Innovation Ecosystem/Opinion
‘Did you eighty-six the refried beans?’
There was no place to hide, no escape from the harsh glare of fluorescent lights; one morning in early September of 1975, the head cook pulled a black revolver out of a crumpled, brown paper bag, jammed it up against the temple of the broiler cook, and pulled the trigger…
Photo courtesy of Richard Asinof
A blurry portrait of a young man as a cook in the basement kitchen at Rocky Raccoon's Saloon in 1975 in Washington, D.C.
By Richard Asinof
Posted 8/17/26
Making good decisions requires a willingness to embrace a life where you know the difference between right and wrong, as well as having the courage to walk away from corruption, no matter how much someone is willing to pay you.
What is the most important question to ask of yourself and your friends when you realize that you may be dying? What conversation needs to be begun before you can begin to write your life’s story? Did you ever have a boss who reminded you either of Donald Trump or Vernon Dursley? Is there a landscape you encountered in your real life adventures that was first experienced as a dreamscape? What is the most intimate experience you have shared with someone that involved a moment of serendipity? How can we learn to be open enough to accept criticism about mistakes we have made?
In 1982, in Cambridge, when I was working as a reporter on a story for the National Law Journal, I was rudely thrown out of Alan D.’s law offices because he apparently disliked what I was saying. In retrospect, I always considered it was a badge of honor to boorish behavior.
In 1974, at an alternative journalism conference in New York City, I witnessed Woody A. purposely reach out and grab the breasts of a well-endowed young woman, pretending that he was loosing his balance. I have always regretted that I did not call him out about his boorish behavior when it happened.
In 1997, after having a co-worker excoriate me publicly in the workplace for not returning his phone call during the weekend, I simply responded by shouting at him: “Allan, go fuck yourself, please!”
In 1974, at an alternative journalism conference in New York City, I witnessed Woody A. purposely reach out and grab the breasts of a well-endowed young woman, pretending that he was loosing his balance. I have always regretted that I did not call him out about his boorish behavior when it happened.
In 1997, after having a co-worker excoriate me publicly in the workplace for not returning his phone call during the weekend, I simply responded by shouting at him: “Allan, go fuck yourself, please!”
PART One
PROVIDENCE — Fifty-one years later, I still have nightmares about my time spent working as the sous chef in a Mexican restaurant with the hip name, “Rocky Raccoon’s Saloon,” in Washington, D.C.
I was 23; I managed the lunch shift. In our soiled aprons and our white “c*nt” caps (that’s what they were called back then), we toiled in a rebuilt cinder-block basement kitchen, a brightly-lit dungeon where no natural light ever seemed to penetrate. I once likened it to George Orwell’s description of working as a “plongeur,” or dishwasher, in his essays on survival, “Down and Out in Paris and London.”
From top to bottom, it turned out, Rocky’s was apparently a big-time criminal enterprise. The restaurant, one of several run by a partnership of sons of bank executives, was allegedly financed with millions of dollars belonging to Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet, ill-gotten gains that were being held and then apparently washed by Riggs National Bank, according to FBI reports that were published years later by the mainstream news media, as I recall. I am pretty sure that it was not Seymour Hersh who broke that story.
The head of the construction crew who managed Rocky’s ongoing “rehab” assignment had previously worked running an assassination crew for the Phoenix operation in Vietnam, targeting and then eliminating Viet Cong “collaborators” at the direction of the CIA, a job he proudly bragged about. (Yes, he liked being called the “Big Boss Man”; no, he never said that his Phoenix victims were being “eighty-sixed.”)
Bought and paid for
A memorable moment: when the suit-and-tie from the city’s Board of Health inspected the kitchen to give Rocky’s its expedited clean bill of health — and its operating license — just in time for the grand opening party being held that evening, I had badly sliced open the back of my hand when it brushed up against the unsanded sharp metal edges underneath one of the kitchen counters. My blood poured profusely onto the kitchen floor. To try and save the day and keep from failing the health inspection, I quickly wrapped my hand in a white kitchen towel — but the health inspector didn’t appear to notice or to care.
Moments later, one of Rocky’s co-owners, a Riggs National Bank vice president’s son, with his unkempt blond hair falling onto his shoulders, proudly pointed out to the health inspector the newly installed fire alarm system. But instead of just pointing, the co-owner “accidentally” pushed the alarm on, flooding the entire kitchen with chemical foam up to everyone’s armpits, including the health inspector’s. “It works!” the vice-president’s son said, somewhat sheepishly.
For the next two hours, it was all hands on deck to vacuum up the foam — waiters, waitresses, the construction crew, and cooks. The “Big Boss Man” thought the scene was hilarious; he kept repeating the phrase, as a kind of mantra: “Bought and paid for!”
What it means to “eighty-six” something
Perhaps one of the reasons my memory had been jogged to recall my days as a sous chef were the recent efforts by the Trump administration to claim that the phrase, “8647,” written out in sea shells on a North Carolina beach, photographed and then posted to Instagram by former federal prosecutor James Comey, meant, in gangster lingo, a threat on the life to kill President Trump.
Hogwash. The origins of the phrase come from kitchen work — signifying the need to replace something on the menu, or, to “eighty-six” it. Having worked in kitchens in Seattle, Wash., Washington,D.C., and Northampton, Mass., I can testify that the actual meaning of the phrase is to eliminate an item from the menu.
Further, to put it, ah, delicately, having “brushed shoulders” with truckers on the loading docks in Kearny, N.J., with garment workers in Bayonne, N.J., with cops and prosecutors and bail bondsmen in Philadelphia, and with labor organizers, gang members and street enforcers in Newark, N.J., I can also testify that I have never ever heard anyone equate “eighty-six” with killing anyone.
Translated, attempts by the Trump administration to misappropriate the phrase “eighty-six” to mean to “murder” someone is utter bullshit.
The kitchen crew at Rocky’s
The night cook, the prep man, spent five nights a week preparing pounds and pounds of cooked beans, rice, and enchilada sauce in two big steam kettles. Vegetables — carrots, peppers, jalapeños, tomatoes, garlic, and onions — as well as cooked chicken and pork were sliced and diced in the Hobart, right next to the ice machine.
Waiters and barkeeps were always warned not to take food without first asking. They often ignored the warning. Which led to a waiter grabbing a handful of what he thought were green peppers — they were actually fresh jalapeños, which resulted in his writhing on the floor, crying out in great pain, as his throat seized up. Someone suggested he try squirting whipped cream down his throat, which he did, but to no avail. Everyone else laughed at his predicament.
The writhing waiter, however, didn’t think it was very funny. He apparently took his revenge, taking his own shit and mixing it into a batch of refried beans the next day, which led to the head cook asking the night cook: ‘Did you eighty-six the refried beans?’
The night cook was a former Green Beret, fluent in Vietnamese, who had been responsible for prisoner interrogation. When he spoke, it was in barely audible phrases, almost whispers. You had to lean forward to hear what he was saying.
The head cook, also a Vietnam vet, was addicted to speed. Every morning he would jab himself in the thigh with his daily dose of meth. He was wicked in the kitchen with knives. He drove a Dodge van that he claimed was outfitted with mortar shells in his front bumper to protect him from being jammed by another car, a product of his increasingly paranoid fantasies.
The dishwasher was Nigerian, married, with a wife and two children. He worked a second job as a cook at McDonald’s.
The expediter was a former hairdresser whose wife had died of breast cancer. The cook running the dinner shift called himself “big bad Bob”; he had been dismissed from the police force for police brutality. He drove a bright red Eldorado Cadillac.
The afternoon that the head cook pulled the revolver on the broiler cook and pulled the trigger — the pistol was empty and the head cook thought it was a joke — I quit, walking out with just two days’ notice.
I was 23 and my career as a journalist was floundering, big time. The alternative weekly newspaper that I had been hired to serve as an editor for in Washington, D.C., was stuck in the fundraising cycle, the launch kept getting delayed. I was running out of money; I couldn’t pay my rent. You can only be taken if you want to be taken.
I had freelanced stories for New Times Magazine (where Tony Schwartz of Trump’s “art of the deal” notoriety was my editor), with Rolling Stone (where Joe Klein, infamous for his anonymous novel “Primary Colors” was my editor), and with a short-lived reincarnation of Harper’s Weekly (where Al Robbins was my editor).
I left Washington, D.C., and returned to western Massachusetts, where I found myself renting an old Cape in the hill town of Buckland, where an old topographic map said I was living in Hog Hollow just down from Moonshine Ridge. There were no hobbits; one neighbor worked as a technician at the Yankee Rowe nuclear power plant. Another neighbor dealt weed. Bill Cosby lived the next town over in Shelburne. The children’s book author Norton Juster was a neighbor.
One more brief story about restaurants and strange occurrences. The partners in Rocky’s decided to throw a party for one of their own — Wayne, before Wayne’s world was a thing. Wayne arrived in a helicopter for his party, a black-tie affair. It had all the false glamour of a staged Trump affair. I had to wear a tux in order to attend. I was accompanied by a friend, Ellen, who wore a gown. In real life, she was an art desgner; she actually drew “Ranger Rick,” a beloved raccoon for a children’s nature magazine. Really and truly. Ranger Rick the raccoon is still going strong, having been created in 1967. Rocky Raccoon’s Saloon disappeared in less than six years.
Moral of the story: There are always choices in life to do the right thing, to stand up and to say no, and not to allow yourself to become suckered into living a corrupt way of life.
