Joey’s isn’t “Only” any more.

Boyish, brush-cut Joe Klassen and his partner, Dave Mossey, are committed to the belief that standing still invites stagnation, and that stagnation breeds rot.

So . . .

Enter a lean country boy, with a cheek full o’chaw, and a hankerin’ for ribs’n’chicken. The name? Tennessee Jack . . .

But we’ll revisit Jack a bit later. One J-Man at a time.

Klassen, of course, is the “Joey” of Joey’s Only Seafood Restaurants, which got their start 16 years ago, when he and his parents raided their piggybanks and opened a fish’n’chips shanty on 17th Avenue S.W.

Klassen is the father of five, but his flat-top ’do makes him look more like a refugee from a Happy Days audition.

He flashes a lopsided, “gosh-all-fishhooks” grin, and says the best thing about being a success is not having to wear ties to work.

But don’t let the Andy of Mayberry persona fool you.

A one-time house painter, Klassen has shrewdly authored a truly upbeat Calgary business story.

He began to expand because “I got bored,” he said, and embraced a philosophy of steady growth — methodically adding links to the chain, only when convinced the corporate infrastructure remained strong enough to support them.

Applying this formula, Klassen, Mossey and their wives — Theresa Klassen and Jill Argue — have created a self-perpetuating franchising empire, which has expanded to 83 locations, including 26 in Alberta, 20 in Ontario, two in residential Las Vegas and another in Escondido, Calif.

Through boom years and economic downturns, of course, fast food is forever.

“In a strong economy, we do very well, because there’s so much money out there,” Klassen explained.

“In a poor economy, we do well, because people know the prices are reasonable.”

And Joey’s revenues have escalated, without exception, every year since 1985.

Klassen has grown reticent about discussing annual chain-wide sales figures. But five years ago, with only 62 locations, sales were reported at $23 million. Klassen will confide that last year’s total sales were up 15 per cent over the previous fiscal year.

Moreover, sales at the Crowfoot Joey’s — personally owned by Klassen and Mossey — are clocking in at $900,000 a year, up from $500,000 during 1995, its first year.

Anyway you slice it, the mid-30-ish Klassen, and the chubby little fish emblazoned on his updated logo, are surfing the crest of a revenue wave.

Part of the success formula is a readiness to adapt to changing conditions — which takes us back to Tennessee Jack.

Unlike Joey, Jack has no human prototype. He’s a figment, given life by the Joey’s Only marketing team, in the hopes the down-home brand will stir mouth-watering impressions of Southern firepits and open-roast barbecues.

The rotisserie-chicken and ribs were added, along with new decor and a fresh menu design, to selected Joey’s locations because, said Klassen, “we realized our smaller-volume stores kinda needed a boost.”

According to the company, the new look and menu choices have helped sales pick up in some locales by as much as 30 per cent.

Those results explain why so many prospective store owners — most of them longtime customers — get in touch with Joey’s head office each week.

Canadians are absolute franchise freaks. One in every 14 Canadians works for a franchise operation, which do a heck of a business in this country — $100 billion in sales each year.

And Joey’s track record has made it a magnet for entrepreneurs since the company began franchising in 1992.

But the commitment required is monumental. This gig offers terrific long-term rewards, but it’s not for everyone.

First, there’s the upfront cost of opening a restaurant. Including the $25,0000 franchise fee, the candidate faces initial costs as high as $293,000 for promotion, leasehold improvements, food and kitchen supplies — particularly if chicken and ribs are on the menu.

Then there’s the sheer blood, sweat, and toil which goes into running your own restaurant.

“The first six months to a year, the time you have to put in is tremendous,” Klassen said, refusing to sugar-coat the reality.

“Especially during that first month . . . it’s a tremendous stress,” he said.

“We offer a five-week training program, during which we show them every aspect of the business,” Klassen continued, before flashing that ironic, lopsided grin. “We make sure they understand what they’ve got themselves into.”

But if they have the stuff, the stamina and the staying power, franchisees generally find they’ve got themselves into a business that’s as good as it gets in fast-food retail.