The Smell of the Grease Trap, The Roar of the Crowd

At the height of his career, my father was the CEO of a very successful advertising agency in New York City. Rising through the ranks via the mailroom, he was a true self-made man. He had a corner office on an upper floor of a Madison Avenue skyscraper with panoramic views of Central Park. The office was decorated in tasteful antiques alongside the memorabilia of famous ad campaigns that he had been involved with over the years. My father wore suits that were custom made by an Italian tailor, had his lunch brought to him on a silver tray by a butler on staff and a chauffeur to drive him to home.

My father loved what he did and never lost the passion for it. Sadly, his partnership with French investors in the business soured and one day he was locked out of his office in the sky and told that his services were no longer required. A humiliating and painful event to go through but with the help of shark attorneys he received an excellent settlement and at least in terms of finances, he was in very good standing.

For years after that he did some consulting work and sat on the board of other corporations. He always stayed current and kept up with his network of business associates. And though these were all stimulating it was never the same as being where he was. He did not miss the driver or the Cobb salad under the silver dome.  He missed the daily action and the people that he had built relationships with over the years. 

I have been blessed by having a father who has always taken great interest in everything I ever did. He always knew exactly where my brothers and I have been in our careers. He loves to give advice. Sometimes he can be a little heavy handed with it, and I don’t always agree with him but he always has my best interest at heart and I trust him implicitly.

When my partnership in my first business, a bakery/cafe went down the tubes, my father was my greatest supporter. He was one of our investors and had started questioning some of my partner’s ethics. When the whole thing came to a head and I took action to leave, my father was the ear that was there for me. Having been betrayed by partners himself, he knew what I was going through. His faith in me helped me through a horrible chapter in my life.

I still had the burning desire to have my own business. My father and I would have lunch at the diner and talk about it. He had liked that little taste he’d had with my prior business and was very gung-ho to help me get a new one going. We pored over ideas and started to write a business plan. Once he got his money out of the other place, he would reinvest it with me. I took out a home equity loan on my house and the seeds of my cafe began then.

I really didn’t want another partner. This was going to be my baby. I named the place after myself. I chose my colors that I love, my food, my atmosphere, my me-ness was everywhere. Aside from the money though, my father was that person I could always trust so we talked numerous times every day as this concept took shape. As it got close to opening, my father started saying that he “had too much skin in this thing to not be involved in the operation”. He loved to tell people that I was his boss. His new title that he proudly displayed on his card was “Business Manager”

My pops had been bitten by the bug.

The cafe itself was beautiful, the kitchen was fantastic. The office was the armpit of the place though. It was a room probably a third of the size of my father’s walk-in closet at home. Fluorescent lighting, a built in desk with two cheap office chairs from Staples and a file cabinet. Shelves above, computer on the desk and tangles of wires everywhere. When my father and Ann, our bookkeeper would be working in there it was comical if one of us had to get in our out, squeezing behind the chairs. It was a far cry from the corner office in the sky.

But he loved it. Loved it. He would pull up in his Audi convertible and walk in with his slight shuffle that he had developed with age. Gone were the Armani suits, replaced by a red fleece vest and his keys on a string around his neck along with his Stop ‘n Shop card. He was in love with the fact that he could make his own decaf espresso on our shiny machine. Grinding the beans, brewing and emptying out the handle, banging it on the knock box. No longer was he a civilian on the sidelines. He was part of the restaurant crew.

Then he would walk through and greet everyone. He had something to say to each person there. Always interested in what they were doing. Always looking for a taste of whatever they were working on. If it was lunch time he had his usual, so whether it was me or another cook on the line, he had his scoop of the curried chicken salad on romaine with Caesar dressing. If it was earlier in the day he would go next door to the bagel store, another family owned business. They always insisted on giving his bagel to him for free, while he would stay and shoot the shit about baseball with the guys.

In time though, he started to make me nuts. Forty five year old women really cannot spend that much time with their fathers. Sometimes when he was making that decaf espresso (slowly) it would be in the middle of a lunch rush. Servers would have to work around him, it was tight back there and he was really in the way. He would want to talk to them too, also not a good idea at the moment. If I was in the kitchen, I would shoo him away as I was inundated with tickets. That curried chicken salad would have to wait a bit. “Look, I cannot talk right now, ok?” became my response when he had some idea that he felt was of the utmost importance that just could not wait.

He loved to go through the dining room and talk to customers. Most of them thought he was wonderful and were very charmed by him. I however, would watch and see him standing in between our very closely spaced tables engaged in conversation with the diners. They would be looking up at him, talking while their food was getting cold. I invented the “five minute rule”. I had a little window in the kitchen and if I saw him hanging out a little too long, I would stick out my hand with my fingers spread, “five minute! five minute!”, like a mean old Cantonese housewife. He’d see the symbol and would reluctantly move on. From what I gathered, much of the conversation was about me. What a great cook I am, how I used to work for Martha Stewart, was on tv...Ughh. I felt like an embarrassed, whiny tween again. “Pop!”

Part of what tried my patience with him was how he seemed to treat this little cafe like a Fortune 500 company. We needed to place an ad to promote our catering. He sent me a draft that was about a quarter page in the newspaper, loaded with copy plus a large shot of me. It was a Sunday and I was on the line for brunch that day. I was overwhelmed by the ad. What we needed was a small box that would give a little information, logo and contact. He had “ Ten reasons why Margot should cater your next event”. I was mortified, and in between flipping omelets I was arguing with him on the phone. Finally, when service was over and we closed for the day, he and I got into a real screaming match on the phone. He threatened to quit if I did not need his services. I felt terrible. Partner drama, once again.

Within the next day, cooler heads prevailed but it left some bruises on us.

He didn’t play around when it came to communicating with employees. He could be brutally honest, whereas I was a little more diplomatic. Our prima donna pastry chef had been increasingly vocal with her little nitpicky complaints. I had gotten to the point that whenever I would pass by her station I would pick up my pace, cringing when if I heard her screechy voice call out my name.

It was two days before our sold out Easter brunch when she got into it with my father. She was relentless, following him up the stairs to the office bitching all the way. Finally he turned around to face her and called her a “fucking bully”.  She walked out moments later. Delicate geniuses do not like having swear words directed at them.

Though it was a challenge to get through that brunch, with the help of another chef buddy of mine, we pulled it off. When she came crawling back the next day, I told her to pack the rest of her stuff.

My father and I seem to do best when we face a common enemy. When the pastry chef filed for unemployment benefits, we challenged her and won. A small victory that was as sweet as her delicious cinnamon rolls.

Another time he was talking to our head waitress, about something that was minor and a matter of opinion like a preference for french fries. He said in a joking way, “well that’s just low-class!” I know that he thought he was evoking  Elvis Presley or Johnny Cash lyrics. This particular gal however, lived in a women’s shelter with her two small children and was a little sensitive to words such as those. Again, I had to talk someone off the ledge and back into the building.

With all the daily trials and tribulations though, we shared something that we had created. There were those nights when the candles were lit and the room sparkled, filled with happy customers dining on delicious food. The sounds of conversation, glasses clinking and Brazilian jazz in the background were heard. The wait staff would be on their game, smiling while they gently popped corks out of wine bottles or steamed milk at the espresso machine. I had designed that room to have flattering light for women and sound that was background and never overpowering. In the kitchen, we had our rhythm with enough tickets to keep us moving but not so many to overwhelm. The plates looked beautiful, with the colors that I had envisioned, framed by the white china- garnishes just so.

And my father would beam, if he was on good behavior he would observe the five minute rule. When he saw me humming away at cooking he would keep conversation to a minimum. We’d smile and share our pride. Later in the evening, when all was quiet and the only people left were myself and the dishwasher who was mopping the floor, I would call him to give him the day’s total. Those were good times.

When the economy crashed and our clients and customers all started to cut back on spending it hit us hard. Our landlord would not play ball with us and our rent went up while our profits went down. My father would dump money in to help cover payroll, and I had not seen a paycheck in some time. We knew we could not go on like this.

My father’s lack of diplomacy showed again when in a meeting with the landlord he called him a “prick”. Though I used gentler tactics, frankly the guy was being one.

What came to pass is how close my father and I became again in the face of adversity. With a bittersweet mixture of regret and relief, we started making plans to close the business. I made arrangements with a liquidator to sell all of the equipment. Though we would barely make any money, we made up for it in satisfaction. After we quietly closed our doors, the employees and I had a party where we ate all of the remaining food, drank some wine, smoked cigars and said our goodbyes. The next day I had everything disconnected, big trucks showed up and removed it all. It was our Pearl Harbor on the landlord, before he had a chance to lock us out. It was a Sunday, our lawyer came by on his motorcycle to give support. The look on the landlord’s face was worth the loss to see that he wouldn’t be able to get his greedy hands on our stuff. He eventually did get it back (he was building his own restaurant next door) but it cost him. 

The last day we were ever at the cafe, my pop and I were still going through stuff. He was shuffling along, bringing every single bottle of wine downstairs from storage. I was taking care of small wares. We were loading our cars and tying up loose ends. Suddenly the landlord’s lackey showed up and threatened us. It was time for us to get out of Dodge. I will always have that picture in my mind of my father, bagel in hand shuffling along as we made our escape.

“C’mon, Pop, we gotta get out of here!”, I urgently exclaimed.

An hour later we were sitting on the stoop of my home. According to our lawyer we were now officially locked out. My biggest regret was that I did not get the espresso machine out in time. Other than that, the landlord got butkus.

Our escape had brought us closer together. Within time, my father and I went back to our normal relationship. Looking back now we both see mistakes we made that perhaps would have changed the outcome of the business. While it cost us both financially and in our personal lives, it had been a gift that we had given each other. His support of me in the worst of times along with the funding, had let me live out a dream. It was time for me to move in a new direction in my career. Since then I have moved to New York City where I have become a culinary instructor and love what I do. Pop came home to my mother waiting with open arms and their dog with a wagging tail. My gift to him was making him feel important, vital, excited to be somewhere everyday again. The opportunity to be charming to customers and to swear at our enemies made him come alive for the first time since his Madison Avenue days. While it may not have been as elegant, it was excitement for a man who just loved the chance to be back in the game.