Final installment in an eight-part series. See the earlier profiles here.
Throughout the pandemic, and a summer of protests triggered by the killing of George Floyd, and now the scramble for vaccines, Chicago’s Black-owned restaurants have remained vital centers in their communities. As the country observes Black History Month, we present the stories of eight of these restaurant owners to recognize the importance of their businesses to the community and to Chicago history.
The 94-year-old founder of Uncle Remus Saucy Fried Chicken in Chicago has never stopped working during the pandemic.
“I got my COVID shot today so that adds to my great day, but all of my days are great anyway,” said Gus Rickette, laughing. “I’m still on the battlefield. My work schedule is the same, I’m off one day. We’ve had our masks on. I really don’t have anything that hurts me, by the blessing of God, unlike normal people, so maybe I’m a little abnormal.”
He and his late wife, Mary Rickette, opened their first restaurant, G & G Chicken Shack, in 1963, then Royal Chicken in 1964, where they secretly fed the Black Panthers during the riots of 1968 after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr.
The Uncle Remus name came in 1969 from a sign left behind at a shop, sold cheap to the couple. The oldest location on the West Side has evolved into an iconic institution with Chicago-style fried chicken that’s scratch-made, double-battered and extra crunchy, then drizzled or drenched in the singular condiment known as mild sauce.
Their daughter Charmaine Rickette, 57, now owns the business. As CEO, she’s expanded to three more locations, including one on the South Side in the Bronzeville neighborhood on 47th Street, and two in the suburbs, in Broadview and Bolingbrook. The latter opened just last November.
“We started the project before the pandemic,” she said. “When COVID first hit, we had a 70% loss of revenue. Things were put on pause, but we were still expected to pay rent on the empty space.”
The West Side location remains takeout only, but the newer locations were designed for dining in too. For now, though, all of the tables and chairs have been removed.
“I doubt we’ll have any seats for all of 2021,” said Rickette. “On 47th, we took away just the tables, but then people started lounging on the seats, people who don’t take COVID seriously. It’s so disheartening.”
She made the move to protect her employees.
“We’re probably at 60 employees at four locations,” said Rickette. “I lost no one. I feel the weight of making sure they get a paycheck every week.”
When the Paycheck Protection Program was first announced in March 2020, the business did not receive funds.
“Those first six weeks I didn’t know what I was going to do,” she said. “I didn’t take a salary for six weeks so I could keep my employees employed.” She did have to cut hours like many employers, and offered essentials including toilet paper, paper towels and dishwashing liquid. “I didn’t have much, but I told them to take chicken home to cook.
“By the time we got PPP for eight weeks of payroll, we were where I could sustain and keep everyone,” said Rickette. “Combined, the four stores got $120,000.”
Then came the summer months.
“In the summertime, everyone’s free and wild so business picked up,” she said. “Then around school time again, everyone was back catching the virus.” There was a dip in business again, but then they were ready. “We had the PPP to help. They got it right the second time. It could’ve done more, but I’m so appreciative of that, because my staff was able to stay with me.”
Staff stayed employed, even on days they couldn’t work due to protest activity and some related riots.
“My businesses were not damaged physically,” said Rickette. She did have to close the South Side location temporarily. “It was such a hot spot of protests. We probably lost 10 days of revenue.”
Something unexpected happened after the first protest triggered by the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis in May.
On her phone, Rickette watched what was happening in Bronzeville through cameras at her restaurant. “I saw shadows pacing in front of my business,” said Rickette. “Then I get a call. ‘Charmaine, God has sent at least 15 Black men who are posted up.'” Those men protected the restaurant. “They said, ‘No, you’re not going to touch this.’ I didn’t expect it, but it made my heart beat with joy.”
The joy was tempered by damage to surrounding businesses. Afterward she partnered with a business leadership council to give away food to people in the community. “We don’t sit in the community just to take from the community,” she said. “We give back way more than people probably know, but we don’t want to brag or boast.
“They said let’s give away 500 meals,” said Rickette. “I said no, let’s give away 1,000, because I’m like my parents. Anyone who came up for days after the unrest, we said, ‘Your food is free.'” She also gave away food to first responders and other organizations in need, like so many restaurants during the pandemic.
She had planned to close the West Side location for three months of remodeling the Monday after the Super Bowl, but a food truck to be parked out front for the duration to keep people employed has been delayed.
“At the Madison location I have more young Black men than any other location,” said Rickette. “I have a great relationship with the Safer Foundation, so most of them have come from there and stayed.” The foundation supports people with arrest and conviction records, who can have difficulty finding employment. According to a study in 2016, nearly half of young Black men in Chicago were neither working nor in school. “They look rough, but they’re broke. I’ll work that location the most, because if I have the opportunity, I try to impart something they might remember.”
Her father has spent 78 years on the West Side.
“I grew up in Mississippi and I felt like I was still in Mississippi here in Chicago,” said Gus Rickette. “You live with a certain amount of fear.”
He still hesitates to say out loud why he was so afraid. His cheerfulness fades when he explains that when he first moved to the city in 1943, he felt like like he was still living in the segregated South. The first time his daughter saw him weep was over the killing of Trayvon Martin in 2012, which started the Black Lives Matter movement.
Yet he’s seen some hopeful change. “To me, we have a much better effort with the Police Department. That was one of the controlling factors on the West Side. You had no voice. Now we do have a voice and I think that’s great.”
His daughter explained further. “There’s still police brutality, but back then they had no one to report to or be heard, because of the systemic racism that was even more prevalent.”
“They would just come up missing,” said Gus Rickette. “The change is overdue of course, but better than not at all.”
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