In-N-Out Burger

by Stacy Perman

  At the end of the evening, a giddy Rich pocketed his nametag, the evening’s menu, and even the table placard to keep as souvenirs—much to the amazement of his wife, who was already slightly embarrassed by the number of photographs he had taken during the dignitary processional on the White House lawn. Back home in California, Rich recorded his entire recollection of the evening and had his secretary type up the transcript. “So that in years to come,” he explained, “I won’t forget a single detail.”

  Following Rich and Christina’s wedding, the newlyweds moved into his $3.5 million waterfront home on Bayshores, one of the most exclusive enclaves on Newport Beach’s Lido Isle, frequently referred to as California’s Rivera. A narrow strip of land tethered to Newport Beach by a short bridge, Lido Isle was transformed into a residential playground during the 1920s by a millionaire developer by the name of W. K. Parkinson, who had made his fortune in oil.

  Rich, who had been living in Newport Beach when he met Christina, had begun the process of remodeling his house in anticipation of starting a family. The pair planned to name their firstborn son Harry. Christina suggested that they first get a dog as a kind of test run; Rich, however, wasn’t a dog lover, and he wasn’t immediately sold on his wife’s idea.

  Devoted to his mother, Esther, Rich also purchased a second home for her so that she could live close by. In an area of obvious wealth, Rich delighted his neighbors during their frequent block parties when he insisted on bringing an In-N-Out trailer and supplying all of the hamburgers. “He liked being happy,” said his friend and next door neighbor Bob Longpre, who owned a Lexus dealership in nearby Westminster. “With Rich, what you saw is what you got.” Described as a kind of wealthy everyman, Rich could be found in the local grocery store or working on his pride and joy—a twenty-one-foot custom Duffy Electric Boat Company boat christened Watts-A-Luck that was docked in front of his home. Duffy also manufactured electric boats for Walt Disney; Watts-A-Luck, outfitted with gold-plated parts, was reportedly one of the fanciest of its kind ever built.

  Not long after his wedding, Rich began strategizing for both his and In-N-Out’s future. With his personal life settled in Newport Beach, Rich decided to move In-N-Out’s corporate headquarters closer to his new home from its longtime seat in Baldwin Park to the city of Irvine. It was a bold move on his part; for one thing, it signaled a huge break in continuity. Moreover, Baldwin Park had unmistakably influenced the company and its culture. In-N-Out Burger had grown up in Baldwin Park, and Baldwin Park was considered by many to be the heart of the company. Irvine—in Orange County—was less than an hour’s drive and about forty-five miles away from Baldwin Park. In reality, however, the distance between the two cities was much greater.

  The Baldwin Park of the first In-N-Out had disappeared. The San Gabriel Valley had long since been bulldozed, divided, and finally subdivided into a tedious mosaic of mini-malls, vacant lots, and tract homes. The Arcadian image that had lured millions to the area remained largely on those postcards and citrus crate labels that once “advertised” the Valley’s scenic wonderland of oranges and sunshine. A working-class suburb whose rough edges had become increasingly part of the city’s center, it was facing many of the problems of Southern California’s postwar boom communities: increasing crime rates, gangs, shifting demographics, and an eroding manufacturing economic base.

  The last vestiges of Baldwin Park’s bucolic charm—such as the cast-iron smudge pots used to protect the orange groves from frost in the winter—belonged to history now. The dairy farms and chicken ranches were long gone. Even the famous Vias turkey ranch had moved to Apple Valley seventy-five miles away, where it was converted into an ostrich ranch.

  Affluent and manicured, Irvine was one of the nation’s largest planned communities, and it contrasted greatly with the blue-collar scruff of the city that Baldwin Park had become in the years since the Snyders had first arrived. During the 1960s, the Irvine Company, a developer of planned suburban cities, designed the entire city (incorporated in 1971) around the newly built campus of the University of California. Long before the Walt Disney Company developed the city of Celebration in Florida, every detail of residential and industrial Irvine was planned, right down to the construction of its bike lanes and man-made lakes. A post-post-boom city, Irvine’s two dozen townships, spread over fifty-five square miles, were each separated by six-lane streets. A quilt of commercial districts bordered the central villages, and the villages were placed sequentially along two parallel main streets that met at the university campus.

  In-N-Out Burger planned to take up residence on the top two floors of the ten-story University Tower on Campus Drive on the edge of the university’s grounds, leasing the remaining eight floors to other businesses. A modern glass box of a building, it had few of the charms of the Spanish-style headquarters that Rich had built some ten years earlier. (So as not to put off vendors and associates, Rich designed the ninth-floor reception area to resemble an In-N-Out walk-up window.) As one insider noted, the chain’s new executive offices looked like the set of the television series L.A. Law, which was popular at the time. Rich loved the building, and it signaled the beginning of a new chapter in In-N-Out’s history.

  Irvine’s mayor, Sally Anne Sheridan (who was also a real estate agent and former member of the city council), was thrilled that In-N-Out was setting up its new corporate headquarters in her city. “They called me to talk to me about moving the company down here and asked if the city would welcome them,” she remembered. “We reassured them that we would do everything to help. They were very good corporate friends. I was really impressed with the company.”

  News of the move came as something of a surprise to the residents of Baldwin Park. Word reached the community through real estate circles only a few months before the planned move, when escrow opened on the building. “A lot of us were surprised and disappointed,” recalled Bob Benbow. “In-N-Out had played an important part in the development of Baldwin Park, and it was a point of pride here.”

  Indeed, many felt that In-N-Out had put Baldwin Park on the map much in the same way that Disneyland had done for Anaheim (albeit on a much smaller scale). Certainly, the chain distinguished the city from the numerous postwar boom communities swallowed up in Southern California’s growing suburban sprawl, connected to other suburbs by the vast network of freeways. More than just a successful company, In-N-Out, as Bob Benbow explained, had been “an important symbol for Baldwin Park.” The two entities were intertwined. In economic terms, the chain contributed immeasurably to the city’s bottom line. In time, In-N-Out became one of Baldwin Park’s largest employers. It had also become one of the city’s top three taxpayers (slipping into fifth place only after Kaiser Permanente Medical Center moved to town).

  Although Baldwin Park had grown tremendously since its rural heyday, it still had something of a small town feel about it, especially among its longtime residents. There was much speculation about the transfer. In-N-Out had plucked the nondescript suburb from obscurity, injecting it with its corporate culture. Baldwin Park had become a kind of genial company town and the company was hamburgers.

  A number of explanations and theories concerning the move made the rounds. In one version, the transfer was prompted by Rich’s desire to raise a family in the more prosperous and comfortable Orange County. Another version of events held that Rich harbored a grudge against the city following the city council’s rejection of a proposal in 1990 to rename East Virginia Avenue “Hamburger Place” in honor of In-N-Out Burger. Actually, the opposition came mainly from the local businesses that were also located on East Virginia Avenue. Some 119 businesses (including a lumber firm and a sheet metal house) circulated a petition resisting the change; it received fifty signatures. As Brent Taylor, president of Award Metals Inc. (one of the largest sheet metal manufacturers in California), told the San Gabriel Valley Tribune: “A name like Hamburger (Place) is totally inappropriate and embarrassing for the other 118 businesses on the street who do not sel
l hamburgers.” * Mayor Sheridan dismissed all of the talk as uninformed gossip. “It was a good strategic move,” she recalled. “They wanted to relocate down here from Los Angeles because Rich Snyder had a house down here. He wanted to move the whole company down so that he wouldn’t have to go back and forth into L.A. everyday.”

  As usual, the company offered little in the way of a formal explanation, and so rumor filled the space where a public announcement might have gone. More than anything, Baldwin Park’s longtime residents were left with the feeling that their favored son had finally grown up and was now moving away.

  It was decided that the warehouse, distribution center, and the trucking facilities would remain in Baldwin Park. The decision offered a small measure of comfort to many who believed that the facilities were the heart and soul of In-N-Out Burger.

  CHAPTER 17

  December 15, 1993, was a particularly busy day for Rich Snyder. Just days before Christmas, his schedule was full, leaving him little time to slow down before the holidays hit full swing. For one, he was overseeing the final move of company headquarters to Irvine, expected to take place in two months. On that Wednesday, Rich was going to attend the grand opening of In-N-Out Burger’s new Fresno store, the chain’s ninety-third. During the day, he and a group of In-N-Out executives including his mother, Esther, executive vice president and aide-de-camp Phil West, and Jack Sims, a public relations executive who also acted as a company consultant, also examined a number of potential store locations.

  In-N-Out was opening about ten new stores each year, and despite the recession of the early 1990s, the company was averaging 15 percent annual growth. The rollout was increasing at such a rate that the company had leased a private jet in part to ferry executives scouting new locations and checking on existing ones. Commuting by air to keep tabs on the growing chain had become so integral to In-N-Out Burger’s procedures that in December, the chain was granted its application for a six-month extension to build a helipad at the company’s Baldwin Park complex.

  The previous August, not long after opening his seventy-fifth store, Rich gave an interview to the San Gabriel Valley Tribune in which he said that despite the company’s growth spurt, he had no interest in competing with the fast-food industry giants. Reiterating his commitment to keeping the chain private and family-owned, he once again quashed rumors of an imminent IPO. “I think it would be too difficult to maintain quality control,” he explained. “I like the fact that I can visit all of our locations and they all know me. It’s kind of like what they say about farming—the best fertilizer there is in the field is the farmer’s footprints.”

  Rich strode into the Fresno store on South Second Street. He was wearing one of his trademark suits, a tie, and—as usual—a big smile. At forty-one, he still had a boyish look about him. According to his friends, he appeared to have a real tangible sense of contentment about him. Usually upbeat, Rich seemed to be in particularly good spirits. Of late, he had been even more vocal and demonstrative with his friends and family, sliding his arm around them and expressing his appreciation for their friendship, letting them know how much he cared. He also began telling his intimates that he was “at peace with the Lord.” To more than one, he said, “If I don’t see you again—I love you.”

  The Fresno store opening went without a hitch. Rich and Esther Snyder, Phil West, Jack Sims, and a team from Baldwin Park spent time chatting with the new store’s managers and associates. As had become standard, a huge crowd of enthusiastic fans had formed outside the store before it opened and the team watched as the lines swelled. It was a sight that always seemed to astonish Rich: “He told me one time that he didn’t know why In-N-Out was so successful,” recalled his friend and neighbor Bob Longpre. “He was just as surprised as everybody else. They would open up a store, and there was a line of people waiting to buy hamburgers.”

  After the Fresno opening, Rich boarded a chartered Westwind 1124A jet with Sims and his mother. In-N-Out Burger had a policy prohibiting its top executives from traveling together, so West, the company’s number two, headed out to the airport to catch his own commercial flight. A number of other executives who had accompanied the group to the Fresno opening had dispersed, making their own arrangements to return to Baldwin Park or other points in the field. However, when West discovered that his own flight was going to be delayed, he circled back to the private airfield. It had been a long day. Although anxious to get home, West inexplicably joined Rich on the chartered jet. Another executive, In-N-Out’s vice president of operations Bob Williams, also boarded the plane. Esther Snyder wasn’t feeling well and asked to deplane as soon as possible. The jet flew to Brackett Field in La Verne (east of Los Angeles) where she got off, as did Williams. Taking off again, the chartered plane flew south toward Santa Ana.

  Less than thirty minutes after taking off, trouble struck. On approach to the John Wayne Airport, the Westwind found itself trailing in the flight path of a United Airlines Boeing 757. When they were eight to ten miles from the airport, air traffic controllers at John Wayne warned the Westwind to slow down, as it was gaining on the traffic up ahead. When the Westwind was five miles from the airport, another traffic controller gave the plane a second warning to reduce its speed, suggesting to pilot John O. McDaniel and his copilot Stephen R. Barkin that they make an S-turn if necessary. Although the small jet was gaining, flying thirty knots faster than the United Airlines flight, the two pilots didn’t seem too concerned. “Yeah it’s close,” McDaniel said to Barkin, “but I think we’ll be OK.”

  At about 5:30 p.m., the Westwind had descended to 1,100 feet. Just one minute from the airport, the small jet was also two miles behind the 757. Suddenly the plane became ensnared in the commercial liner’s wake turbulence. The pilots lost control. Within seconds, the plane rolled 360 degrees, plummeting to the ground at a 45 degree angle before crashing near the Santa Ana Auto Mall. The impact spewed charred and twisted metal in its wake. Rich Snyder, Phil West, Jack Sims, and the two pilots were all killed instantly.

  A year earlier, a similar crash occurred in the skies over Billings, Montana. Following, the Westwind’s demise in Santa Ana, the National Transportation Safety Board conducted a full investigation that prompted the Federal Aviation Administration to insist air traffic controllers warn pilots about the high level of turbulence generated by 757s and recommend that smaller planes maintain a distance of five miles when trailing one.

  That was of course little consolation to the Snyders, the families of Phil West and Jack Sims, and the thousands of associates at In-N-Out Burger. Flags at all ninety-three stores flew at half-staff. Disbelief seemed to hang over the Southland like a blanket of brown, hazy smog.

  Rich and Phil West had known each other since childhood; West’s grandmother lived across the street from the Snyders in San Dimas. They grew up together in the halcyon postwar San Gabriel Valley, playing army in the avocado fields, chasing girls, and going to In-N-Out Burger. Thirty-seven-year-old West lived in Glendora near Esther Snyder with his wife, Lori, and their young son. He had worked at Snyder Distributing through high school. At Esther’s urging, he had gone to work for In-N-Out corporate during college, eventually rising to the rank of executive vice president of administration. Esther considered West another son, calling him “my best friend in the company.” He was Rich’s right hand. Uncommonly grounded, West could be counted on to defuse the chronic tension between the Snyder brothers.

  Jack Sims, forty-seven, another longtime friend, was heavily involved in helping Rich produce Burger Television. Along with Richard Rossi, an actor and ordained minister, in 1986 Sims launched a popular but controversial church called Matthew’s Party. A church for people who ordinarily disdained churchgoing, the Party often met in a sports gym or a bar where wine and snacks were served, rock music was played, and anyone in need was given money.

  Sims and West regularly attended In-N-Out’s annual Montana fishing trips, while Rich and Sims met weekly for Bible study. In fact, Rich considered
West such a close friend that five days before the crash, on December 10, he had a trust drawn up earmarking a portion of his estate for him and a small circle of other business associates in the event of his death.

  Widowed after barely one and half years of marriage, Christina Snyder was shattered. “To me, it felt like I lost an entire volume of life,” she recalled plaintively. “If just Rich had died, I would have gone to those two men for support and memories. The loss was just incredible.” Just two days after the crash, Rick Plate showed up at Christina’s house with an eight-week-old golden retriever wearing a red bow. The dog was to have been Rich’s surprise Christmas gift to his wife. She named the puppy Harry Snyder.

  In the bewildering days immediately following the accident, In-N-Out Burger said little publicly, preferring to remain, as usual, incredibly tight-lipped. They did release a statement that read: “[Richard Snyder] was the type of person who did a lot more than just talk about taking care of his associates. He nurtured them and wanted them to know how very important they are to the success of the company. Thanks to Richard Snyder, In-N-Out Burger is a great place to work…. Richard Snyder has given countless numbers of people the opportunity to lead better lives.”

  Stories of Rich’s quiet and compassionate generosity began to circulate. “He was so obviously a good man,” said Rich’s friend Bruce Herschensohn, who decades later continued to reel at the random cruelty of the tragedy. “He was just marvelous, through and through.” Like many others, Herschensohn could recall numerous acts of kindness that Rich had displayed. “I used to wear these clip-on ties that he just hated. He bought me twenty-five ties and had his secretary knot them. All I had to do was just put one over my head.” Most of Rich’s good deeds were performed anonymously; every month, Rich sent an In-N-Out cookout trailer to feed the homeless living on Los Angeles’s Skid Row.* According to Christina, when her husband found out that an associate at In-N-Out and his wife could not conceive a child, Rich paid for the entire expenses for the couple to adopt—he did the same for another friend.