Neon Lights and Civil Rights
All Square is combatting the mark of a criminal record, one sandwich at a time
By Joshua Page
Photography by Bill Phelps
This story appears in print in Vol. 1, No. 1 of Meal Magazine, published in January 2020. Click here to order yours.
Emily Hunt Turner, founder of All Square
A carload of cheese. This was a new unit of measurement. I rolled it around in my mind, testing the syllables against my teeth: TJ has a carload of cheese. As we unloaded dairy, in blocks and shreds, TJ said, “I have a migraine.” I grunted in recognition, then asked, “Did you take some Advil? Or want an Imitrex? My wife has a prescription.” Unthinkingly, casually, I’d just managed to invite a probationer to participate in a crime. He declined.
TJ is a member of the first cohort of employees at All Square, an all-grilled-cheese-all-the-time, non-profit restaurant in Minneapolis. Along with the staff and a few volunteers, I was helping TJ prep hundreds of sandwiches for a neighborhood block party.
A double entendre, All Square refers to both the shape of the sandwich and the radical idea (at least in the United States) that people with rap sheets are all square after completing their court-ordered punishment—paying fines, doing time, or what have you.
For the estimated 19 million people in the U.S. with felony convictions, the degree to which they really are all square with society is dependent on perspective. Once the punishment is over, the ledger of crime and cost are, from the point of view of the law, relatively equal. But the person who’s paid their price or done their time is actually somewhere back before square one.
Picture a pool of potential employees standing in a row. Now everyone who’s been out of work for more than six months, they step back. Anyone who lacks references takes a step back. Anyone who hasn’t finished a degree takes a step back. Anyone who doesn’t have a permanent address takes a step back. Anyone who’s been arrested takes a step back. Anyone who’s been found guilty of a crime takes a step back.
It only takes a few steps back to find yourself at the back of the line, unable to get a job and secure a future. All Square is helping people with criminal records close the distance and get to square one.
Squares Need Not Apply
All Square is the brainchild of Emily Hunt Turner, a civil rights attorney with a background in architecture and public policy. The idea surfaced during her time working at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, where she witnessed the enduring effects of a criminal record up close. Having a record throws up barriers to employment, housing, and civic participation, and it limits access to social services. Case after case showed Turner how legal entanglement—concentrated in low-income, racially segregated communities—compounds racial inequality, with devastating consequences for African Americans and other people of color.
Turner’s work at HUD left her frustrated: government regulations and the law were no match for widespread prejudice, discriminatory policies, and a general disregard for people with records. In September 2016, Turner left HUD, determined to “build something from the ground up,” she says. If she was going to invest in people impacted by the criminal justice system, it couldn’t be one at a time. After huddling with confidants, including old friends with old rap sheets, Turner landed on the idea for All Square—a restaurant that would hire only people with records and pay them a living wage. It made sense: Study after study shows that steady, dignified work is critical if people are to leave crime behind and establish a stable, fulfilling life.
A fast-casual restaurant with a small, focused menu made sense, too. People with limited work experience, Turner reasoned, could quickly learn to make and serve grilled cheese. “It’s something people love and something I can actually cook,” she says. But, ultimately, headier considerations drove her decision. “There are few things that demand more professionalism and more expertise than working collectively to produce cuisine for the community,” she explains. “We’re a very siloed society. And one of the things we look to do with the restaurant is break down some of those barriers, and invite the community in to break bread with people they probably have a whole hell of a lot more in common with than they might think.”
After two years of fundraising, All Square opened on September 8, 2018, joining a growing number of restaurants across the country that hire only—or primarily—people with records. These spots range from fast-casual Hot Chicken Takeoverin Columbus, Ohio, and Homegirl Cafe in Los Angeles to fine-dining Edwinsin Cleveland, Ohio, featured in the Oscar-nominated film Knife Skills. Like some of its peers, All Square is far more than just a “felon-friendly” restaurant or “second chance cafe.” It’s a holistic, year-long program that pairs restaurant work with a wellness program (including trauma-informed counseling with on-site therapists) and a professional development institute that prepares its “fellows” for life after grilled cheese. (The title of fellow is meant to evoke participation, and maybe a privileged sense of having been selected for a fellowship, rather than just hired for a job.)
All Square is an ambitious experiment, a potential model for helping people with records forge their way ahead. And like all serious experiments, there’s potential for failure. As each glowing magazine article arrives, Turner feels the heat. Time magazine named All Square one of the World’s 100 Greatest Places of 2019 when the restaurant had been open for less than a year. One of the world’s greatest places? How can any restaurant live up to that, let alone a grilled cheese shop? And what if this one—imbued with such high hopes—can’t?
The Dream Lab
Around the time of this writing, nearly the entire staff at All Square is about to turn over. A few fellows will stay on, but most are done after a year. Ready to move on to different jobs or launch the businesses they’ve so carefully planned, they are training their successors. I imagine they’re offering advice on moving through and on from contact with the criminal justice system, but it’s mostly about the basics of running All Square. Building resumes and community ties is important, yet most of the time, working here is just a job that—like any job—can be fun, boring, or a just a pain in the ass. Where you get tired and dirty, but you also get $14 an hour plus tips. That’s important—a paycheck is a crucial part of most adults’ lives, and going without one makes most people both broke and bummed out. It makes it hard to imagine anything else.
With steady work there’s an opportunity to move forward, away from old habits. “Being here,” Nina, one of the fellows, tells me, “gives me a reason to come to work every day. It gives me something to do every day—because I feel like the downfall for me to slip up and relapse would be being bored, not having something to do every day.” Similarly, a fellow named Carlos says, “I don’t have to worry about going to jail. I don’t have to do none of that. I don’t have to worry about losing my life. Doing the street life, it’s always stressful. It’s always you looking over your back, one false move and you might not be getting up.”
In conversations with the fellows, a hint of pride comes through now and again. I sense it when they talk about the restaurant’s popularity—there’s a near constant stream of customers who support the mission and dig the sandwiches, which range from the simple Four Cheese to more adventurous options, like the Jerk Chicken with swiss, provolone, and guava jam. Even over-the-top creations (like the Punch & Crunch, with sharp cheddar, pickled jalapenos, chili cheese corn chips, and sriracha ranch) are balanced, with a good mix of savory and sweet, gooey and crunchy. Ultimately, the sandwiches are delicious for straightforward reasons: sturdy, no-frills bread that browns nicely, lots of cheese, and real butter.
The pride I hear in the interviews goes beyond sandwiches, however tasty they may be. It comes from taking a chance, exploring a different path. On Mondays, the restaurant closes and the fellows go next door to the Institute (also known as the Dream Lab) for classes on financial planning, resume writing, and business plans, and for freewheeling discussions about how racial and economic injustices shape the legal system and, by extension, the fellows’ personal experiences. On other days, they have listening sessions with judges, lively book clubs, and free community yoga classes. In the Dream Lab, fellows develop skills and make plans for continued success after their year at All Square.
Turner and her colleagues encourage the fellows to dream big, then work to equip them to realize their visions. At first, the fellows were reluctant, unsure whether they could trust the process, or the people. Reflecting on these early days in the institute, Turner says:
“One of the most illuminating things for me is how rare it is to dream once you’ve been impacted [by the criminal justice system]. And how absolutely vulnerable people are—to not only voice their dreams, but then to start putting them down onto paper given how many times they’ve been disappointed. The systems that have failed them. The systems that they don’t trust, right? And I think that we have developed enough trust for them to put their dreams back on the table.
“But I would say, as powerful as that is, I think that is the most crushing burden I’ve ever known and it’s a real honor. But, it’s also like, this can’t just be a twelve-month job. It has to be more. Because they’ve trusted us with such a precious piece of them and that is like … holy shit. I take that more seriously than almost anything in my life.”
Eventually, Turner says, the fellows bought in (some more than others, of course). They started to believe, as the months wore on, that a different path was possible—that they could and would go to law school, open a beauty salon, start a food truck, make a hip-hop album, or become a substance abuse counselor. Turner and her crew worked to identify mentors from the community, like law professors, job counselors, artists, and business owners who could help develop concrete plans for moving forward. All Square held fundraisers and started crowdfunding campaigns as fellows’ plans firmed up.
Beyond the tangible benefits of steady pay and community connections, All Square offers some crucial intangibles. For fellow Angela, it’s a sense of belonging:
“It makes me feel good to know that there are other people here in my shoes, who can’t judge because they’ve done some shit themselves. So, I feel like we’re all equal here … That’s why I feel like it’s home, too—because everybody’s not perfect here. That makes me feel not alone … when I connect with them, I feel like, damn, that’s my brother or that’s my sister because she can feel my pain.”
The fellows also gain recognition for holding down a steady job, planning for the future, and staying out of trouble. It comes from various sources: All Square staff, customers, probation officers, social workers, and even the media. But most importantly, recognition comes from parents, children, grandparents, siblings, and friends. “My family is loving it, they are proud of me,” Carlos says. “My kids are looking up to me. Now they see me consistently working and doing something positive—it’s a different feeling than ‘Oh, my dad’s a hustler.’”
Behind the Neon Lights
As dusk falls, outsized windows pour pink and blue neon light into the street. All Square looks like a South Minneapolis version of the iconic diner in Edward Hopper’s enduring painting, Nighthawks. It’s relatively small, with a long bar counter and five or six tables. Windows and doors are stenciled with the slogans Don’t Judge, Just Eat and Neon Lights and Civil Rights. This place is positive and proud, as uplifting as the glowing media coverage it’s received.
On the surface, there aren’t any obvious signs of the tensions and struggles that pull at the seams of this young enterprise.
All new restaurants have growing pains—the strain and flare-ups that inevitably arise as roles are established, processes installed, menus tweaked, and ticket times improved. But other difficulties are particular to All Square. Most of the employees have uneven—and in some cases, very little—work experience, and only a couple have spent any time in a professional kitchen. So, when All Square opened its doors and the crowds poured in, the fellows with restaurant experience carried a heavy load. Resentments increased when co-workers showed up late or missed shifts.
“It’s fast-paced,” Nina explains. “It has a lot to do with customer service, which I’m really good at. It can be somewhat hectic working with other people that don’t work the same as you.” Some of the fellows thought that leadership was initially too lax when fellows didn’t pull their weight.
“One thing that drives me crazy,” Billy says, “is [management] has a lot of patience with some of the fellows. In any other job, they’d be …”
As he trails off, I ask, “They’d be gone?”
Without pause, he confirms, “Oh yeah.” And then, adding a positive spin: “It’s a lesson in patience.”
Turner acknowledges that it’s taken time to develop a workable management style. In line with All Square’s mission, the leadership team is committed to “understanding contextually what’s going on in the fellows’ lives, why they’re late, not just that they’re late,” she says. “We care that they can’t find childcare, and we’re not going to blame them for that.”
With that understanding, Turner says, “came a lot of latitude … we can’t just be like, ‘You’re on the chopping block because you missed whatever.’ Like, that’s not who we are. We see people through … and I think latitude, as who we are, is really beautiful.
But wide latitude isn’t necessarily helpful to people who have experienced trauma. Turner recalls the advice she received from mental health professionals, advocates, and people who have successfully navigated the same terrain: “Without boundaries and consistency and structure, especially folks who have experienced trauma, it’s not a place where they can succeed.” So, leadership tightened up, sticking to existing rules and implementing new ones as they worked to establish “truly restorative policies.”
Some fellows appreciated the changes, but others chafed. “I know it’s a job,” Carlos says. “But we’ve been here since before it even opened … so, [they] let us be a certain way … it’s part of us now. So now you’re trying to change things and trying to be super hard ass, and it’s like, you’re being petty. I mean, we can write grievances now and everything.” The changes, Carlos suggests, made All Square feel more bureaucratic—more like the state institutions that confined him. Balance, Turner says, is emerging over time.
Other challenges stem from All Square’s missionto help “people impacted by the criminal justice system” survive and thrive. The language here is intentional. Turner and her colleagues believe that terms like “people impacted” and “fellows” are less stigmatizing than “felons” or “ex-prisoners” (which is also inaccurate, because not all fellows have done prison time). However, there is no hiding the fellows’ history. In fact, that history—and the disadvantages that accompany it—has been a major selling point, and a key reason that All Square is so popular with local diners and reporters.
The fellows’ pasts aren’t typically a source of workplace tension, though they can be a source of unwanted attention. According to the fellows, customers—mostly white and older—are generally friendly, patient, and well-meaning. But now and again, diners make comments or ask questions that make fellows feel like objects of curiosity, tethered to their pasts. Sometimes customers want to make it clear that they know the workers have criminal histories and that they’re cool with it. Sometimes they want to reveal their own brushes with the law. And sometimes, they make assumptions. Carlos calls All Square’s patrons “great,” but continues,
“Every few, here and there, we will get somebody that’ll come in that really doesn’t understand and feels like, ‘Oh you work here, are you in this program? You’ve been to prison too?’ But there are only a few fellows that have been to prison ... but you’ll get a couple [customers] that’ll come in and be like, ‘Oh, are you one of them too?’ I don’t know what ‘one of them’ are, but … do I work here? I work here.”
For fellows of color, these comments carry the weight of age-old stereotypes about race and criminality. Angela, a black woman, talks about her discomfort:
“It’s just the way they word it. Like ‘for your type, for your people.’ Like, I don’t know, that’s offensive … what do you mean ‘my people?’ Is it because I’m black? … But I don’t play the race card or anything … I’ve learned that a lot of the customers are not sensitive towards … I don’t know how to explain it.”
Offensive comments don’t wipe out the feelings of belonging and recognition that Angela and her co-workers describe when talking about All Square, but they’re sharp reminders that the past shades their present, even under these bright neon lights.
Comfort Food
Back to that carload of cheese. After TJ and I unloaded the last box, we joined a small group bustling around the Institute. All Square’s culinary director, Tatum Barile, and a pair of interns from the University of Minnesota had laid out slices of bread and propped two enormous containers of cheese on long picnic tables. With upbeat R&B music in the background, Barile gave us our marching orders. TJ and I nodded as we wriggled our hands into disposable foodservice gloves and took up our positions. We had hundreds of signature Four Cheese sandwiches to assemble for the neighborhood block party.
Soon, Turner and All Square’s wellness director, Sara Stamschror-Lott, joined the assembly crew. Now there were more people than jobs. TJ had permission to leave and go sleep off his migraine, but he didn’t. And I’m not so sure he wanted to. Like the rest of the crew, he seemed relaxed. The vibe was comfortable and convivial, and the conversation swerved between television shows, pop music, and expectations for the block party and beyond. It was all so very normal.
Ultimately, that might be the most important thing on offer at All Square: a chance for the normalcy of a steady job, a paycheck, and a crew of people who understand where you’ve been. I think that’s why TJ stayed.
This story draws on research I conducted on All Square with two graduate students at the University of Minnesota, De Andre Beadle and Caity Curry. Names of fellows are pseudonyms.