INTRODUCTION--WHY YOU SHOULD READ THIS BLOG
This blog is about making the impossible possible. It is about creating the image of an upscale restaurant with the most limited resources: financial, spatial, and technical. It is about being persistent, never giving up on a dream, and maintaining the attitude of constant incremental improvements.
We’ve gone through the very agonizing growing pains and hope that our experience can shorten the process for our readers; learning what works so that you can quickly apply the principles to your own situation. We want you all to realize that everyone, and that means anyone with a little creativity and chutzpah (courage and determination) can create, and effectively run a gourmet restaurant with limited resources, namely, “four microwaves and an oven.” The island in the South adds to the flavor, impossible humor and a heck of a lot of education. But to start from a contextual “somewhere”, let us begin with one of our backgrounds.
BOOK 1: PRE-COLUMBIAN COFFEE DAYS
I: Goodbye New York, New York
I was somewhat of a wild woman from mildly dysfunctional but very mesmerizing Brooklyn, New York. Having over-shot and over-spent the singles scene by age 21; it was no great hardship to leave for green, not even greener pastures.
Leaving bachelorette pent-up penitentiary behind, I found a wonderful husband after an eternal stream of unsuitable albeit international suitors.
Before we found out I was with child, my husband had me rushed to the ER at 4:30am one blustery morning, believing our romantic interlude would soon end with my fatal heart attack. Hours later, the tiniest (just an opinion, not sure of the exact measurements of all inhabitants) intern from some remote island informed me with his lilting but barely discernable deep accent of an impending birth, to which I responded by regurgitating all over his freshly starched pristine white jacket. The next morning, in the midst of some necessary pleasantries on the toilet, I found myself clunked on the tiny bathroom floor and awakened with a monstrous black eye, which from that moment assured me that I was going to conceive a boy, because no girl in her right mind would give her mother a black eye, and so right I was.
Six days of gruesome labor and death threats at 2:30am to my seemingly sadistic Swedish doctor (was this some darkly erotic Bergman film?) I drank, on his advice, a full bottle of red wine and gave birth the next day via emergency C-section to the most exquisite baby boy.
Living on the upper West Side of Manhattan had its distinct advantages, but pushing a stroller down Columbus Avenue with an infant, wasn’t one of them. I was clued into this reality when someone from one of the multitudes of high rise apartment buildings decided to toss a beer can (glad it was nothing or nobody else) out of his very high-rise window and missed my son by mere fractions of an inch. It was time to move. Fortunately, my husband had parents who retired from New Jersey to a barrier island in South Carolina called Edisto. So, with my fairly new husband, very new infant son and teaching credentials in hand, we were off to what is called the Low Country, which I naively assumed was contiguous with the Manhattan “high country.” We traded in our Northern “passports” for Southern papers and a license plate with a palmetto tree and the slogan, “Smiling Faces, Beautiful Faces.” Sounds good, right? Yeah, right!
Well-seasoned, pepper-spray carrying experienced, inner-city teachers, we were prepared for the thick Gullah-accented slow-speaking Southern students. What we weren’t prepared for were the march of insects that were particularly prone to “damn Yankee” skin. These were unforgiving insects trained to scout out the skins of the Northern aggressors. Just two weeks into teaching, while standing in a parking lot and chatting with some African-American teachers about the possibility of starting a teacher’s union, and them looking at me as if I’d just descended from Mars or Pluto, a parade of red ants came crawling up my leg and injected their not-very-Southern- hospitality venom into me. I had arrived.
Also, nobody remembered to tell me that the “no-see-ems” and everything else visible and invisible linger in the swamp-driven humid air. There I stood in my freshly painted classroom in front of students who attempted to speak in such a thick Gullah* accent as to bewilder me and wonder just what country I had landed. My New York speed-dialing talk pace nor my New York Yiddish-laden sense of humor was working here. “Can you here me now, now, well, how about now?” Don’t even think about it.
II. AM I REALLY THAT.... ?
I never realized how color-blind I was until I moved to South Carolina, where traditions cast a heavy burden at attempts to change and where there is no hiding attachment to skin color. Having successfully started a school with other dedicated New York teachers which became quite renowned, I was determined to bring together the very white school district located on the beach and the almost completely African-American school district located on the island (what, two districts on one tiny island??) for a much-needed middle school, modeled after the school in New York. I was received open arms by the beach community and looked at more than suspiciously by the African-American community which couldn’t imagine a Northerner without some hidden agenda. The concept of “trust” never entered my very biased vision. And even though I spent a month in (very non-White) Nigeria deciding whether to marry a wonderful Nigerian med student whom I met in New York, and spend the rest of my life there? That knowledge still wasn’t sufficient to change the color of my skin any, beauty marks notwithstanding. When the School Board met me, one astute Board member said, “great enthusiasm, great innovator, but clueless about Southern politics.” It was a painful year-long-volunteering-my-time-and-living-on-my husband’s-teacher’s-salary lesson that I learned.
III. BUILDING A HOME WITH $70 IN SAVINGS
At this point, we figured the only way to keep us here is to fulfill what seemed to be an impossible dream of ours – owning a home. On Edisto there are oak trees that with their sensuously caressing sinewy branches, beckon you. On a substantial piece of in-land property near the beach was positioned the most dignified and kingly (queenly?) of oaks, that magically called to us. I was also convinced that there had to be treasure buried near its roots by either the Spanish or the Indians who had originally inhabited the island. The $50,000 price tag seemed manageable, except we weren’t even close to possessing the $5,000 needed for a down payment. Fortunately for us the New York schmooze seemed to work, so much that the realtor decided to loan us the money and turned to us at closing and confided that she had never closed a deal of this sort. This began our segue way into what we considered our high finance Trump-like and savvy negotiating skills. One year later, we secured a construction loan, again, paying not a dime, since the house, with Chuck’s amazing first-time ever ceramic tile laying expertise, appraised at exactly 120% of the loan. The nail-biting, trembling fingers seriously began when it came time to convert the loan to a mortgage, with few bankers willing to risk someone with a former bankruptcy and no assets. Fortunately, our neighbor was a banker and was aware of our struggles and sincerity, so saved the day, like Superman.
BOOK II: THE ARRIVAL OF COLUMBIAN (COFFEE THAT IS)
- MAKING IT HAPPEN ON “BUPKAS,” “CHUTZPAH” and JOIE-DE-VIVE”
The word Entrepreneur is lovely to pronounce and requires at least three if not four facial deflections, yet difficult to spell, nonetheless be. Such people are bold, brave, rich, incredible risk-takers and the stout stuff of America’s history. After five years of teaching in a rural high school, my very artistically gifted husband, was feeling very under-appreciated, and I was about to get run off again, this time by a tattoo-laden mother of a very dysfunctional son who decided I alone was to blame for, yes, that word, again, the war of Northern aggression. Yes, I alone had to incur the wrath of the scarred ravages of the Civil War.
At this point, we were more than home-sick, and particularly longed for the charming outdoor Manhattan cafes, replete with rich robust aromatic Arabica coffee. We suffered from slightly beach salty watered-down Maxwell House coffees far too long had and pined for a legitimate cup, dare we say latte.
Beside the fact that neither of us had any real business expertise, our only financial resource was a small home equity loan on our now two-year old home. So with $75,000 and a few hundred dollars spent on two “How to Run a Business/Coffeehouse” we began to pursue our dream.
A small strip mall that is quite common in the South – you chop up a piece of land and divide it into small units and try to find commercial tenants – was getting ready to break ground on this wonderful road named Jungle. This was heaven in the making. I befriended the girlfriend of the owner and won her over by allowing her pot-belly pig named Aunt Bea to eat some of my colorful charm necklace that looked I guess to a pig more edible than wearable.
We decided on the name The Gallery Café. Chuck being the consummate artist and President of the Charleston Artist Guild, we envisioned serving take out foods, authentic frozen coffee drinks, delectable desserts, and lots of art to our future patrons.
We chose burnt sienna as the color to paint the walls, partly because that was the color of our dining room walls, and partly because it was supposed to make you more hungry and thirsty. We balanced this with a mustard yellow because these colors supposedly subconsciously stimulated the appetite for coffee and pastries.
One of the best parts of setting up shop is the graciousness of potential suppliers who shower you with delectable dessert samples. We managed to taste our way around Charleston and found a supplier of the most sumptuous desserts – cheesecakes of every name imaginable, Danishes, brownies, five-layer chocolate cakes, Napoleons, muffins, and croissants. We found a rich, creamy frozen coffee mix from Beverly Hills, to which we added espresso shots on request to intensify the sweet flavor and desired effect. We also found an eco-friendly coffee manufacturer from North Carolina with the intriguing name, Counter Culture, which blended Arabica coffees to create our own signature blend, which we also sold retail. We researched extensively espresso makers and decided to throw the really big bucks into a top-of-the-line double head semi-automatic espresso machine imported straight from Italy, which took special skill, but resulted in a frothier creamier cappuccino.
Only a block from the beach, we needed a filter system powerful enough to get rid of the heavy salt and mineral sediments in the water. We hired a guy so knowledgeable he knighted himself, “The Coffee Doctor.” However, the night before our Grand Opening, at our espresso training session for our two budding baristas, we prepared the saltiest cappuccino imaginable. The fancy filter we just purchased was chucked for a sophisticated reverse osmosis system by the good old Culligan guys, who, like obstetricians, were always on 24-hour call. Makes you have a newfound appreciation for the nice, clear liquid that comes out of your faucet.
We opened and were an instant success with the frozen coffees. However, the cappuccinos and lattes were a slightly harder sell for an island of inhabitants used to slurping instant cappuccinos advertised at the “7-11.” Our very first negative comment was from the business owner of the ice-cream shop three doors down, who stated, “it’s very nice, but how come it wasn’t sweet?” Thus began the laborious, at times frustrating coffee education to locals who were unsophisticated coffee drinkers and tourists who often commented that finding our place was like finding “civilization.”
Our coffeehouse sported two refrigerator bakery cases chock-full of cinnamon buns, bagels, éclairs, cheesecakes, homemade tiramisu, cheese Danish, and almost anything else which was deemed by the local church-going population as “sinful.” Our initial attempts to explain that the concept of sin was a malevolent force used to depress generations past and present fell on deaf ears, so we simply converted our tactics and began telling our customers that the purpose of life was to enjoy, and that dessert was a temporary stay from penitence and guilt. The Gallery Café essentially became what was affectionately termed, the “guilt-free” zone.
A small Plexiglas table display case was filled with our three-inch-thick milk, dark and white chocolates stuffed with peanut butter, cookies and cream, and gooey caramel and pecans. The rest of the menu was light fare that could be carried out in plastic containers.
We were also purveyors of 60 varietals of boutique red wines which were placed on two wine racks on the restaurant floor that hugged the computer used for selling internet time. A small table-top refrigerator sported the unique beers and white wines. One of our big selling promos was touting that we had the beer from the world’s oldest brewery, which was in fact true, and quite delicious as well as profitable.
We squeezed all of this, plus cooking and dining area of six tables into a front space of 700 square feet, to which was added 500 square feet of storage room, mop sink, water filtration room and unisex bathroom combined.
II. THE SIX MONTH “ITCH”
Chuck’s artistic talents were quickly matched by his self-taught culinary artistry and it soon became evident that our customers wanted more than just counter service…. so we hired a carpenter, a friend of ours, who built six lovely tabletops with a heavy epoxy resin finish, bought unfinished high-back wood chairs, some high-chairs and we were in business. There was room for a small convection oven that sadly had its back to the storefront window, but soon the wondrous cooking aromas over-rode attention to the horrid appearance of the oven’s behind. A steam table with two burners allowed Chuck to prepare two soups at a time… and that was it, except we needed a name change, or at least an extension, for now we were moving into new and more sophisticated territory – a legitimate restaurant with sit-down service, so we added the name restaurant to our window sign and removed the coffee cup.
That didn’t prevent the tourists, clad in dripping bathing suits to swing open our doors with screaming kids, asking questions like “do you sell fishing tackle” or, “are you the ice cream shop?” which was quite obviously three doors down and owned by the woman who complained about her unsweetened cappuccino.
III. WAR OF THE LETTUCES
Since I am on complaints, let me not forget the woman with the thickest Southern accent who irately demanded her money back because we were serving her “weeds” (actually the most expensive of baby lettuce spring mixes). I remember her standing up brusquely, looking bewildered and shouting in a nearly indistinguishable drawl as heavy as a chicken-fried steak smothered in gravy, “Give the real stuff, the Iceberg lettuce?” And the very conservatively dressed 65-year old grandmother whom, when asked whether she wanted a small Greek salad with her meal,” pulled the waitress down close to her ear and whispered, “Nah, honey, I just want a small Greek.”
IV. FOUR STARS IN THE MAKING
The first step was to prepare to unveil our new “face.” Contrary to what the experts tell you about “testing the waters” on opening day or an important holiday, we launched our first gourmet meal on New Year’s Eve to a full house of very pleased and satiated customers.
The term “kaizen”, which literally means “incremental, continuous improvement day-by-day,” became Chuck’s mantra. Armed with a few essential (OK, a gradual buildup of an entire library-full) cookbooks, including the most essential, the original Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking; that his mother owned and which he learned from as a child, he started out preparing a staple of the Southern diet, namely, she-crab soup. This soup was so thick, filled with white sensuous morsels of delectable white lump crab, that, once word got out that it was as good if not better than downtown Charleston restaurants. We began receiving phone calls to freeze ahead several quarts for pick-up. In the second omnipresent soup pot was a flavor-enriched aroma-filled gourmet soup that rotated – Italian Wedding soup, Cream of Carrot-ginger, to name just two.
Not satisfied to simply offer the unique cheesecakes, Chuck thought he’d dabble in some unique desserts of his own. His Tiramisu truly made the strict Catholics whine as they scooped up lady fingers drenched in Amaretto di Saronno, blended with fresh espresso, topped with fresh whipped cream... they approached with their forks at first, then simply their fingers, in an unforgiving hedonistic frenzy, and although I am not certain, I believe that a few actually demonically chortled out some “Hail Mary’s” before each swallow.
Perhaps the most alluring dessert was in many ways the most simple: home-made scones. Not only was this a rare find and well outside the typical Southern cuisine, it was the Buckingham Palace’s recipe. Yes, we took quite literally our determination to make everyone who entered our establishment feel like kings and queens, at least for the night. These too caused patrons to call ahead requesting one or two “wheels” of scones.
Chuck began experimenting with different sauces as he scoured the internet to locate manufacturers of rare Asian and African spices and prepared the most flavorful Berbere Seasoning, the recipe for which some customers actually tried to steal from him. It was simply that amazing….or his crab-cakes that were served with atop the Italian “weeds”, with the most delicious home-made champagne mustard sauce.
The signature dish for which we became known is the baby rack of New Zealand lamb with a marinade of course-ground mustard, fresh rosemary, and ginger.
V. A VISIT FROM NOTORIOUS AGENT MATA HARI
Not quite, but she was certainly inconspicuously garbed in a peasant-style head scarf, no make-up and a hunched over gnarly look. When she tauntingly asked our 17-year old “filler” waitress to suggest a good wine, this naive teenager retorted, “I don’t know anything about wine since I am too young to drink.” Not exactly the words you want Charleston’s premiere food critic trained at Cordon Bleu to hear. That same night, our 14-year old dish washer decided that studying for a test was more important than squeaking clean the piled up dishes in the small double sink. Not exactly the most ideal of circumstances for a review.
Fortunately, though this has not been confirmed, that night our disguised food critic had a delightful sense of humor and found all of these comedies of errors quite amusing.
The article below entitled, Wonder Chef Proves Artful At This 'Gallery', which ended by awarding a solid four stars to the Chef, speaks for itself:
“Self-taught Chef Chuck Black uses 4 microwaves, an oven, a steam table, a rice cooker and organization to put out some impressive food at Gallery.In a world where restaurant meal preparation revolves around a gas flame, that's quite a feat. In his tiny work space, which is about the size of a ship's galley, Black single-handedly prepares and plates international-style dishes that are lovely to the eye and the palate.
Black's wife and co-owner, Arlaana Black, says her husband's mission is to "awaken people's humanity in their lives through his cooking."
Chef Black, an artist at heart who learned to love cooking under his mother's tutelage while growing up, perceives food as an art. Black and his wife moved to Edisto Beach from Manhattan, N.Y., to be closer to family. Opening a restaurant was a long-standing dream for the couple. It was a dream they finally put into play nearly four years ago when they opened the Gallery, initially as a carry-out cafe serving food on paper plates. Eventually, the cafe "morphed" into a bona fide restaurant (albeit a small one, with just six tables). The Gallery serves lunch and dinner, with all the bells and whistles, including candles and china.
The exceptionally homey space reflects equal parts cafe, home office, library, restaurant, and art gallery. A sofa flanks the rear wall, and cooking books and magazines line a shelf toward the front. Baked goods and coffee dominate the front counter. A computer and printer are available for clientele, and assorted art work adorns the yellow and red walls. The tables are spacious and comfortably spaced. Candles glimmered on top of each, evoking a casual, dressed-up evening mood. The whole effect is decidedly urban with a “beachy”, holistic edge. It works perfectly on Edisto, where it seems just about anything goes.
We were advised to make reservations, but arrived to a half-full (that translates to three tables and a total of six diners) restaurant. Our table was set. We preferred a table along the wall and the young, sixteen-something, waitress was more than happy to satisfy our request. In an instant, she had our flatware and linens transferred, and so the evening began. Water and glasses of wine (Salmon Harbor Chardonnay, $5 each) were filled simultaneously with the arrival of lovely, fresh bread and butter.
The server said "usually" the bread is made in-house. Turns out Chef Black makes savory popovers "90 percent of the time" and buys out whenever he's just too busy, according to his wife. Ours must have been purchased elsewhere, but it was so delicious I requested a second serving.
The server told us upfront the restaurant was out of the crown roast of pork ($17.95) and baby-back ribs (half, $16.95; full, $27.95), and shared information on preferred dishes and the daily specials. She was less helpful on wine stating, "I don't drink wine, so I can't help you." Rather amusing and certainly frank, but some education may be in order here since the wine list is more diverse and complicated than in many restaurants, and the prices of both food and wine warrant polished wine service.
Salads (included with all entrees) are served just after orders are taken at the Gallery, which is a nice way to take the edge off of pre-dinner hunger, especially since the salad here was fresh and tasty. A blend of baby spring greens and Bibb lettuce was simply dressed with vinaigrette composed of the mildest virgin olive oil and just the right amount of Balsamic vinegar.
Our waitress returned to verify our order for appetizers, apologizing that she was exhausted from working a nearly 12-hour shift. The fatigue factor, exacerbated by the fact that a dishwasher hadn't shown up for work, re-played itself throughout the evening with missed cues on flatware and linens, bringing the wrong appetizer to the wrong person, and assorted minor service misdemeanors. Collectively, the effect was moderately sloppy, but it was hard to take things too seriously since she was clearly so young and so tired.
As Black stated when he left the wine bottle naked on the table (without an ice bucket, which was strange), it's hard to find good help on the island, referring to the dishwasher that didn't show up, not the young server. On another less addled evening, service is sure to be better.
When food is as good and lovingly presented as it is at the Gallery, service takes a back seat. The appetizers we sampled were plainly compiled and plated to order. The freshness and attention to detail were more than apparent. Chilled, fleshy slivers of succulent smoked salmon topped with a cool dollop of crème fraiche and caviar on fresh-out-of-the-box water crackers ($12.95) were beautifully arranged on a narrow, rectangular white plate and drizzled with chives.
Also pretty and delicious was the spanking fresh and creamy mozzarella salad. Each slice of mozzarella was topped with a spoonful of lush pesto with a centered topping of silky tomatoes. It looked like a Christmas present and tasted like heaven.
Eight meaty lamb chops were featured in the evening's special, which was French rack of New Zealand lamb ($28.95) served with jasmine rice, green beans and mint jelly. This is a perennial favorite the Gallery does very well. It should be noted, however, we were not asked what temperature we wanted the meat cooked, and got it medium instead of the preferred medium rare. Still, the meat was moist and flavorful. Steamed scallops in a Vatapa sauce ($15.95) gave a succulent nod to Asia with the merger of garlic, ginger, coconut milk, peanuts and cilantro. The scallops tasted like they'd been caught only minutes before and melted in my mouth in no time flat.
The Derby pie ($4.95) was an example of baking at its best. A flaky, buttery crust encased a thick layer of custard, layered with toasted pecans and chocolate.
We had ordered it to go but ended up eating it right there. It was that irresistible. Gallery Restaurant & Cafe proves, unequivocally, good things definitely come in small packages, especially when hard work, dedication and artistry are wrapped up inside.”
We received many wonderfully encouraging comments about the cuisine and the customer care, but our three all-time favorites have to be:
“Eating here is like having a religious experience;” “If we win the lottery, we’ll dine here every night;” and a diamond merchant from Florida commenting, “This is better than a night at Emerils.”
VI. THE BIG WOLF DESGUISED AS THE LITTLE PIG WHO “CAME IN FROM THE COLD”
We have found, surprisingly, that when the “little people” are willing to take a risk and put their heads on the proverbial platter, the “big pigs” want a part of the feast. Such was the case of a nearby supermarket that sent their most discerning seemingly innocuous employee to befriend and question us in a casual mask of deception. Shortly after we naively acquiesced, the supermarket began carrying their own boutique blend of wines and gourmet coffees. Discouraged somewhat, we basked in the knowledge that we had in some respects more to offer than our neighboring big corporate fellows.
VII. THE DRUNK WHO CAME IN FROM THE NOT-SO-COLD
When you run a small restaurant you are bound to meet some first class characters on the “Redneck Riviera” (the affectionate name for Edisto Beach: like, those who strategically exited collapsing corporations accumulating a considerable amount of wealth, real estate moguls, hire pressured campaign managers, and international arms dealers, to mention a few.
One such individual who spent money freely and consumed two bottles of wine by himself and four when he was with his wife and daughter, often had to be, on occasion, escorted to his car and even driven home to his sprawling mint-perfect beach home. Since he had to figure out how to spend his excess excessive cash buyout, he talked extensively with Chuck about opening up a Hooters-type bar and restaurant in some back crevice of the island, so that he could spend his “too-much-time-on-his-hands” days gaping at round breasted young women. Chuck of course would be at the helm, preparing sumptuous dishes which would most likely take a strong second to the sexually suggestive waitress uniforms. Chuck politely declined. We were, however, asked to cater one of his lavish parties and witnessed first-hand this big boozer of a man slide down a 1.5 liter bottle of vodka smooth as a Russian wrestler at New Years, and film-fashion fade to black on a chaise.
VIII. FORCING THE HOLIDAY CHEER
When you are small-spaced, you need to be very creative to accommodate your customers and your pocket. Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dining is not very popular for restaurants in a resort location so we figured we would capitalize on the exclusivity of being the only restaurant open. People would reserve months, weeks, days and even attempt hours ahead to share in culinary bliss or at least the bliss of not having to cook a holiday meal. We always had two seatings and overbooked, forcing people to share in the Thanksgiving spirit by sharing their table. Thus, if you came by yourself, you were seated at a table of three. We saw friendships crystallize among couples, strangers before that night, who over the years became “holiday” friends, requesting to dine together year after year.
Valentine’s Day, another very popular holiday, was always ended by handing out a lovely red rose to the females. When a gay male or a gay female couple dined with us, we handed a rose to each partner, not wanting to offend.
IX. ORIGAMI MAN
A very distinguished and extraordinarily chivalrous man who was always accompanied by a tall slender attractive blonde about twenty years his junior; fell in love with our restaurant, which he would visit several times a year. Each time he brought a stack-full of dollar bills which he carefully and meticulously folded into intricate patterns and presented me and the waitress and eventually every diner with the tiniest origami pants, jackets, butterflies, and the like. We wondered whether he would subtract these artful dollars from the tip, but he never did. I have saved nearly every one minus those we handed out to children, and whenever we are feeling a little sad, we would take one out, hold it in the palms of our hand and say a generous prayer for his sincere and magic-like kindness.
X. ALL THAT AND A BABYSITTING SERVICE TOO?
We cannot stress enough the willingness to be the “creative morph.” This fluffy-sounding phenomenon masks well the underlying motive of survival. Restaurateurs, like teachers, sometimes have to be all things to all people. Trustworthy babysitters are not necessarily an easy find in a small populated tourist area. Parents ourselves, we hid a small 13-inch television behind the cash register to keep our then small son entertained. We occasionally informed parents of this unique service – they get to have a romantic dinner and we stick on a Barney tape to transfix, plop down a plate of fried chicken strips and everybody’s happy. Since we changed our name three times as we morphed from The Gallery Café, to the Gallery Café and Restaurant to simply the Gallery Restaurant, changing it again to the Gallery Restaurant and Babysitting Service wasn’t particularly appealing plus it wouldn’t fit across the front window so we stayed as is.
XI. HELP IS ON ITS WAY CLOSING DAY
One of the excitements of owning a restaurant, is knowing that you have contributed to, and even shared in a plethora of wonderful moments in people’s lives -- countless celebrations, rights-of-passage; memories that linger cell by invisible cell in four tiny walls that have embraced greatness in people’s lives, if even for a few moments, or a few hours. Shutting down the physical space was no match for the emotional attachment to the many patrons that entered into our living-room dining space and celebrated with us.
Two friends, one a child psychologist, and the other a pediatric oncologist turned psychiatrist, made sure to book their dinner early for the last night at The Gallery. Besides their love of our food, it appeared they had also planned to become the psychological cushion which we would sorely need in our moment of farewell to years of shared experiences with our patrons. Unexpectedly, the roles reversed. These expert counselors became genuinely distraught as they reminisced, and called it, as so many did, “the end of an era” (a five-year compression of relationships).
Closings can get messy. Our attempts to sell our restaurant were thwarted by a landlord was upset that we were deserting support his turf. He had planned on building a new real estate office for himself and wanted showcase us upstairs with a wraparound deck, as a complementary business attraction. By then we had a very enticing offer elsewhere; a story for another time.
XII. A LESSON HERE, A LESSON THERE
We learned plenty from our inaugural experience as restaurateurs.
First, a husband and wife really can work together, especially when the husband is patient and keeps the wife well-fed.
Second, small really is beautiful. In our society, the tendency is to think big, but small gives the owners control, makes for a homey environment, and allows them to get more personal … our space never outgrew us. Our desire for new challenges did.
Third, the notion that you can’t be all things to all people is totally untrue. Yeah, some people make it producing single items, but it is way more fun to be eclectic and diversified. Who wants to do the same thing over and over again? Creativity really is the spice of life.
Fourth, be ready to train your public. We started out as a coffee house, with a coffee cup logo. When we morphed to restaurant, it took us three years to get the public to fully adapt to the change. We didn’t totally plan on becoming what we were. We learned along the way and followed our passion. It happened organically, so give us a break.
Fifth, is to always have a sense of humor and don’t be afraid to tell them what they need, not necessarily what they want to hear.
When an elderly real estate tycoon known for his cantankerousness sat down to a bowl of our famous $5.95 she-crab soup and started complaining about the price, I bent over, began rubbing his back, and whispered gently into his ear, “You’ve worked hard to earn you the right to enjoy this soup so sit back and relax.”
BOOK III: IF WE GIVE YOU THESE RECIPES!
We have repatedly turned down people in the past who have begged and pleaded for some of our “secret” recipes, but now it seems fair game to allow people to have gourmet dinners cooked in their own personal microwaves, even if it does mean less eating out and personally causing a downturn in the economy. (Can it get any worse?)
