A yearbook photo Hillcrest High School shows how popular Shakey’s was with the younger crowd.
Dear Vance: What happened to all the Shakey’s pizza parlors in Memphis? Did the Lauderdales ever dine there? — E.G., Germantown.
Dear E.G.: The Lauderdales not only dined there, but for a year, I worked at the Shakey’s located at Summer and Mendenhall. Mother and Father, you see, developed a curious notion that menial labor built character. What they didn’t realize, however, was that I didn’t consider this particular job “labor” at all; in fact, as a certified old man looking back at a lifetime of various employers, Shakey’s was the best — meaning, most fun — place I ever worked. The whole story of my employment there will be told in my forthcoming book, Bound for Glory: The Marvelous Saga of the Lauderdales in America, but I’ll give you a glimpse of my Shakey’s days here.
First of all, Shakey was a real person. The founder of the chain, which opened in Sacramento, California, in 1954, was Sherwood Johnson. He acquired his “Shakey” nickname because of a nervous disorder he developed while serving in the Navy, but that seems cruel to me, so I won’t go into it. His partner in the new venture was longtime friend Ed Plummer, and the two most expensive items on the menu were the “Shakey’s Special” (every ingredient we had) and the “Big Ed Special” (every ingredient except olives). Johnson and Plummer soon opened other stores along the West Coast, and then went nationwide. By the mid-1960s, they had expanded to 250 stores, and by the 1970s, Shakey’s had more than 500 locations across America.
Shakey’s served all the standard pizzas — cheese, sausage, pepperoni — but also offered such oddities as shrimp, oysters, and anchovies. Even though Coletta’s gets credit for inventing it, Shakey’s also served barbecue pizza. On Saturdays, diners could enjoy fried chicken, and for a few years, Shakey’s on Summer even operated an old-timey ice-cream parlor.
The buildings were distinctive, low-slung structures with an overhanging shingled roof and a huge neon sign announcing “Shakey’s Pizza Parlor and Ye Public House.” I wish I could share a photo of the exterior (or the sign), but I’ve never found a good one. The pictures you see here, all interiors, were culled from ads in local yearbooks, and an old matchbook cover.
Let’s look inside. Pulling open a heavy front door with a stained-glass panel, diners found themselves in a large, dark, low-ceilinged dining hall. Apparently, the designers of Shakey’s thought “Ye Public House” meant plenty of dark wood, rows of heavy wooden picnic-style tables, and long benches or heavy square stools. A log-burning fireplace was a nice touch, but if you were seeking an intimate dinner, or for that matter, comfortable chairs, Shakey’s was not for you.
It seemed to me, from the day I started, that Shakey’s had an identity problem. Quaint old painted signs and lots of paneling conveyed the “English pub” atmosphere, but most Shakey’s also included unique entertainment. Settled into a corner of the dining hall at the Shakey’s on Summer were a banjo player and pianist, who performed ragtime or “barbershop quartet” songs. When I worked there, the piano player was an elderly blind gentleman named Ray Martin, but I’ve forgotten the banjo fellow’s name. I wish I had a dollar, though, for everybody who has told me their father or grandfather played the banjo (or piano) at Shakey’s.
Shakey’s was a popular destination for high school baseball and football teams after games, and when it was packed it was an incredibly noisy place. While the musicians took breaks, we plugged in a loud jukebox, and on top of that din, we also played classic W.C. Fields films with a 16mm projector suspended from the ceiling. Some nights, with a rowdy crowd and people who had too much to drink dancing on the tables (it’s true), it was a sensory overload. Did I love it? Oh, you bet.
All the employees, including the musicians, wore red-and-white striped shirts, a black clip-on bow tie, and an old-style wide-brimmed “boater” hat made of Styrofoam. These hats clamped to your head with flimsy rubber bands, but they often dropped into the pizza when you leaned over. Being a Lauderdale, I wouldn’t put up with such nonsense. After my first week, I drove Downtown to A. Schwab and bought a real straw boater and wore that. In fact, I still have it.
Students from Westside High School show that the slogan on the old matchbook was true. This photo ran in the school’s 1970 yearbook. Recognize anybody?
Another part of the Shakey’s experience was the chance for customers to watch their pizzas being prepared. A row of windows separated the kitchen from the dining hall, and there I was, slapping pizza sauce on a “skin” (that’s what we called the circular dough), covering it with handfuls of mozzarella cheese, adding the toppings, and then sliding the raw pizza into a bank of massive gas-fired ovens. It was quite a production, especially when we pulled the steaming-hot pies from the ovens and used an 18-inch knife to chop them into slices. Working that heavy blade required skill, let me tell you. We weren’t as flashy as the chefs at Benihana, but we flipped that knife — more of a cleaver, really — with flair.
Some nights, I worked as a “beertender.” Drink choices were limited: colas, tea, coffee, and either Miller or Falstaff served in a heavy glass stein (35 cents) or goblet (65 cents). I still have one of those mugs as well; it’s on my desk now, filled with pens. We also served something that at the time — this was the early 1970s — everyone considered exotic: Löwenbräu beer (promoted as “dark German ale”) served in bottles. These cost a dollar.
Most nights, the place was a madhouse, but I loved the energy and excitement, and to this day, I believe I can still recite every line of those W.C. Fields movies. By closing time — midnight, I recall — the place was such a wreck that we often worked until 2 or 3 in the morning cleaning up and replenishing all the ingredients. We made our own sauce, blended and kneaded our own dough, even ground our own sausage — and then we’d just start all over again the next day.
When I worked there in the early 1970s, Memphis had only three Shakey’s: Summer at Mendenhall (which the managers told us — and we didn’t doubt it — was the busiest one east of the Mississippi), 1674 Poplar, and 1134 Brooks Road. A few years later, when the Mall of Memphis opened, a fourth Shakey’s opened at 2707 South Perkins to catch the shopping crowds.
They all seemed to shut down here around the same time. I wasn’t able (meaning: I didn’t bother) tracking down the exact date, but by the late 1980s, I believe Shakey’s had left Memphis. The Shakey’s on Poplar at Evergreen became home to Pierotti’s Pizza, but the building was later torn down for a Taco Bell. There is no trace today of the Brooks Road or South Perkins locations. And “my” Shakey’s at Summer and Mendenhall has for years been home to the Lampshade House. One time, I visited the place and told the owner I had toiled there when it had been Shakey’s. He went into a back storeroom and gave me an old beer pitcher that had survived all these years later. Nice fellow!
Shakey’s endured in other states for several more years, and even went international, opening branches in Japan, the Philippines, Mexico, and other parts of the globe. I believe there are fewer than 50 of the “Public Houses” today in the United States, all of them along the West Coast.
Shakey’s motto was “We serve fun … and also pizza.” They certainly did both, as far as I was concerned. I can still recall the names and faces of most of my co-workers. As you can tell, however, I never developed the “character” that Mother and Father intended. But who needs that? Surely, simply being a Lauderdale is enough.
Got a question for Vance?
Email: askvance@memphismagazine.com
Mail: Vance Lauderdale, Memphis Magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38101
Online: memphismagazine.com/ask-vance
