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The Way I Work: Roger Berkowitz

"People who want me to do something have to remind me repeatedly. It's management by being nagged."

Call him the Omega-3 Man. Roger Berkowitz has fish oil in his blood after a lifetime working at Legal Sea Foods, the Boston-based family business he has run for 16 years. Legal was spawned in 1950, when the CEO's father opened a fish market next to his father's grocery store in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Today it is a $215 million, 4,000-employee company, with 32 restaurants stretching from Boston to Boca Raton, Florida. To keep this ichthyoid empire afloat, Berkowitz, 56, spends his days tracking salmon runs, strategizing with local fishermen over proposed catch limits, and soliciting customer critiques of the lobster rolls at his sleek restaurants. Often, you'll find him walking the frosty rooms of Legal's cavernous fish-processing plant, checking out the daily catch.

As Told to Leigh Buchanan

In the 1980s, I attended an executive education class at Harvard Business School taught by this great curmudgeonly marketing guy, Marty Marshall. One day Marty corners me in front of the class and says, "Berkowitz, what business are you in?" I say, "I'm in the restaurant business." He says, "Oh, you think so, huh? I want you to do an analysis of your company for next semester." I go back and start examining Legal, past, present, and future. I look at how we source our products -- how we handle and market them. When I hand in the paper, Marty waves it in front of my face and says, "Berkowitz, what business are you in?" I say, "I'm in the fish business." He says, "Good; you did your homework!" That was the single most important lesson I've learned. I'm in the fish business. Every major decision I've made since comes out of that.

The first thing I do in the morning is retreat to my den and meditate. I meditate twice a day for 20 minutes, closing my eyes, clearing my mind, and repeating my mantra until I'm in a semiconscious state. Sometimes, I'm wrestling with an issue before meditation, and afterward the answer is suddenly clear. Next, I make my first cup of coffee. There's a new report from the nutrition roundtable at the Harvard School of Public Health saying coffee is a deterrent for diabetes and Parkinson's. I sit on the roundtable, so I get early notification of all kinds of great research. Some of it, like studies on trans fats, I apply right away in the restaurants. The study on coffee helps me justify my own three cups a day.

Four days a week, I try to hit the gym before starting work or at least put in some miles on my office treadmill. I'm the public face of a company that touts healthful eating, so I have to be healthy: Exercise isn't a luxury. Once a week I do a Bikram yoga class -- 90 minutes sweating in a 105-degree room with 40 percent humidity. I emerge with my mind sharp and my body ready for a three-hour nap.

If I forget I'm in the fish business, my nose reminds me. The smell doesn't penetrate my office, but you can't escape it in the halls. Four years ago, we moved out to a jetty that Boston was developing for the seafood industry. Before the move, our old building was in a neighborhood, and the residents were thrilled to see the back of us. It wasn't the fish that bothered them so much as the trucks. And the chowder. I guess coffee and bacon are more appetizing morning smells than thousands of pounds of cooking onions.

Several days a week, I perform spot inspections at the plant where we process the fish, make chowder and desserts, and package and ship products. It's 35,000 square feet on the first floor of our building. The space is refrigerated, so I put on a fleece jacket before heading downstairs. I stroll around, talk to people, and feel the fish. I'll pick up a piece and slide my hands along the sides to assess its butter -- if it feels wet and silky. I'll press my thumb and forefinger into the flesh along the backbone, checking for rigor. A fresh fish will be stiff, not floppy. I'll inspect the eyes, which should glisten and practically bulge. And I'll peer into the gullet cavity where the gills have been removed, looking for bright red blood.

While I'm on the first floor, I'll also swing by the lab. We test everything that comes into the building -- 120 tons of fish a week. Steve Martinello, our registered sanitarian, will show me reports on mercury levels in tuna and swordfish and bacterial counts in shellfish. We send copies of those results to the diggers who sell us shellfish, and also to the Massachusetts Department of Public Health. Consequently, the diggers are very eager to provide us the best product. Steve also shows me health reports on all the restaurants, which he personally inspects. He's like the vice squad.

Most meetings take place around the conference table in my office. It's private, and there's an ocean view. I like to get heavy-duty meetings out of the way Monday; that sets the stage for the rest of the week. My vice presidents file in at around 8, and we start with what we call Food I, which is a postmortem of the previous week. We experiment a lot with promotions, menu items, service. For example, whether service improves when you assign a team rather than one waitperson to a table. We'll compare the results across all the restaurants, extract lessons, and apply them to plans for the coming week. Food I is followed immediately by Food II, where we discuss supply. We get daily information from fishermen. They may say, "We're starting to see soft-shell crabs. Halibut are abundant. Lobsters are looking scarce." Then we decide how to respond. Maybe we'll feature the crab until the run gets heavier and then move it to the regular menu, promote halibut instead of trout, and raise prices on our lobster entrées.