Few restaurant chains have kept a lower public profile than In-N-Out. Despite tragedy and high drama within the family that runs it, the iconic burger chain has remained a model of prudence and reserve, seldom taking a position on politics or social issues, much less ones that might alienate its hardcore following.
But now the all-company-run operation is wading into a polarizing political controversy that seems as unthinkable for the brand as adding a sushi LTO. Its refusal to police the COVID vaccination mandates of two Northern California jurisdictions has drawn the sort of harsh spotlight In-N-Out has shunned for 73 years.
“We refuse to become the vaccination police for any government,” the chain said in a statement to the media. “It is unreasonable, invasive, and unsafe to force our restaurant associates to segregate customers into those who may be served and those who may not.”
More showdowns are likely as an inoculation requirement goes into effect in Los Angeles, a key market for the native California brand.
It remains to be seen if refusing to check customers’ proof of inoculation, to the point of having a unit shut down by health authorities, will tarnish the chain’s sterling image. In past instances of restaurant brands staking out a controversial political or social position, the public balked short-term but proved to have short memories. Virtually all of them are still thriving.
Here’s a sampling.
‘You’re gay? You’re fired!’
Two years ago, the current management of Cracker Barrel Old Country Store turned down a group booking from a preacher who was openly hostile to non-heterosexuals, whom he characterized as “freaks” and “animals,” according to the website LGBTQ Nation.
“We have a zero-tolerance policy for discriminatory treatment or harassment of any sort,” Cracker Barrel said in a 2019 statement.
It was a complete 180 from the chain’s official stance of three decades earlier, when a prior regime had alerted unit managers that they could fire crew members on the basis of their sexual orientation. At least nine workers were indeed let go because of their homosexuality, according to news reports at the time, and the dismissals ignited a national firestorm of protest.
Cracker Barrel promptly poured gasoline on the blaze by noting that the dismissals were legal (as firings of gays were in all but two states at the time) and consistent with the brand’s embodiment of “traditional American values.” Its public statements stopped just short of what founder Dan Evins said publicly at a financial conference: “Those people” don’t eat in Cracker Barrel restaurants.
Evins never backed away from his ultra-conservative and bigoted assertions, though his company clearly corrected its thinking. The brand remains one of the outstanding successes in family dining, with 2020 systemwide sales of $1.77 billion.
Comments in a league of their own
Three years ago, Papa John Schnatter was pushed out of his namesake pizza chain for doubting the impropriety of using the N-word as a label for Black people, a thought he shared during a corporate meeting. But by that time, he’d already plunged Papa John’s into a political and racial crisis by blaming the chain’s sales problems on the Black NFL players who took a knee during pregame airings of the national anthem.
Papa John’s was the official pizza brand of the NFL. In Schnatter’s reasoning, that affiliation had hurt the brand because football fans were turning off their TVs when they saw players kneeling to protest minorities’ mistreatment by law enforcement. Fewer viewers meant fewer people watching Papa John’s commercials, which in his mind translated into fewer pizzas being ordered for delivery.
Ironically, airing that theory made its assumed effects a reality: Papa John’s sales dropped like a rock.
Then came confirmation of Schnatter’s use of a racial slur.
Trouble snowballed from there. Schnatter lost his CEO’s title for the football remark. He was pushed out as chairman for voicing the racial obscenity.
Instead of going peacefully, he turned on his handpicked successor and lobbed criticism after criticism at the headquarters team the founder had left behind. He didn’t miss an opportunity to voice his indignation over how he was treated and how his successors managed the brand.
The sales trends reversed sharply after the chain hired Rob Lynch, then president of Arby’s, as its CEO and rescuer. Papa John’s became one of the most amazing growth stories of the pandemic.
No separation between church and chicken
The example often cited as proof that restaurants and politics shouldn’t mix is Chick-fil-A’s acknowledgement that its management opposed gay marriage. Confirmation of that stance by CEO Dan Cathy has cost the chain development opportunities at colleges and other so-called noncommercial operations, even in recent weeks.
What’s forgotten is an earlier and lower-volume controversy sparked by the chain’s support of an unusual industry event. For several years, Chick-fil-A pushed successfully to convene a prayer breakfast—a Christian one, not a nondenominational gathering—at the National Restaurant Association’s big convention in Chicago.
The event eventually morphed into more of a generic celebration of religious faith, without any focus on a particular creed or church. Persons from the industry were invited to share their stories about the comfort their faith provided during times of personal crisis.
Chick-fil-A, meanwhile, has been one of the standout successes of the past 10 years. With its systemwide sales estimated by Technomic at $13.75 billion, it’s now the nation’s third largest restaurant chain.