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April Fool's & the Work EthicRevised Article © 2001 Stuart Daw (Originally appeared in Canadian Vending, April/May 1995) I entered the coffee business 8 AM Saturday, April 1, 1950. Exactly to the day, 45 years later, Saturday, April 1, 1995, I was inducted into the Coffee Hall of Fame at the NBPA coffee convention in Philadelphia (by coincidence, the calendar for 1995 proved to be identical to that of 1950). But now, as commentator Paul Harvey would say, let’s hear "The Rest of the Story." In March of 1950 I had moved to Toronto from the farm and took an office job as assistant purchasing agent for a candy manufacturer. Thinking I might turn out to be a sales type, I looked in the classified section of the Globe and Mail one morning, and there saw an ad calling for a salesman, identifying the advertiser as simply a Toronto coffee company, but asking applicants to write to a box number at the paper. The Yellow Pages indicated there were a dozen or so coffee roasters in the city. I am a terrible writer and was afraid I’d never get any attention if I applied in writing, so I looked under the coffee machine at Hunt’s Ltd., the firm for which I worked, and saw a brown carton with the name Club Coffee on it, with the phone number EL 1161 (6 digit phones in those days). I called that number and the woman who answered, with perhaps the most terrible telephone voice I was ever to hear, brusquely replied, "You're supposed to apply in writing," but her slight hesitation in saying so told me this was the right company. I explained I was awful writer, and asked to speak to the boss so I could apply in person. She impatiently told me he was at the Canadian Restaurant Association convention at the Royal York Hotel (the last year the old CRA convention was held there) and that he couldn’t be bothered. That evening I took the streetcar down to the Royal York and there on the mezzanine floor were several booths, one of which was occupied by Club Coffee in the form of a young man who turned out to the company roaster. I asked the boss’s name and if he was in the hotel. The man, Mel by name, said the boss was named Jim Fairley, and that he was in their hospitality room 1161. I remember the room because it was exactly the same as the company phone number, by design I’m sure. The elevator door on the eleventh floor opened, and looking down the corridor I could see a half-open door and hear the unmistakable sounds of the "wine, women and song" of a convention hospitality room — loud laughter, ice tinkling in glasses, cigar and cigarette smoke belching out the door. Standing there nervously in my only suit of clothes, I knocked. A Toronto restaurateur answered, and I asked politely for Mr. Fairley. The man yelled over his shoulder, "Hey Jim, somebody wants to see you." A friendly looking man with a shock of black hair hanging over bloodshot eyes, pot belly bulging over his belt, came to the door and the conversation, almost to the word, went like this: Me: I’d like to apply for the position as advertised in this morning’s paper. Him, jovially: (blankety blank), I’m too drunk to hire anyone tonight. Can’t you come to my office tomorrow? I liked him. He was obviously an informal guy with a sense of humor. So the next day on my lunch hour I took the streetcar down to Church and Dundas St. for an interview. Although the company had been in business since 1907, they had no regular salesman at the time with the exception of John Wyndowe who served as a "Jack of all trades." Thus it was the first interview of that kind he had ever done, and John and I sat looking at each other in embarrassed silence for a while, but eventually we did get through it. It turned out that there were 42 applicants, with me being the only one applying in person. Back at my work the telephone rang later that week, with John Wyndowe telling me I had come in second. They were hiring the Silex salesman (Silex was the major supplier of coffee equipment in those days). He knew a lot of people in the restaurant business and seemed like the best choice. But John assured me they would be adding a second man in the fall, and that they would call me (don’t call me — I’ll call you?). I didn’t have to wait until fall. The phone rang an hour or so later, with John asking me if I still wanted the job. I said yes, and inquired what happened to the Silex man. John answered me by asking, "Will you work Saturday mornings?" I assured him I always had, coming from the farm, to which John replied, "Well, the Silex man won't work Saturday morning so you have the job." Now, when you think of not just 10, or 100, or even 1000, but the many thousands of people whose life was affected in some way by my involvement in the coffee business, you have to speculate what would have happened if the Silex man had been willing to work on Saturday morning. I wonder what he’s doing now. And the irony was that Club Coffee soon discontinued the Saturday work policy, but I kept making Saturday prospect calls anyway, as restaurant business was usually slower then, giving the more relaxed restaurateur time to let me present my coffee. And it wouldn’t escape his notice that here was a young guy who was working Saturday when other salesmen probably were not. Anyhow, the farm boy got this great job at 40 bucks a week and a penny a pound commission on new business to boot. I could get $40.00 per month car allowance if I bought a car, or I would be paid $15 per month if I traveled on the Toronto Transit Commission (TTC). I chose the car allowance and bought a 1938 Dodge coupe (with bad bearings), nothing down and payments of $30 per month. With that and a $60 per month boarding room, I was on my way. © 2001 Stuart Daw
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