“What if we did karaoke every Friday?” Raya asked on the phone the next morning.
I tried not to immediately shut down that idea. Tried to seriously consider it. But I couldn’t for long. “That’s not really our crowd. We’re bordering on high-end.”
“True,” she said. “What do these annoying food critics want from us?”
We’d gotten another average review overnight. This time from a popular social media critic. “We’re in Los Angeles. They want an experience with their food.” We had spent so much time perfecting the menu: tasting and reworking and tasting and reworking and tasting and reworking. We hadn’t put as much effort into the space itself. By the time we’d ordered tables and had the beautiful bar built and picked out the perfect chairs, the money was all but gone. We’d spent the last of it on generic art, figuring the food would be enough. The food was apparently not enough. People wanted all their senses wowed.
“Let’s have a brainstorming session with our waitstaff and chef and ask for ideas.”See, Dr. Franklin, I could ask for help.
“Sounds good,” Raya said.
“Good luck with the interviews later.”
“What interviews?”
“The ones for—”
“Just kidding, Sutton. I remember. I’m doing a decent job over here. I can’t wait for you to come back, but I’m holding it together.”
“I know you are. Thank you.”
We hung up and I rejoined my mom in the living room. “We have physical therapy in a couple hours,” I said.
“Only one of us has physical therapy in a couple hours,” she responded.
“True.”
She nodded and then closed her eyes as if the nod made her dizzy.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Mom,” I said, remembering yesterday’s therapy session and how it reminded me that she used to do antique shoppingand thrift shopping and all the unique finds she’d made. She had style. Maybe not so much anymore, but when she’d been interested in that. “When you go to a restaurant, what kind of atmosphere do you like?”
“Are you upset over the review?”
How did she know I’d gotten another review? “Do you have me on Google Alerts?”
“Yes, I actually do,” she said. “This one wasn’t as bad as the last one.”
It felt just as bad because, before, we’d told ourselves it was just one opinion. We couldn’t say that anymore.
“I don’t know what kids like these days,” she said, answering my question about atmosphere.
“But what do you like? Middle-aged people visit our restaurant a lot.”
“Is the music too loud? Is it too dark?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“That’s what my friends always complain about.”
“But what do you like to see? You, personally.”
“I don’t know. The menu. I can’t fix all your problems for you, Sutton.”
Was she being difficult on purpose, trying to misunderstand me? Or was this just who she was?
