Some
melancholy Friday reading, as we consider which
Restaurant Week esablishments we'll visit this weekend.
One day, the light was streaming in, the air smelled like coffee and
garlic, people were lunching and brunching and bonding over warm arepas.
The next day, black shades were drawn low. The outdoor menu case
displayed only a few loops of Scotch tape. A sign in the window said
simply "sorry, we're closed." The only remnant of the restaurant that
had operated there for several years was its name, on a faded oblong
sign, hovering outside, crooked and ghostly high.
It's a familiar phenomenon in downtown Houston, where high rents and
slow weekends seem to shutter restaurants almost as fast as new high
rises and loft space can lure new ones.
It's the nature of things, I know, where capitalism is concerned. The
owners don't die. They move on. Maybe they find a cheaper place to
rent, maybe they buy a food truck. We learn more from our failures than
our successes and all that jazz.
But it never gets easier to watch the very slow, very public demise of somebody's dream.
It's hard to watch the pattern play out, and the first signs -
sometimes, quite literally - of trouble. Large, banner-like signs may
appear announcing a new happy hour special or breakfast deal. The
quality of the food and the service drops off. There may be changes in
the menu or the name of the place, or both.
The worst part is the eyes. The all-too-eager eyes of Mom or Pop, or
the manager, or the waiter-slash-cashier-slash-busboy, who is pitifully
overjoyed to see the first customer in hours. I've reluctantly avoided
places because I can no longer bear the eyes, like those of ushers
passing out bulletins at a dying church.
After they close, it's hard to get past the fact that there was
something there yesterday that is gone today. A concrete manifestation
of somebody's sweat and tears that is now a soulless shell awaiting the
next tenant.
It's my nostalgia speaking, I suppose. Or maybe it's the former
busgirl in me who once watched her parents' dream vanish with the water
from the steam table in that cafeteria-style place they used to own in
Seguin.
I've been that busboy, that waiter (but it was someone else's parents, not my own). The best thing I learned from the experience was that I never wanted to own a restaurant. I have much admiration for those who do, even just a food truck, and certainly know that a few of those who have made comfortable livings in the business -- locals named
Pappas or Laurenzo or Cordua -- have to be as lucky as they are good.
I'll pick back up with Lisa Falkenberg in a minute. I just wanted to relate what pulled this post together: the microbrewery in downtown Houston that had its lease cancelled after it was discovered that they had
sponsored a game of Naked Twister, and the closing,
after almost 85 years, of a little downtown Beaumont cafe.
One of those tales is funny sad, the other is just nostalgic. Back to Lisa F and her story.
My parents had already begun to struggle with the place. They were
hurting, but they were happy - it was the first time in their married
life when they could be together, work together, all day long.
The food was great. The biscuits were tall, the cobbler addictive,
the brisket melted in your mouth. But my parents weren't natural
business people. They probably spent too much time getting to know
customers and too little time strategizing. It didn't help that the
restaurant was in a slow part of town and its cafeteria-style ambiance
wasn't designed for a nighttime crowd.
One night, my parents decided to open late for a fish fry. They
spread the word. They advertised. I'm sure there was a banner or a sign
of some kind outside.
They brought me along to help with tables in case the crowd grew too
large. After a long day, Mom and Oma stood in the kitchen frying piles
of catfish filets battered in cornmeal.
The doors opened. The clock began to tick. I remember looking through
the double glass doors, at first expecting a passing car to slow down,
and then praying for one.
An hour passed. Then another. My parents' eyes took on that desperate
weight. I retreated to a back room to start a book. When I finished it,
I came out to find my folks emptying the silver steam table containers.
Not one filet had been bought. They hadn't had one customer the whole
night.
I remember thinking that the only thing more painful than the thought
of someday losing my parents was standing there, watching them lose.
Greasy spoon diners tucked into shoestore-size crannies of downtown -- or hipster brewpubs, as the case may be -- have been around since there were downtowns. Every one I've ever spent time in has had one. In Midland, it was called
The Spot. These places always have a colorful history. But when they aren't downtown, they have an even tougher go of it, of course.
They tried and failed many more times before finally selling the
place for a fraction of what they put into it. My dad turned to
long-haul trucking. I never saw another smile on his face like the one
he wore daily at that little barbecue place, cutting down a ring of
sausage for somebody that he had dried in his own smokehouse.
That experience left me with sadness but also respect for all the
Moms and Pops out there who put their hearts and their savings into a
dream and then muddle through the daily struggle of keeping it alive.
It's risky, it's scary, it's lonely, it's stressful. And people do it every day. Everywhere.
I make a point to eat local and shop local when I can. But I don't
stop nearly enough and say "thanks." Thanks for this food, for this
place, for this tired smile.
Franchise fast food is for the birds, y'all. (It's not all that good for them, either.)
