He called me “Kid.”

Imagine that. At 62 years of age, someone still called me “Kid.” Of course, I called him “Dad.” And with affection.

In fact, Joseph Leo O’Keefe was old enough to be my father, but you’d never have believed that if you’d known him.

Then again, you probably did know him. If you had been in Maggie Valley for longer than 48 hours in your life, you knew him simply, as “Joey.”

More than likely, you stood in a line at his Maggie Valley restaurant one day to sample those marvelous blueberry pancakes, or his eggs benedict, corned beef hash, bagels and cream cheese, vegetable omelets, potato and cheese casserole, or one of a hundred other unique items on the menu, many of which could not be found anywhere else in the mountains. And when you approached the cash register, you were greeted by a distinguished fellow with snow white hair and an unmistakable Irish smile that you would never forget, happily taking your money and asking if everything was right. Because, if everything was not right, it was changed. There was no such thing as an unpampered customer.

Though small in stature, Joey was a giant of a man, who, along with his devoted wife Brenda, brought more business to Maggie Valley over the last 36 years than any motel special, bike week, country music concert or clogger show put together. That’s because Joey’s Pancake House is not just a restaurant, it is a tourist attraction, and arguably the most successful privately owned business in all of Haywood County.

And with good reason.

Besides a varied menu and great food, state inspectors consistently rate Joey’s among the highest in cleanliness and sanitation. There is no such thing as an empty cup, as servers are hired to do nothing else but pour coffee. There are never less than two hostesses helping to seat you. You’ll never hear one dish clang into a bus tray, and you’ll not see a server with a metal stud through her tongue. Customers have never complained of secondary smoke, because there is none.

Joey and Brenda O’Keefe have known only one way to run a business. The right way.

Amazingly, the Joey breakfast system has drawn as many as 1,000 customers a day, some waiting up to 40 minutes for a table. It is a common sight to see long lines forming out the door on weekends.

With more than 40 employees on staff, the business is a well-oiled machine designed to be customer friendly, one which other businesses would do well to model after. Some employees have remained with Joey and Brenda for two and three decades. To Joey, and to Brenda, they are family.

Somewhere along the line, I must have haunted Joey in my early years, and Brenda too, for we came from the same South Florida environment. In the early ‘60s, Joey had been the resident manager of the world famous Fountainbleu Hotel, which I often frequented to impress a first date, sputtering up to valet parking in my broken-down jalopy, then tipping a quarter. Fortunately, Joey didn’t remember that.

In 1966, Joey and Brenda saw the writing on the wall — stress, density, crime, burgeoning populations — and figured there was a better life to be had in the tranquility of the Smoky Mountains. He was her Knight, she his “Princess.” That year, they married in a small church in Maggie Valley, bought property where an old Howard Johnson’s stood, remodeled, and opened a full-meal restaurant. They served breakfast, lunch and dinner and were open 14 hours a day. They never looked back. When the mortgages were paid, it was time to relax and enjoy, so they converted it into a breakfast house only, open but five hours a day.

Joey died on Nov. 29, ostensibly a healthy man. Complications developed after a routine procedure to remove a small mass from his intestines. The mass began bleeding, and it went down hill from there. His age, a month from his 84th birthday, didn’t help.

Such a wise owl. I shame myself that I did not glean more from his 83 years of wisdom. So often in early mornings, I’ve occupied the rear booth of Joey’s, reading the paper and chatting with him and Brenda, or Jackie, Lorraine, Lilly, Wally, Kathy ... or one of the Russian or Bulgarian workers they employ in summers. But I never tapped into that wonderfully organized mind, the one who always knew how to do everything the right way.

He was a unique man, one to be remembered. I’ll surely miss hearing that last person on planet earth who still called me “Kid.”

Good night, “Dad.”

(Marshall Frank is a retired Metro Dade law enforcement officer and a novelist who lives in Maggie Valley. He can be reached at mlf283@aol.com)

 

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The Smoky Mountain News