THE OWNER’S DAUGHTER

My father did not consider himself a religious man. I had never known him to set foot inside a church, but when it came to his principles he was unmovable. ‘If you have time to ask, you have time to say thank you.’ He applied that ideology to his relationship with God and with people.

His values showed up in different, unexpected places. One of them concerned the hiring of new staff. Sharing a meal with any potential employee was part of the interview conducted by him.

 “You can tell a lot about someone by the way a person eats,” he told me. “Food is a gift from our Maker and we should treat it with respect.”

 He instructed me on such things as the numerous steps needed to produce a loaf of bread – from the clearing of the ground, to the tilling, sowing, harvesting, and transporting the grain to the mill. I would never have thought of gulping down my food. The dining room was not to be treated as a refueling station.                   

There were other, less pleasant directives.

On one occasion, my father and I had made plans to go horseback riding. My days formed themselves around those rare outings and I was fiercely protective of them. However, inevitably something important came up and demanded his attention.  Irritated that he answered yet another phone call, again delaying our departure, I stood, impatiently tapping the side of my boot with my riding crop. Doing so made me feel terribly important and it surely emphasized my displeasure.

While waiting, I observed one of the employees being slow at his task and I took it upon myself to chastise him. The worker said nothing. My father did. He quickly ended his phone conversation and turned to me. “Doris, a moment of your time? Please!”

As soon as I entered his office, he closed the door and gave me a long appraising look.

“I am troubled by what I just heard you say. You seem to have the wrong impression about authority and your role here. What makes you think you have the right to correct my employee in such a manner?’

 “But why shouldn’t I? I am the owner’s daughter,” I answered, not so sure now and feeling faintly ill.

“That you are – but it is my hotel! I seem to have overlooked a necessary aspect in your upbringing and it needs to be corrected. You leave for school at seven, yes? So starting tomorrow at five a.m., you will report to the kitchen. Someone will show you how to peel vegetables, carrots, potatoes etc. From there you’ll transfer to the laundry room and so on, until you have spent a while in every department. If, at the end of that time you still feel inclined to order people about, you’ll at least have some basis to draw on. You may hate my decision, but I trust that someday you’ll understand and perhaps even thank me. Now, how about that ride?”

His words left me speechless. Perhaps I had been a little aggressive in my interaction with the staff, but this…? To say the least it was embarrassing. I didn’t mind the work as much as I feared the staff’s ridicule. Yet my father held to his decision.

 Having spent a lot of my time away from home, there was much I did not know about him. Working with his employees – some of them third-generation – I learned some interesting facts. He had brought together a talented, dedicated team of people, knew each one by name, and frequently inquired after their families. They told him things and he listened, showing genuine interest. “You never become unpopular by asking people about themselves,” he said.

My father’s hotel was busy and the café with its comfortable chairs, chandeliers, polished wood, and strategically placed plants remained a convenient location for meeting friends, recovering from the exertions of shopping, or just relaxing. Some of the customers came every day like clockwork, stepped through the large revolving doors, and stayed for hours, visiting and eating.

To my surprise, the staff and I became friends.  Proud of what they were doing, they put in extra hours when necessary, without complaining, but also insisted on having some fun. And my father agreed.

   “A certain amount of laughter is important for a good perspective.” 

One of the employees, a young man, even took me for a spin on his brand new motorcycle. Learning of it, my mother put an immediate stop to a repeat performance.

There was always work to do in the hotel, with some seasons being especially hectic. At those times, in a spirit of camaraderie, I would join in as employees eat their meals together. Then it was back to our tasks, such as placing dabs of paper-thin gold leaf or sugared violets on hand-dipped chocolates before boxing them. I took Spekulatius, (a thin traditional Christmas cookie, made from flour, butter and rich with spices), from still hot baking sheets, until blisters formed on my fingers.

None of my co-workers ever made unkind comments about my father’s decision.  And he had been right. At the  end of my six-months, in-depth acquaintance with the family business, I did not tell anyone what to do – but asked instead for their opinions.