“I’m picking you up in twenty minutes. Wear comfortable shoes.”
He hung up before I could argue.
Twenty minutes later, we were in Mark’s truck heading to a restaurant supply warehouse in Tampa that Mark swore had the best prices. The place was enormous, filled with industrial everything—stoves, refrigerators, dishwashers, prep tables, and shelving units that could survive a nuclear blast.
“We need a commercial range,” I said, consultingmy list. “Six burners minimum and a flat-top grill.”
“What about this one?” Mark was already halfway across the warehouse, pointing at something that looked like it belonged in a spaceship.
“That’s a combi oven. We don’t need a combi oven.”
“But look at it. It’s shiny.”
“Mark, no.”
“You’re no fun.”
We spent three hours there. Mark wanted to buy everything. I tried explaining that leasing our equipment might make more financial sense and preserve our piggy bank, but he was about as focused as one of his dogs entering a dog park.
I had to physically restrain him from purchasing a soft-serve ice cream machine.
“We’re a bar, not a Dairy Queen.”
“But what if we wanted to do boozy milkshakes?” He pouted.
“We don’t have the budget for boozy milkshakes.”
“We could make it part of the budget—”
“No.”
By the end of the day, we’d ordered a commercial range, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, prep tables, and approximately seventeen other things I’d need a forklift to move. The salesman loved us. My anxiety about the budget was doing backflips.
Wednesday was glassware day. I’d found a wholesale supplier online that sold everything from pint glasses to cocktail coupes. Mark and I spent four hours picking out what we needed.
This should have been simple. It was not.
“We need basic pint glasses,” I said. “Sixteen ounce, nothing fancy.”
“What about these with the textured bottom?”
“Those cost three times as much.”
“But they look cooler.”
“Mark.”
“Fine. Basic it is.” He moved to the next shelf. “What about rocks glasses?”
“Twelve ounce, standard.”
“These have a weighted bottom.” A pause. “Ha, I said, ‘bottom.’”
I ignored my junior high partner. “So do the standard ones.”
“But these are more weighted.”
“I’m going to weight you to the bottom of the bay if you don’t stop.”
