The years I spent working at the Royal Fork gave me a great opportunity to understand business and what it takes to be successful. We also got to see firsthand how businesses supported each other, strengthening the local economy. It was in this spirit that my fellow dishwashers and I started helping out at the doughnut shop across Colfax.
The shop was run by Bill, a gruff old man who seemed like he had been around for a hundred years. Over time, he became a friend to the kids who worked at the Royal Fork, and his shop became our hangout when we weren’t on shift. The image of him is burned into my memory—standing there with a two-day beard, a white t-shirt, a big baker’s apron, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
I came from a working-class family, but nothing embodied that life quite like Bill. He was a hardworking man trying to make a living as a small business owner. Every morning, he opened by 5 AM, and there was always a crowd waiting. He was about as jovial as a freshly caught alligator, didn’t suffer fools, and took his business seriously. But his doughnuts? The best around. The only competition in Lakewood was Henderson Doughnuts, about five miles away at 26th and Kipling. Honestly, he might have been the real-life inspiration for the Seinfeld character “The Soup Nazi.”
Bill was a character, but if you were in his circle, you were royalty. We spent hours talking to him, listening to his stories about the Vietnam War and his life. I miss those days—just hanging out, watching him work, and marveling at how the ash from his cigarette never seemed to fall into the dough.
Helping Bill (Or Maybe Just Falling for a Tom Sawyer Trick)
Bill often complained about how much work it took to clean the fryer and filter the oil. His method involved a large cone-shaped filter lined with cloth to catch impurities. Every couple of weeks, he’d drain the fryer, scrub the walls, and replace the oil. Despite the ever-present cigarette, he was meticulous about cleanliness.
The cleaning process was intense. He used a wire brush attached to a drill motor to scrape the crust and gunk off the fryer walls. He taught us the technique and the standard of cleanliness he expected. Looking back, I realize this may have been a classic Tom Sawyer painting the fence moment. But for about a year, once a month, we dutifully scrubbed that fryer.
Our biggest contribution came when we offered Bill the use of the Royal Fork’s fryer oil filter. It wasn’t exactly ours to loan out, but by the time we borrowed it, the manager and most of the staff had gone home, so we didn’t worry too much about the details.
Now, rolling that machine across Colfax—a six-lane street—was a different kind of adventure. Timing was everything, and we didn’t always get it right. Sometimes, we found ourselves dodging cars as the West Drive-In let out, turning our mission into a chaotic obstacle course. But we got it across, ran the filtering process, and used the restaurant’s chemical cleaner to remove more impurities than Bill’s usual cloth filter could. Technically, this was a cost to the Royal Fork, but in our teenage minds, it was just two businesses helping each other out. (We were seventeen—what did we know?)
We never felt guilty. We loved Bill. And to this day, I can still hear his voice, telling stories as he worked.
Bill’s Greatest Story
Bill especially loved talking about his daughter. I’ve never seen anyone prouder of their child than he was of her. The way he spoke about her with such passion and pride stuck with me.
Looking back, I think his devotion to his daughter influenced how I am with mine. If you ask me about Kaila, be prepared—I’ll talk for hours about her and her accomplishments. Just like Bill, I can’t help but share the stories.
Edited for clarity and grammar using AI- Randy