In-N-Out Burger (26 page)

According to Kahles, the two often talked about the fast-food industry. Kahles had soured on the parent corporation of his franchises and later sold his interests in them. “‘Don't go with a large
corporation,' she advised. She always told me, ‘Do it yourself and do it right, believe in the Lord and everyone will be happy.'”

When Kahles asked about expanding In-N-Out nationally and even approached her about taking the concept to Germany, Esther demurred, telling him that she wanted the company to grow, but slowly—first in California, then in Nevada, and then the surrounding states. “She never wanted the business to explode but to grow naturally by demand,” he recalled. “If the customers and associates were happy and coming back, that was how they grew the business.”

 

Esther was aware that the company was expanding further, and it was a concern. She told her nephew Joe Stannard that she thought the chain's growth might be moving too fast and that In-N-Out's quality and service might suffer. There seemed to be other voices that had a few ideas about how far and how fast the chain could go. As emphatic as Esther was about keeping In-N-Out independent and family-owned, she was also pragmatic; she wouldn't be around forever. For several years, friends and observers had noted a subtle sense of anxiety in her when it came to issues surrounding the chain's future.

It was Esther's intention that Lynsi eventually take over the business if she so desired. A strong advocate for education, while Esther wanted Lynsi to run In-N-Out, she also hoped that her granddaughter would get a college education first.

 

In-N-Out heiress Lynsi Snyder was born into a world of wealth and privilege. The only surviving direct descendant of Harry and Esther Snyder, the future of the entire hamburger empire was dropped onto her slim shoulders. Lynsi had her grandmother's round, wide face and brown, almond-shaped eyes. The only natural grandchild, she was Esther's pride and joy.

When Lynsi was born, her two older half-sisters, Terri and Traci Perkins, were already in their teens. Theirs was a knotty set of family ties with overlapping bloodlines and bank accounts. In line to inherit
hundreds of millions of dollars, the family's money was tied up in In-N-Out Burger, and Lynsi was the one and only access point to it.

While living in Glendora, she was said to have chafed at the taunts of the other schoolchildren, who teased her after finding out about her connection to In-N-Out Burger. They called her the “Burger Princess.” As someone who knew her at the time explained, “she didn't really enjoy being the brunt of jokes. When they found out who she was, the kids would prejudge her before she made friends.”

By the time that Lynsi was about twelve years old, the teasing stopped. The family had been living in Shingletown on the Flying Dutchman Ranch. It was a small town with a population of just over two thousand people. There Guy and Lynda built a private, nondenominational Christian school for their daughter. It was actually more of an elaborate home school; the Snyders bought a house and property in the area and filled the house with desks, computers, books, and perhaps ten local students. They hired a teacher and devised a curriculum based on Christian principles. The school remained in operation until Lynsi graduated from high school.

Easygoing, but with a sharp sense of humor, Lynsi was said to crave attention and liked talking about her ideas and thoughts. She was also creative and had an artistic side. Like her father, she got the drag racing bug early; strong willed, she also shared her father's stubborn streak and his passion. Lynsi grew up sheltered and out of the public eye.

Despite his own considerable problems, Guy was quite clear when it came to his hopes for his daughter's future. According to friends, he wanted Lynsi to learn the business from the ground up like he and his brother had before taking it over someday, but not until she was “mature and had sufficient experience to successfully manage the company.” He was said to have concerns about his daughter becoming spoiled as a result of the immense fortune she was born into. As one intimate put it, “She never went without anything.” Like his mother, Guy wanted Lynsi to go to college. He wanted her to make a success of her inheritance. Presumably, that is why the family trusts were structured so that Lynsi would not obtain enough stock to control In-N-Out until she reached her thirtieth birthday.

Like many teenagers, Lynsi liked to dance, work out, and go to rock concerts. She had a part-time job, too—for a time, Lynsi worked at the In-N-Out Burger in Redding. Unlike most teens, however, she married right after high school, at the age of eighteen. Lynsi's husband was a local boy named Jeremiah Seawell, who was not much older. The couple had met about four years earlier on a snowboarding trip. Seawell was said to have been besotted with Lynsi; before he died, Guy told friends that he thought the boy followed Lynsi around like a “puppy dog.”

The wedding took place in the summer of 2000. It was a young girl's idea of a fairytale. The ceremony was in a Pasadena church; the reception for two hundred guests was held at a nearby mansion. There was a horse-drawn carriage; butterflies and doves were released into the sky while overhead a skywriting plane spelled out “I Love You.”

There were several rumored reasons for the young wedding. In one version of the tale, it was the classic escape from a conservative upbringing. Although Guy was said to have opposed the nuptials on that grounds that Lynsi was too young, in another version, it was his ex-wife Lynda who pushed it forward.

After Lynda and Guy's divorce, Lynda maintained what several insiders described as a very strong interest in the affairs of the Snyders and In-N-Out Burger. In fact, it was Lynda who telephoned Esther to inform her that Guy had died. At the time, Lynda was said to have become deeply involved in the Successful Christian Living International Association of Ministers and Churches based in Redding, California. The church's founder Steven A. Radich, a self-proclaimed “Apostle,” described himself as “called by God while still in his mother's womb, to bring an end-times message of healing and transformation for all the nations.” Its mission was to “fight the good fight of faith, engag[e] in spiritual warfare against the five enemies of the faith.” In addition to what it called “mere rationalistic Christian teaching,” the church advocated a more confrontational “high touch” approach that included “personal salvation and personal deliverance from demonic influence.” By most accounts, Lynsi was heavily influenced by her mother. Another theory emerged concern
ing the young marriage; it was Lynda's bid to keep a hand on the In-N-Out wealth. While Lynsi was the sole beneficiary of the Snyder family trusts, in the event that she died without leaving any living descendants (and without exercising her testamentary general power of appointment), all assets of trusts—including all of the shares of In-N-Out stock that had not been previously distributed to Lynsi—would be transferred to the living siblings of Esther and Harry Snyder and their children. According to a stipulation of the trust, Lynsi's mother Lynda, her two half sisters, and any husband of hers would receive absolutely nothing.

At Lynsi and Jeremiah's wedding reception, the bride's lengthiest dance was with her mother. Perhaps it was a sign; the marriage did not last long. Within two years the couple separated and quietly divorced.

In 2005, Lynsi married Richard Martinez in a small ceremony in San Diego. Martinez worked for In-N-Out dealing with the chain's cookout trailers, and the two were introduced when they were partnered to learn and perform dance routines at the annual In-N-Out associates' picnic. The couple later moved into a custom-built $1.21 million four-bedroom house on Valiant Street
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in a McMansion-filled cul-de-sac in Glendora. Fronted by perfectly manicured lawns and flanked by nine graceful palm trees, the cream-colored house with a gray slate tile roof and paned windows was situated among the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The house, just minutes away from Esther's, had a swimming pool and spa, a detached guesthouse, and a three-car garage.

Soon, the couple were said to have become deeply involved in the Successful Christian Living Church. They were said to hold prayer-and church-based counseling sessions in their home for groups of twenty to thirty church members. Before long, according to intimates, Lynsi's new husband, Richard Martinez, became a minister.

With her father gone, expectations were that Lynsi would learn the In-N-Out ropes like Guy and Rich had done, in anticipation of
her considerable inheritance. She spent some time working in different departments, rotating between human resources and the meat department, and Lynsi was made merchandise manager of the Company Store. She helped design T-shirts and catalogs and created items for the managers' promotional trips. It was a full-time job, but Lynsi worked when she wanted to, as one former colleague and intimate put it, “probably because she knew she didn't have to. She was dedicated and responsible, but on her own terms. If there was a meeting, she'd show up; if there were no meetings, she didn't.”

Like many heirs, Lynsi's inheritance was a mixed blessing. As the intimate explained, “She seemed overwhelmed with the responsibility, but looking forward to taking it over and making the adjustment.” At the same time, she displayed a certain ambivalence about her future. “I think most of us choose what we want to do,” said the intimate. “This is what she was born into. It was a role she had to accept. I don't know if she wanted it.”

Everyday life at In-N-Out Burger continued. By 2000, the chain had grown to 142 stores, while revenue had climbed to an estimated $220 million. The numbers, however, were only a small part of In-N-Out's story. For some time—actually quite some time—the chain had moved well beyond its humble beginnings as a burger joint. Without dispute, In-N-Out was now elevated to cult status.

In June 2000, the thousands of spectators who had descended upon Pomona for the legendary So-Cal Speed Shop's annual hot rod open nearly went ballistic; So-Cal had missed the six-to nine-month advance deadline to order one of In-N-Out's cookout trailers. “All we got were complaints,” moaned Tony Thacker, who was So-Cal's marketing director at the time. “There were five thousand people, many who came from Australia, Japan, and Europe, and for all of them, In-N-Out is part of the whole experience.” Thacker, who later became director of the National Hot Rod Association Museum, exclaimed “We almost had a riot on our hands.”

In-N-Out was not just a place where people wanted to eat—it was a company where people wanted to work. When in 2002 In-N-Out opened a new drive-through in the coastal town of Oxnard (a forty-minute drive south of Santa Barbara), there were nine hundred applicants for seventy positions.

 

For the rest of the fast-food industry, however, the turn of the millennium left a bad taste. A great paradox was unfolding. The fast-food hamburger was more popular than ever. Fast-food sales in the United States, well on their way to approaching $150 billion, certainly attested to that. In the century since the hamburger had first been served at the St. Louis World's Fair in 1904, it had gone from the food of the poor to America's national meal. However, it was also the most vilified food in the world—McDonald's, which was at one time considered such an American icon that in 1971 Norman Rockwell illustrated its annual report, now represented for many the nation's darkest impulses. Anti-globalization protesters attacked golden arches all over the world as an emblem for American imperialism. At home, the industry's reputation didn't fare much better. In 2002, fast food ranked dead last on the University of Michigan's American Customer Satisfaction Index—lower than even the Internal Revenue Service.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise, then, that during this time the perceived all-encompassing evils of the industry on society and humanity were cataloged in a pair of media sensations. First, Eric Schlosser's best-selling
Fast Food Nation
was published in 2001. Three years later, Morgan Spurlock released his documentary
Super Size Me
. In the film, Spurlock eats only McDonald's during a thirty-day period and chronicles a litany of physical (heart palpitations, weight gain, high blood pressure) and psychological effects that wreak havoc on his body as a result. Schlosser's book rattled the country; Spurlock's film, which earned an Academy Award nomination, repulsed it. Both sent a chill down the spine of fast-food executives everywhere. Outbreaks of
E. coli
bacteria and mad cow disease as well as connections to obesity further eroded fast food's standing in the public imagination.

The industry was battered. In January 2003, McDonald's posted its first ever quarterly loss—$343.8 million—since it went public in
1965.
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As the chain grew to more than thirty thousand stores spanning the globe, service and quality had slipped. The fast-food giant, which constantly churned out new products in an effort to goose sales, hadn't produced a blockbuster since introducing Chicken McNuggets in 1983. It appeared that McDonald's was running out of steam. In April 2003,
Fortune
asked “Can McDonald's Cook Again?”

McDonald's wasn't alone. The industry that had experienced ceaseless growth for decades was in a ditch. Its reputation was badly tarnished. Health woes, market saturation, dirty restaurants, and surly service led customers to abandon fast food in droves. At the same time, the idea of eating fresh, local, and additive-free food was gaining currency. A new market segment called “fast casual” that offered upscale sandwiches began siphoning off consumers from fast-food restaurants. Over the next few years, the big chains aggressively attempted to combat their image as junk food peddlers and boost sales.

At McDonald's, newly installed CEO Jim Cantalupo oversaw the company's comeback strategy, aptly named the “Plan to Win.” Over the next several years, the world's largest restaurant company rolled out a slew of new initiatives to boost profits and attract a new breed of customers. New tactics included opening fewer stores and improving service, extending hours of operation, and emphasizing breakfast. In 2002, McDonald's established its “Dollar Menu.” The value-priced Big Macs and Yogurt Parfaits helped to fuel a 33 percent sales spike over the next three years.

In a truly bold move, McDonald's poached four-star chef Dan Coudreaut from the Four Seasons Hotel to help revamp its menu. The company had launched a series of lighter and healthy menu options, too. The fast-food giant sold premium coffee and chicken wraps at home while pushing even further into foreign markets. In 2004, the company announced a complete store redesign to encompass its res
taurants worldwide: out with the plastic seats and in with the clean, modern lines, muted colors, brick and wood, modern light fixtures, comfortable armchairs, sofas, and wi-fi connections.

While the burger barons went back to their test kitchens, turned to focus groups, and undercut each other on price, In-N-Out remained the same and continued to grow. In 2003, sales reached an estimated $302 million, up 9.8 percent from the previous year. Even with the turmoil within the industry and an unenthusiastic IPO market, industry watchers still placed their bets on In-N-Out, believing that the chain had the ability to raise a great deal of capital if it decided to go public.

In-N-Out was not, however, totally insulated from the problems plaguing the industry. In May 2003, the company quietly settled a lawsuit filed by the family of a Palo Alto girl who claimed she contracted
E. coli
after eating at In-N-Out's Kettleman City store off the I-5 between Los Angeles and San Francisco. The incident seemed to be an aberration on an otherwise spotless record.

The Kettleman City episode occurred the same year that the editors of a Los Angeles–based monthly online magazine,
Vegetarians In Paradise
, staged a protest against In-N-Out's “Food for Thought,” program. Esther remained a booster of reading, and the literacy program, in conjunction with public libraries, gave students hamburger coupons and Achievement Award certificates in exchange for having read five books. In February, editors Zel and Reuben Allen launched a letter-writing campaign—“Say No to In-N-Out Burger”—targeting 126 libraries in those states where In-N-Out operated.

The Allens' remonstration was not the rousing success that the vegetarian activists had hoped it would be. In their April 2, 2003, newsletter, the pair reported that their earnest protest was “greeted with a giant wave of indifference.” Among the few responses that
Vegetarians In Paradise
did receive was one from Brian Lewis, the county librarian for Tulare County in California, who described the illiteracy rate among Tulare adults as more of a problem than the eating habits of its youth. “Becoming literate may help our youth learn about healthy eating,” he wrote. Lewis and the head librarian for the
city of Oxnard pointed out the secret menu to the Allens, explaining that In-N-Out would make a vegetarian or even a vegan version of their hamburgers upon request.

 

And yet in the midst of what many had predicted might augur the collapse of fast food and with it the end of the hamburger's exalted place as part of America's culinary heritage, the game changed once again. It happened during the hamburger's darkest hour and at the hands of a foreign national. In 2001, nearly six months after the publication of
Fast Food Nation
, Michelin-starred chef and New York restaurateur Daniel Boulud introduced what came to be known as the gourmet burger. Asked to comment on the protests against McDonald's in his native France (which raged in spite of McDonald's huge success there), Boulud told the
New York Times
: “The French are jealous…they wish they could have invented McDonald's.” Soon after, Boulud invented the twenty-nine-dollar DB Bistro Burger at his newly opened DB Bistro Moderne on West Forty-fourth Street.

Made with ground sirloin stuffed with tender red wine braised short ribs, foie gras, a mirepoix of root vegetables, and preserved black truffle, the burger was served on a homemade toasted parmesan and poppy seed bun spread with a touch of fresh horseradish, oven-roasted tomato confit, fresh tomato, red onions, and frisée lettuce. Boulud's hamburger quickly became the most talked-about dish of the year. The
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
called Boulud's entry the “debut of the gourmet hamburger.” In 2003, Boulud added shaved black truffles to the DB Burger and introduced the sixty-nine-dollar “Royale.”
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Soon thereafter, chefs all over the country introduced their own versions of the gourmet burger. The Old Homestead, reputedly the oldest steakhouse in Manhattan, introduced its twenty-ounce, one-hundred-dollar Tri-Burger made from Japanese, American, and Argentinean beef at its Boca Raton location. In Minneapolis, Vincent
stuffed burgers with short ribs and smoked Gouda. Before long, rumors circulated about a restaurateur who was said to gild his burger buns with twenty-three-karat gold leaf.

The organic movement's mantra of fresh, local, and seasonal ingredients was being applied to that most prosaic American dish: the hamburger. New burger places began sprouting up touting quality ingredients and custom orders. Places like Father's Office in Los Angeles and the Shake Shack and Five Guys in New York catered to boomers and others with sophisticated palates and well-padded wallets. They seemed to trade on a growing number of foodie movements while tracing their lineage back to the postwar American food revolution that spread fast food across the country. They were often described as a kind of aspirational In-N-Out Burger. It wasn't long before the big chains introduced their own versions of gourmet burgers. And the French came to embrace the hamburger too; all over Paris, Michelin-starred chefs translated the hamburger into their own gastronomy.

Sitting in DB Moderne, where he had made burger history, Boulud waxed philosophical about the vaunted burger's reputation. “The strange thing about burgers is they are so plain and bland and yet so good,” he said. Boulud, who recalled his first burger as a fourteen-year-old boy in Lyon, said that he was not the least surprised that a burger could inspire a cult. “People care about burgers, and they will drive miles for the right burger. They talk about burgers like fanatics.” According to Boulud, DB Moderne sold about one thousand of his burgers each week. “We have customers flying out on private jets to order the DB Burger.”

Several years ago, a friend took Boulud to an In-N-Out in Los Angeles. He was impressed. “They weren't too big, and I like that I can hold them in one hand,” he explained. “Americans understand that people live in their cars; as long as you can drive and hold a meal in your hand, you will be a success.” In-N-Out, he said, inspired him. “People like me are always looking for the icon of perfection, but the success benchmark doesn't necessarily have to be the Four Seasons Hotel. It doesn't matter. There will always be successful companies
that have kept their vision of quality. In-N-Out is not about size. What they have done sends a message that they are concerned about the product.” He joked, “Maybe I should do a trade and switch with In-N-Out—I might learn something.”

 

Daniel Boulud wasn't the only gourmet talking up In-N-Out Burger; in a world in which Michelin chefs were flipping foie gras–stuffed hamburgers, In-N-Out stood in a class all by itself. Ruth Reichl, the former restaurant critic of the
New York Times
(who at one time lived in Los Angeles), told the
Times
that In-N-Out was “a great California institution.” It was, she noted, a point of pride.

The influence of the little Baldwin Park burger joint had spread far and wide. To say that Michelin-starred chef Thomas Keller was an In-N-Out fan is an understatement. “I probably have thousands worth of gift cards, hats and pins and T-shirts,” proclaimed the man whose gourmet restaurants—The French Laundry in Yountville, California, and Per Se in Manhattan—have earned him the sobriquet of America's best chef by nearly every respectable gourmet. “People are always giving me In-N-Out things. They know how much I like it.” Almost fifteen years after he was introduced to In-N-Out, Keller could still recall his first visit to the little burger chain. It was the summer of 1991, and his friend David Lieberman, a Los Angeles–based artist's representative and wine aficionado, made the introduction. “I had told him that I was a fan of hamburgers, and he said, ‘I have to take you to In-N-Out. You have to try it.'” The pair went to the West Los Angeles location on Venice Boulevard and made a meal of cheeseburgers and a bottle of Ridge Lytton Springs Zinfandel. It became a routine; when Keller was in Los Angeles, the two friends would pick a bottle of wine and hit an In-N-Out.

Like Boulud, Keller—whose innovative, intensely flavored menus have been likened to the pleasure of eating food with a “sprinkling of magic dust”—is both inspired and dazzled by In-N-Out. “It amazes me that the company has stayed focused,” he explained. “And sure, it's a hamburger place, but while the other chains continue to evolve,
it's become part of a trend. The others are always looking for the next trend.” Although In-N-Out's most expensive item is its $2.75 Double-Double whereas French Laundry serves a $240 prix fixe menu, Keller insisted that the two establishments were more similar than not. “If you think about cooking, you'll find at In-N-Out or French Laundry, it's about product and execution that's consistent. The quality of a restaurant goes back to the quality of the product and its execution.”