“Right…” Lou says, screwing his eyes up skeptically. “But you want to build a restaurant, not just sell local fruits and vegetables. You can do that at a farmers’ market.”
“Yes,” I say, still grasping at straws as my nerves go into overdrive. “But those are just the ingredients, the foundation for the menu. See, the problem is that most restaurants here don’t celebrate what’s great about this place. If you walk into any nice restaurant in the city you’ll find caviar from Iran, imported stracchino, kobe beef from Japan—all prepared according to recipes the French and Italian invented.”
“I don’t know,” Andre says, laughing. “Caviar and Italian cheese sounds pretty good to me!”
“Wait,” Lou interrupts, even more concerned now, “is this going to be some kind of farm-to-table, organic food thing then? Because that doesn’t sound very exciting. We’ve seen plenty of that around here.”
“No,” Tony says quickly. “This is nothing like those quasi-healthy fast food quinoa joints.”
“Actually, the local organic thing isn’t too far from it,” I say, ignoring the look of panic now on Tony’s face. “I only cook with ingredients I like. And that means stuff that’s sustainable, fresh. Not frozen in the back of a truck for a two thousand mile trip.”
Tony shakes his head at me, then quickly turns his attention back to the investors.
“The organic food thing is just a base-level thing. It’s not the selling point! The selling point is the fact that we’re the best chefs in the state. Our menu’s gonna be…innovative.”
Andre and Lou look at each other and laugh as if we’re putting on entertainment.
“Really now?” Lou says.
“Yeah,” I say, getting a little irritated and somehow gaining confidence in the process. “It is. And we are.”
Seeing the sincerity in my face, and hearing the firm confidence in my voice, both of their smiles fade immediately.
“I’ve worked in the best places in the city,” Tony says. “I’m not some naïve debutante—I know exactly what our competition is because I’ve cooked with most of them. And I’m telling you we can blow them out of the water. You’ve heard of Knife, yes?”
“Sure,” Lou says. “Cole Chambers, right? We’ve been there a couple of times. The place is flawless.”
“Then you’ve already tried Willow’s food, probably,” Tony says with a poker hand smile. “She’s one of the best chefs there. Sure, Cole Chambers is the pretty face at the front, the guy who takes the credit, but who do you think is actually cooking the food in the back?” Tony points a sly finger in my direction. “And let me tell you, she’s given him more than a few ideas, too.”
Now I’m the one looking at Tony like he’s crazy. What is he talking about? I didn’t even tell him about the Basque burgers…
His bluff seems to work though, as Andre and Lou exchange a glance, uncertain of how to take us, no more entertained laughs now. Lou clears his throat, wringing his hands.
“I’m not really seeing it still. It’s gonna be high-class like Knife, but it’s gonna have organic, local food? It’s gonna compete with Michelin starred restaurants but it’s not gonna have things like caviar on the menu?”
“Fine,” I say, smiling as if I care much less than I really do. “If you wanna do the whole ‘bourgeois, faux-European dining experience’ thing then there are a thousand chefs that could do that for you. You wanna make a restaurant that’s just like Knife? Just like a dozen other places in the city? Go ahead. But don’t be surprised if people still choose to eat at Knife.”
“Right,” Tony says, pointing at me, strength in his voice now as he finds his angle. “We’re gonna do something totally unique, totally different. And we’re gonna do it so well that you’ll never want to eat caviar again.”
“Imagine this,” I cut in. “You go to dinner at Knife, where you stand in line for forty minutes before getting seated at a cramped corner table where you spend the next two hours in the dark just so you can have the ‘privilege’ of eating a teaspoon of overpriced imported caviar and a miniature steak drowning in heavy sauce, with—of all things—fried potatoes on the side. You go home, you feel heavy. You feel like you overpaid. And the worst thing is: You’re still hungry.”
Lou nods gravely and Andre rubs his chin thoughtfully. I feel like a total jerk throwing Cole’s restaurant under the bus like this, but sometimes you have to exaggerate things to get your point across.
“Now imagine this. You walk into our restaurant—it’s a bright space filled with natural light, exposed wood beams overhead and potted succulents on the walls. You’re seated immediately, and the rotating menu tonight offers a carefully curated selection of west coast comfort food prepared with the freshest organic ingredients and cooked by some of the best chefs in the country.”
“What exactly is west coast comfort food?” Andre asks, his face skeptical.
“How about golden fried free range chicken with local sage blossom honey and chili, coated with chopped peanuts and served alongside crisp asparagus and flash-fried sweet-potato croquettes in lemon and dill sauce,” I say breathlessly, the menu items I’ve dreamed of serving for so long spilling out of me in a dreamy rush.
Andre lets out a quiet ‘yum’ across the table, and I know at least one of them is on board.
Tony leans forward, picking up where I left off. “Or maybe you opt for the slow-roasted red bell peppers stuffed with chili con carne cooked to perfection off a cinnamon base. Or the avocado and grapefruit salad with rosewater and herb dressing and pan-toasted almonds.”
Then I cut in, “And for appetizers we have carnitas nachos with slivered pineapple, house-made kale chips with lemon tahini, and fresh baked rosemary focaccia or sourdough rolls for people to choose from. And these are just our preliminary ideas.”
“I get it! California comfort food.” Even Lou looks liable to drool now. “You’re making me hungry, and I just ate,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s joking.
But despite the compliment, both of them are still looking us over critically, like they’re not quite sure what to make of our pitch.
“So…?” Tony says, glancing back and forth between them.
“Well,” Andre says, “this is the part where we tell you we’ll think it over.”
Something sinks in me. I know what that means. I’ve been through this before.
The deal is off.
“Wait!” I say, quickly pulling out my phone and scrolling through notes. “I did do a few mental calculations, looking at some possible locations online, thinking about what our initial outlay might be for the first six months in terms of operating budget. It was just some back-of-the-envelope numbers but if you’d like to get a general sense of—”
“That’s fine,” Andre says, holding up his palm. “We’ve seen everything we need to see here.”
I swallow and lower my phone, body almost shaking with nerves and the agony of our failure, not even hearing the small talk Tony makes with them as we say our goodbyes and make our way through the lobby, back out through the revolving doors before Tony explodes into gasps of released energy.
“Holy shit,” he says, almost panting.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Tony. I don’t know what came over me. That was awful.”
“What are you talking about?” Tony says, putting his arm around me.
“I don’t know why I always go off like that when I’m talking about food, I just can’t help myself when it comes to ingredients. I really apologize.”
“Are you kidding?” Tony says, laughing. “That’s why I brought you! That ‘foodie passion’ thing you do? It was awesome! They loved it.”
“I doubt it. That sounded like a ‘thanks but no thanks’ to me. They didn’t even let me tell them about the plan, price ranges, what kind of location we wanted. You think they would have just dismissed all that if they were seriously considering giving us a chance?”