Stu Bykofsky: Bain's at 100 - a slice of the American Dream
IT WAS the midpoint in the era when teeming masses, yearning to breathe free, arrived on our shores - and were on their own to find their way in a new land.
IT WAS the midpoint in the era when teeming masses, yearning to breathe free, arrived on our shores - and were on their own to find their way in a new land.
Jacob and Rose Bain arrived from Romania in 1905, two of 12 million immigrants who arrived at and passed through Ellis Island. Papers in hand, they made their way to South Philadelphia, which had a sizable Jewish community.
Why South Philly? In a voice barely above a whisper, Jeff Jolles, 67, the Bains' great-grandson, says that they had some family there. That was the custom then - and now. Immigrants cluster on ground staked out by countrymen who have preceded them.
Jeff and I are talking in the Bellevue Food Court, near the bustling Bain's Deli counter. Sitting in is Jeff's 39-year-old son, Michael - handsome, tattooed and the fifth generation to serve deli to Philadelphia and beyond.
This is Bain's 100th year and an opportune time to ask how it all started - and why it still thrives when the graveyard is littered with the bones of so many restaurants that died young.
In the old country, Jacob was a barrel cooper. That valuable skill quickly landed him a job at Publicker Industries on the Delaware, not far from his home on South Orkney Street. Publicker made whiskey and whiskey needs barrels.
Like most immigrants, Jacob worked hard.
After five years, in 1910, he and Rose opened Bain's Deli, at 416 South St.
I ask Jeff how it was possible for a barrel maker to save enough in five years to open a store.
His face broadens into a wide smile as he reveals a family secret.
When used barrels returned to Publicker, Jacob was to steam them clean so that they could be reused. He steamed the barrels, but instead of letting the residue dribble down the drain, the crafty Romanian poured it into bottles and sold them in the neighborhood.
"Are you saying he was a South Philadelphia, Jewish bootlegger,?" I asked Jeff, who nodded.
It was the moonshine money that bankrolled the deli.
In America, the Bains found "freedom of movement, to keep their money, to not be persecuted," Jeff says.
While Bain's occasionally moved, the business never changed - why change value and quality? - and that single store sustained three generations of Bains, and Jolles, who married into the family.
When it was near time for him to take over, Jeff wasn't thrilled. He had bused tables at Bain's from the time he was 12; he had watched his father and grandfather bust their backs behind the counter making sandwiches.
Jeff enrolled at Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science, hoping to fly under the radar.
That worked until his grandfather retired at 65. "My father said, 'This is it,' " and Jeff reluctantly took his place behind the counter at Bain's, then at 8th and Chestnut.
"It was hard, grinding, making sandwiches 10-12 hours a day. Then I got a revelation," he says, tapping a finger on his temple. "The only way to get out was to get in deeper."
He opened a second Bain's in the new Gallery on Market Street in 1979. "I fell in love with opening new locations, watching them thrive," Jeff says. "I became an expert on that." The more stores he opened, the less time he was trapped behind the counter. "I was doing what I loved to do and doing very well."
Doing so well that by 1993 he had opened 100 stores - half owned and half franchises.
But that had an unexpected downside. The $40-million business required a huge management team that Jeff had to supervise.
So when Quizno's came knocking in 1997, Jeff sold out, retaining four stores for himself.
Even though he went from a $40 million gross to $4 million in his stores - now nine with a 10th to open soon in Camden - Jeff has no regrets about selling out because "malls weren't profitable any more." He's now in his "new niche," food courts, selling equal amounts - 1,600 pounds - of turkey and corned beef each week.
Although Jeff had developed a new business paradigm, he followed the generations' old practice to find a successor: He turned to his son.
It was a "natural progression" for him, says Michael, who ran some clubs in New York in his 20s, but came back.
"I was meant to do this," Michael says. "I love it."
In corned-beef heaven, his great-great grandparents, Jacob and Rose, must be smiling.
E-mail stubyko@phillynews.com or call 215-854-5977. For recent columns: