Lord of the Barflies
But the biggest beneficiaries of Hornik’s liquor sales are the mostly working-class employees he seems to hold in higher esteem than anyone. “I would say that when one grows up in a harsher environment, part of his or her moral compass is more regularly tested” is his long-winded explanation for why the TCB guys totally rule. “And it’s safe to say that I grew up in a pretty privileged environment.” So Hornik shares, loans money, gives money away without ever expecting to get it back. When I called Ralph Darden, a Chicago music publicist who used to deejay in some of Hornik’s bars, he remembered: “Damn, I still owe Avram a couple hundred dollars.” Hornik had rescued Darden’s booted car from a tow yard on his last trip to town. “The employees — they’re really the true owners,” says Hornik (though this is not technically true; Hornik is the sole owner of Four Corners).
Hornik’s employees are too loyal to speak much about their loyalty, or whether they’ve ever wondered why their Jewish Main Line boss so reveres his working-class, Lent-observing staff. But however the bond between boss and staff cemented, bar-goers notice. “That’s why I come here,” grins Ramon, a baby-faced 22-year-old from South Philly, as he swirls a too-strong screwdriver (his sixth today) four hours before kickoff at the Super Bowl Drunken Monkey. “The people who work here are really nice, really humble. Not some patrician-ass society types.”
In 2002, Hornik’s share-the-wealth philosophy landed him in a prolonged legal battle with the folks who were by law the “true owners” of Lucy’s Hat Shop, five private citizens who’d invested a total of $55,000 in Hornik’s bar idea in 1997. Hornik, they alleged, had understated revenues by more than $1 million, and used the unreported funds to open Drinker’s, SoMa, and the now-closed Proto Lounge. Their allegations were backed by the deposition of one accountant who said that upon his initial inspection, a Lucy’s “money guy” named Raphael Saler (who was later convicted on a drug charge) had told him the place was grossing $3 million to $4 million a year — when Hornik’s claim was that the bar was only grossing around $1.5 million a year.
Examining the receipts, accountants estimated the place should have grossed at least $2 million a year; in one memo, Hornik disputed that by arguing that his shots were bigger than their estimates, and that he comped more drinks than they had estimated. The truth seemed to lie somewhere in the middle. Shareholders also took offense to expenses like 50 airline tickets for the Disney World trip, and eight tickets to Madrid for “researching new themes,” and what they believed to be loans to and liquor for all his other restaurants. An accountant compared the point-of-sale reports with bank account deposits and found many inconsistencies, but one constant: regular loans and cash advances to employees. The suit was eventually settled, and the implication was clear: Hornik had been treating the bars not so much as a business but as an egalitarian drinking collective, a sort of general fund for his ever-loyal employees.
