How To Open A Restaurant
Some assembly required. Silverware not included.
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MAY 17: Lisa’s fit to be tied. She expected to have a liquor license by now, but instead the TABC has kicked their application back for more investor information. “I just want to yell!” she says. The conversation turns to soft-drink suppliers. Brian’s having a hard time with Coke. “They’re prima donnas,” he says. Somebody else says, “Oh, they’re just jerks.” Kasey says, “Yeah, soda jerks,” and everybody cracks up. Lisa announces she’s going shopping for bargain bathroom fixtures.
MAY 23: Fino’s liquor license may have been sucked into the TABC twilight zone, but the restaurant eventually will need a wine list, and that calls for—wine tastings. Boris has been doing them systematically for weeks. His goal is to create a list of eighty wines evenly divided between white and red, ranging from $20 to $75. Around three o’clock he strolls into Fino with five wineglasses laced between his fingers, followed by Tristan with two Asti pizzas. We are meeting with Dana Harkrider, a rep from Ambiente wine distributors, to taste Spanish and Italian wines. While she sets up, Boris gets out some notepaper. In thirty minutes we’ve sampled five wines, some nice, others so-so. The last is a D’Anguera Finca L’Argata 2002, a Syrah-Cabernet blend from Spain. Boris inhales deeply. Glancing over his shoulder, I can see him writing “Violets plus plums…a beautiful nose.” He takes a sip and scribbles some more: “Brooding yet lush.” Have we been dropped into a scene from Sideways? Boris grins. “Like Marlene Dietrich’s eyes,” he jokes. He wants this wine bad, and Dana knows it. They wheel and deal, but tragically, Marlene Dietrich does not make it onto the wine list.
JUNE 7: Uh-oh. Somewhere along the way, numerous small construction delays have added up; the finish date is now JUNE 27. Meanwhile, it’s breezy up here on Fino’s patio, waiting for job applicants to show up. Ads have been running for the 36 positions that are available—13 in the kitchen, plus 23 servers, hosts, and bartenders. The mostly twentysomething interviewees are a mixed bag—some clean-cut, others who look as if they just rolled out of bed. Emmett says, “It’s amazing to me that eighty percent of them didn’t bring pens or pencils!” Boris and Brian are hiring the waiters, asking questions such as “Do you read cookbooks or cooking magazines?” and “Have you been criticized for anything?” After listening for a while, I can predict whom they will hire—those with experience and a smile and who don’t seem terminally neurotic. But I’m surprised at whom Emmett and Tristan approve of. Initially, I’d assumed they would favor innovative cooks with strong ideas. Turns out that’s the kiss of death. Yes, they insist on excellent skills, but they’re rejecting anyone who wants to do things his way. Their attitude: Fino is our vision, dude; if you want to be creative, go raise half a million dollars and open your own damn restaurant.
JUNE 21: Amazing. The walls were painted two weeks ago, and furniture in Kasey’s edgy colors has started to arrive. It really does look like a restaurant; even the long, tall community table is in place. Emmett, however, is steamed over something else. “C’mere,” he says to me. A plumber has installed water pipes precisely where the custom-built walk-in cooler is supposed to go. Worse, the walk-in is missing in action: The man who was supposed to have ordered it has stopped returning Emmett’s calls. This is major: If the walk-in doesn’t come, construction can’t be finished, the final health inspection won’t happen, and the restaurant can’t open. If the restaurant isn’t open, there’s no money to pay salaries, rent, and overhead except for the line of credit at the bank.
JUNE 27: The bad news is that construction was supposed to wrap today—and doesn’t. The good news is that the errant cooler has been ordered and will arrive JULY 1, supposedly. But, hey, the deep-orange carpet and the blond-wood bar are in and looking good. Outside, two guys in a cherry picker are painting the words “FINO Restaurant Patio Bar” on the wall. Downstairs, Brian is running a three-day orientation session for the new hires, going over the sixteen-page employee’s manual that he has written. (Under the section on appearance are the following Austin-centric rules: “No facial piercing,” “No gum chewing,” “No dark glasses.”) Part of the orientation is a fifty-item wine quiz, courtesy of Boris. (Sample questions: “From what grape varietal is Sancerre made?” “Name five German viticultural regions.” “Define ‘dosage.’”) Merde! Who but a sommelier could pass this monster?
JUNE 28: Lisa is freaking out. The liquor license still hasn’t been approved. If they don’t have it by opening night, they can kiss a third of their sales good-bye until it arrives. Downstairs, Brian is trying to bolster the morale of the new staff after just about everybody failed Boris’s exam. Emmett and Lisa’s dog, Lottie, ambles around the meeting room nuzzling everyone—cold comfort if you didn’t know a noble grape from a bunghole.
JULY 1: I can hardly believe we’ve come so far: Tristan is actually ordering food and supplies—chickpeas, pistachio nuts, feta cheese, sea salt, truffle oil, figs, arborio rice, four kinds of paprika, white anchovies, pea shoots, and fresh mozzarella, not to mention trash bags, scrubbies, and cleaning rags. Of course, nothing can be delivered until the walk-in arrives. It’s like being trapped in Waiting for Godot.
JULY 5: Hallelujah! The walk-in came three days ago and is now installed. Fino will go live next Monday night, six days from now. In the meantime, there are dozens of nitpicky things to correct. For one thing, the seats on the lounge chairs have to be exchanged because they’re way too small. Somebody jokes, “I’d need a chair for each cheek.” There’s one more city inspection left, scheduled for Thursday. Tristan is bouncing up and down on his toes. “Once it’s done,” he says, “it’s ready steady spaghetti.”
JULY 8: Break out the champagne. “The TABC approved us!” Lisa announces, all smiles. More good news: The final city inspection happened yesterday morning. But there’s still so much to do that opening night has now been postponed from Monday to Tuesday. Meanwhile, the aroma of baking pita bread wafts from the kitchen. In the dining room Michael, Kasey, Emmett, and Lisa are doing the final walk-through with the contractor’s reps. Halfway through, somebody notices that—how can this be?—Tristan’s name is written on the community table. Oh, no! The day before, he signed a carbon-paper form on the table, and the ink has penetrated its shiny surface. They try scrubbing it with water, saliva, window cleaner, lacquer thinner, bleach, paint remover, and a scary-sounding solvent named High-Flash Naphtha-150. Nothing works. At least Tristan’s handwriting is small.
JULY 9: The young cooks who got the coveted jobs a month ago are learning all the new recipes, finding their way around the kitchen, and looking shell-shocked. Tristan is running the show now, and Emmett is trying to keep his mouth shut, although it’s pretty hard when you’re used to being the daddy. At three o’clock, the service staff is coming in for a mass tasting, and the kitchen staff is rushing to prepare every single dish on the menu. It’s a madhouse, but there’s really no choice. Food and liquor have been bought, and the meter is running. If they don’t get this place open, they’re screwed.
JULY 11: Fino’s “soft opening,” a complimentary feed for the investors and some 75 other invited guests, happens tonight. With candles flickering on the tables and a huge vase of flowers on the hostess stand, the restaurant looks stunning. The servers are wearing their new black T-shirts with “FINO” across the front, and you can see them nervously smiling and straining to remember what Brian has taught them: Put the menus down at a 45-degree angle across the place settings; don’t drip ice water on the guests when you fill their glasses. My three friends and I are having a fine time and enjoying the food (which, by the way, is excellent), except for the fact that, well, to tell you the truth, it’s starting to feel a little warm in here. Is the air conditioner on? By eight-thirty the temperature must be 95 degrees, and we’re all sweating like John Goodman. At about nine-thirty the AC finally cranks up again—just before a tremendous CRASH resounds from the kitchen. A huge shelf of plates has pulled loose from the wall and smashed into a million pieces. Murphy’s Law is kicking in right on schedule.
JULY 12: The big night: The restaurant welcomes its first patrons. Thank God the air conditioning has been fixed. When I arrive, Brian opens the door with a flourish and says, “Welcome to Fino!” In the kitchen, Tristan is cleaning salmon filets. Lisa is in the dining room hugging friends, looking dazed and happy. Emmett is alternately chatting with customers and expediting orders at the pass-through, yelling, “Trout—let’s go!” Outside, the neighborhood folks who have been watching the construction for week after week are wandering in to check it all out. Boris says, “I’ll bet by the end of the evening we have twenty-five paying customers.” I’ll bet he’s right. For some reason, I stick around far longer than I need to, talking to Lisa, drinking sherry, finally closing my reporter’s notebook altogether. The truth is, I’m having a little attack of postpartum depression. I don’t want it to be over. When I finally walk out the door at nine o’clock, two more parties are coming in, and I hear Emmett shouting, “Hey, Tristan! It’s a two-top and a six-top.” Fino is open for business.
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