that improve service.

But Micatrotto lived near Pasadena, and the invite list grew to an absurd amount. By prime time, the entire restaurant was full and there was a two hour wait. The service staff and trainers were overwhelmed and just trying to survive. I knew that Micatrotto’s son Justin was holding court at a booth in the bar (the tables were supposed to be no more than 4 people, his held 8 or more) and that the server happened to be one of the weaker ones. But instead of having the chance to learn from her mistakes and become a stronger server, she was crushed by the pressure and the disdainful glare of the King of the Company.

Of course she screwed up, that’s what they are supposed to do at training parties. Isn’t it better to mess up on someone who isn’t paying anyway? I went into the kitchen to plead her case with Joe, when I saw him in a fury at the front line. He was checking up on her ticket and realized she had forgotten to order something for Justin’s table. He then started kicking the kitchen equipment and shouting “that f**king c*nt!”. Over meatballs or pasta. Una Famiglia.

I wanted to walk right out the door, but I didn’t. In fact it took me a few more years to realize that I couldn’t save the crazy cool and fun culture I’d loved. The company I’d believed in and helped grow was rotting from the head down.

But I feel sorry for the guy. Prison is a high price to pay for a big ego. And yet … choices were made.

I still crave the lemon chicken and could eat many wheels of the aromatic garlic bread. Under the new management Buca is again a happy place, I am told. In a way I have to appreciate my time under the Micatrotto regime, if only for the lesson I learned: Don’t believe your own press.