The building I rent for the restaurant needs a new roof, but under the deal I signed, I’m responsible for improvements and maintenance to the place. It seemed like a great deal six years ago when I opened the doors.
Now, with a roof that won’t likely make it another winter, life is piling on, and I’m not sure I can handle one more stress.
I pull into the empty lot of my place and thank God that Mags’s car is not already there. I’m going to have to eat some serious humble pie.
She’s going to be pissed I missed that meeting. I get an idea and pull out my phone. I pick out a small bouquet of flowers from the local florist. I don’t have Mags’s home address on me, so I think the better of it. I can’t exactly send her flowers to the restaurant, or people will think something’s going on between us.
Shit.
But there is someone I wouldn’t mind seeing again. Someone whose last name I don’t even know. I delete the order I started for Mags and pick out a bigger bouquet of tasteful flowers instead—nothing that screams “I’m a stalker in love.” More like, “I’m a classy dude who had fun fucking you last night and would love to know your last name.” I fill out the delivery instructions, including the room number and her first name. That should be enough for them to reach her. On the card, I type out:
Not as good as the kale, but… Thinking of you. B
I include my cell phone number, pay for the order, and slip my phone into my pocket. Then I peek inside the bag and count the peanut butter crisps. I’m going to need every one of them to stay on Mags’s good side.
4
WILLOW
When I checkmy phone after my presentation, I see a dozen missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. I grimace and am just about to check my voice mail, when a young woman from the audience confidently approaches me.
“Excuse me? Ms. Watkins?” The woman’s smile is friendly, so I slip my phone back into my purse and give her my full attention.
“Hi.” I hold out my hand, and we shake. “I’m Willow Watkins, but please, call me Willow.”
She nods. “I’m Maggie Tempestini.” She motions to the rows of folding chairs behind us. “I, uh, was hoping my boss would be here today, but he must have gotten—” she frowns “—distracted.”
I nod, sensing tension there but choosing not to comment on it. “Well, I’m glad you made it. Are you interested in the SBA grant?”
She nods again. “I manage a local restaurant with strong ties to the community. We’re family-owned, not corporate, and the owner trains and employs a lot of people with nontraditional backgrounds for careers in food service. Our oldest employee is in her eighties, and we have two bussers with developmentaldisabilities,” she says with no small amount of pride. “We make great food, and our people are treated very well, but the owner…” She bites her lower lip, the only glitch in her well-practiced speech. “His heart is bigger than his head.”
I’ve heard that so, so many times before. I conjure a vision of the countless restaurants like the one where Maggie works—the owner pulled in a thousand directions, things falling through the cracks. “Let me guess,” I say softly, leaning a little closer. “You badly need kitchen upgrades? You’re behind on vendor payments or rent?”
She shakes her head, and a hand flies to her throat. “No, thank God. No. It’s our roof. We’re renting the space, and we’re responsible under the lease for replacing the roof. I know Benito thinks we can make it another couple of winters, but the grant you’re offering would get us there so much faster.”
I break out into a grin when she says Benito’s. “Do you work at the local Italian place? Killer kale ravioli?”
Maggie’s mouth drops open, and she raises her brows. “You know about us?”
“I ate there last night,” I tell her. “It’s one of the few places people won’t stop telling me about.” I think back to the faded carpeting and Mom’s basement vibes that passed for the place’s decor. Benito’s was homey and inviting, not unlike dozens of restaurants like it across the country.
Maggie claps her hands. “So, maybe since I know you loved the kale… You did love it?”
I nod, a vision of a very naked busboy’s bare ass pressed against the glass wall of my hotel shower clouding my memories of the meal. I choke down a cough. “I did. I absolutely loved it,” I assure her.
“Well then, maybe—” Maggie clasps her hands together “—you can let me know what we need to do to have the very best chance of winning the grant?”
This, too, happens every year. The company I work for, Culinary Capital Partners, goes into cities and small towns after running the numbers. We evaluate a region’s demographics, infrastructure, socioeconomics, and lots of other variables. Then we select a market that appears ripe for a new restaurant or chain expansion opportunity. I’ve worked for the last eight years on the development side. After our numbers team makes the internal assessments and recommendations, we determine the type of restaurant most likely to be viable in that space.
We then lease or buy property, complete the renovations, do all the hiring, and open the doors with a very aggressive goal for the establishment breaking even within the first two years after opening. By year three, a majority of Culinary Capital restaurants are profitable. I get involved in the very critical period before the doors are open. Once we establish a site and a plan for the restaurant, I move in to the town for six months to a year to oversee the on-the-ground operations. My job is part general contractor, part bookkeeping, part HR, and all about the food. It’s why I love doing what I do.
Culinary Capital does a lot to give back to the communities. We’re a for-profit venture, and we do know how to make money. We’re selective about everything, and I have to be a bulldog on the ground, making sure construction or renovation costs stay on deadline and within budget. I recruit chefs and court discounts with vendors that ensure every project is a winner for the company’s bottom line.
But inevitably when we move into a town, the restaurants already in place suffer. A glossy new eatery will inevitably drive away customers, and sometimes struggling restaurants aren’t able to compete with the new, shiny place in town. Businesses have closed; people have lost their jobs. It’s the hard reality of doing what we do. In order for us to make money, sometimes, others lose it.
To offset the very bad blood that would otherwise exist between us and the food community in the cities we go into, I started a grant program, normally administered by the local small business association.
The grant varies in amount by region and location, but any restaurant that might be impacted by our move into the market is eligible to apply for a no-strings-attached grant. Some of the grant recipients take the money and send their head chef to a special training program, so they can expand their menu or modernize their food handling practices.
