And Here We Are...

After an epic two weeks I've made it.

Home, sweet home to New York.

To be honest, my body feels like bombed-out London after The Blitz. A Luftwaffe of decadent food, cheap beer, a 15-hour road trip, and little sleep have left me unable to process thoughts more complex than hunger or fatigue. But what I can gather in my shell-shocked state is that I have made the right choice. It was a difficult one to leave so many friends, and a city I called home for six years behind, but it was most certainly time to start the next phase of my life.

But my existential satisfaction is uninteresting compared to the aforementioned hedonistic food fest I've been going through the last couple weeks.

See, a lot of people I know created a bucket list that involved experiencing things you could only do in Chicago, e.g. the Sears/Willis Tower, Millennium Park, a Cubs or Sox game, Second City, Lake Michigan, all that jazz. When it came time for me and Wilson to leave Chicago, we strove to create an epic gastronomic tour of the city that would let us experience the wondrous food culture of Chicago.

Unfortunately, we grossly underestimated our own capacity for gluttony and our ineptitude in terms of packing.

Our ambitious gorging fell short. We didn't come close to going to all the places we had intended to. But we did hit the classics and a few new spots. Now as you know, I don't really do restaurant reviews. I have neither the qualifications, the gumption nor the desire to critique someone else's work like that. But I like to try to understand restaurants and glean a little helpful advice from them.

At the heart of any good restaurant is a soul. A restaurant is a projection of someone's desire to care for and nurture others. How they choose to do so will inevitably present itself in the decor, the food, the atmosphere, the employees, the general "feel" of the place. A soulless chain restaurant, a purely money-making endeavor will also show its true colors, and though they may get by on pure volume and aggressiveness alone, I think they are truly sad and unworthy places.

Now a restaurant can range anywhere from a dive joint, replete with kitschy decor, simple food and loud music to an austere temple of cuisine; quiet as a library with silverware costing a few months' rent, and a holistic sense to the whole event. We didn't really get around to any of the latter, and given the pounding my bank account has taken, I won't be doing so any time soon. And you may think that there is the most to be learned from these so-called "temples" as they garner the most respect and praise in the food world. And that may be true. But I don't think a simple "dive joint" deserves any less attention or that is has any less to offer. After all what truly measures success is how long your doors open, and how excited people are to come through them night after night. The color and the appearance don't matter.

Let me talk briefly about Hot Doug's and Kuma's Corner. From an outsider's view, all you can see is the strange decor (Elvis and obnoxiously bright primary colors, Death Metal and dark wood bars, respectively) and lines of people snaking around the building. A quick glance at their menu will tell you that they focus on one thing each; hot dogs/encased meats and hamburgers. They are far and out of the way from the rest of Chicago civilization, Hot Doug's boasts some limited hours of operation, and the smoke from vaporized beef fat at Kuma's is suffocating. But yet they consistently deliver an exciting and delicious experience at a very fair price-to-quality of product ratio.

What do you learn from that? That despite all obstacles, if you deliver a focused product that continues to excite and entice people, you can succeed. If you stick to a brand, a philosophy, a set of principles that people can come to expect of and appreciate of you, then they will come to you no matter what. That's the way people treat food and drink here in America, and it is a beautiful thing when it works in the right direction.

But what about a more conventional restaurant? Your standard place with waiter service, complex and balanced menu, lunch and dinner operations all centered around a type of regional cuisine. You know, a place you'd take a date to on a Friday night in the hopes of holding hands with her later. A few glasses of wine later I can usually make that move, but I depend on the restaurant to be of some conversational fodder at least, hopefully positive rather than negative (I find my palms sweat less when I'm praising a restaurant rather than criticizing it, and then I can "go all the way" and perhaps clasp hands whilst walking home).

Well it's not so simple. Hot Doug's is always going to be thought of as the paragon of sausage emporiums, and Kuma's will be considered the apogee of hamburgers in Chicago, but a conventional restaurant doesn't have such a clean-cut identity. You're most likely going to be categorized by the type of cuisine you most comfortably fall in to and your price range. It's up to you to define yourself from there.

I am not going to name this next place that we went to, because it is still a very young restaurant and I am fully aware that it takes quite a bit of time to hit stride. I think it is possible for this place to become a solid establishment, or it could stumble. But I will mention a few things.

The atmosphere and decor were fantastic, with some Asian, maybe more specifically Korean influences on the menu. The restaurant was constructed out of a lot of scrap and junk, refurbished and pieced together to give a rough-hewn yet quirky feel to the restaurant. The location is also kind of off the beaten path, it's quite small and is BYOB. It is simple and of modest ambition, which is by no means meant as an insult but rather to highlight the comfort of its casual and simple environment.

But yet though everything felt right, the food was difficult to comprehend. It lacked a true focus, and the flavors were not bold and distinct enough to stand alone. If it is the oft-overused formula of "Asian flavors with French technique" then I am still confused. All I could do was say "not bad" or "pretty good."

I give such detail because I had somewhat high expectations of this restaurant. I had followed their blog about opening, and closely observed a restaurant that was similar to something I hope to achieve. I would need to learn from this effort.

And what I learned is that if even if all the pieces seem to fit on paper, even if everything looks right, even if you market correctly and get everybody's attention and their mouths watering, there may be something missing.

To their credit, there were butts in the seats, and there is likely a bright future in store for them, but how they will shine remains to be seen.

And then there was Lola. As we stopped in Cleveland for the night before finishing the last leg of the road trip, we also stopped to dine at what some people call the finest restaurant in the Great Lakes. The moniker is not off base.

I usually don't rant and rave about decor, but I seriously enjoyed the environment put in place for us by Michael Symon. It was dark, but not foreboding. Rather, the dim gave a sense of comfort, privacy and closeness. Gray slate tones offset by brighter, orange marble of a warm nature. And a very impressive open kitchen. Open kitchens are difficult to work with, not only do you have to get your shit done but you are on display. Good cooks not only have to work clean they have to look it. Usually that's not too difficult, but adding another factor to a crazy dinner rush is not always welcome. And then the food...

I seriously enjoyed the meal. The style and presentation of cuisine was very much something I would like to emulate. Bold, bold flavors, every dish powerfully flavored and different from the next. Pristine chilled lobster, tender and refreshing. Crispy pig's ear with tender, and juicy pork belly. Deep fried bone marrow, a miracle of culinary technique in my opinion. The whole event was fantastic, refined, high-class yet casual. There is a lot to learn from such a restaurant.

I think it is especially important I start to see the bigger picture of restaurants now that I am embarking on helping at my mother's. After all, this is the most important thing to our family. The business has kept us going for 30 years, it put me through school and it is integral that I learn what my mother has learned over all that time.

So I thought the easiest way was to become a diner myself. To eat at my own restaurant, something I haven't done in several years, would be the simplest way to get a feel for what point we're at.

I was more than pleasantly surprised...

Let me preface, I did something bad. I came in with an attitude. I thought a year working in a highly-rated Italian kitchen, studying cooking and restaurants on my own, waiting tables and working the trenches of a sushi restaurant, that I was on pretty solid ground. Not an expert by any means, but I figured I could bring back some tricks for sure. I feared the Chinese kitchen, it was going to be unfamiliar, I thought I would have to refine it with a bit of the French brigade system. I thought there would be a lot of difficult ground to cover with the front-of-house staff. Frankly, I thought I might see something that was going to be riddled with holes.

What a poor attitude for me to have, what serious lack of faith I had, and how silly I feel for thinking it. My mother has not kept herself afloat in this business for decades without reason. She is adaptable and keen to improve herself, with an attention to detail and an ability to control that far outweighs my own.

She had changed much in the past few years I've been away. The restaurant is quite beautiful, the ambient noise problem leashed by new carpeting and heavier tablecloths. She has just purchased some high-end porcelain, beautiful in shape and form. The kitchen is brightly-lit and clean, worked by her talented dim sum chef and her faithful executive chef of 18 years. The front-of-the-house is working better than ever; smiling, serving delicately to ladies first, clearing tables and crumbing proficiently, refilling water glasses gracefully, proffering hot tea and giving succinct yet meaningful menu descriptions. The sushi, something we had never really focused on, just sort of had, was very good. The food had been very good in the past, and now was exceptional. The clientele finally seemed just as at ease as the staff, we are able to support more employees than ever, and the restaurant seems to be running on all cylinders.

How could I have dared to think that I had a lot to offer? What an inexcusable ego for me to have. It's time to start back on the bottom, and I'm more than happy to do it. To be fair, my mother had told me every week on the phone that she wasn't happy with the restaurant, so I had kind of low expectations going in to the whole experience. But I was put at ease to realize that she just has a tenacious ambition and desire to improve. That she possesses a work ethic that I sorely need to emulate.

So I am excited. Here we are back in New York, and I have a team effort ahead of me for the next few months. It may be for longer, may be for shorter. It may be harder than I originally imagined, but at least there is a goal and there is always a restaurant to return to. I need to exorcise my obsessive-compulsive tendencies somewhere...

I miss you all dearly in the Midwest. Wish me luck, but know that I am ready to sink my teeth in.

EP6

Wrapping Up

So my last day at Futami has gone and past. I didn't hang up my black shirt, pants and apron in the closet, this time I took them home. It would be the last time I walked through that kitchen as an employee. I shook hands, gave bro hugs, wished everyone good luck, because they have an undoubtedly questionable future at that restaurant, and walked out in to the alley. It would most likely be the last time I breathed in the rank summer air that baked the garbage of four collective restaurants. It would be the last time I had a cigarette there, sitting on the emergency exit stoop and looking in at FlatTop and their odd melange of customers. It would quite possibly be one of the last times I am in Evanston for a long, long time.

Not to draw out the poetic value of the event, but it had a serious impact on me. I can't believe how long I've been in this town. It seems as if it has been too much, and yet I know I will miss it. Six years in Evanston really, a long college tenure plus a year of employment. There were many reasons it took me this long to leave, and sometimes I feel like the time has been wasted, but there was valuable personal growth in those years. I've come a long way, and I like to think it has been all for the better.

I stopped by Va Pensiero during my lunch break that day. I figured if this was one of the last times I were going to be in Evanston, I had to visit the old crew who had recently reopened under a new chef, and moniker (just "Pensiero" now). I stopped by First Liquors and picked up a 12-pack of Modelo Especial, and trekked the familiar path to the Margarita Inn. I opened the side door to the Va P waiter station was greeted by some very unfamiliar sights. This was the first time I'd been to the building since April.

The heavy green curtains that covered the dining room windows were gone. The room seemed more bare, now minus all the personal touches of Chef Jeff. The rosemary sprigs and marble tablets that served as centerpieces, the empty vintage Italian wines that lined the dining room, the warm tea candles all gone. Now just the black fabric chairs and walnut colored tables, waiting for high thread count linens.

I entered the kitchen and it had changed. Someone had reorganized the pots and pans rack, the dishwasher was stacked with dirty plates, and the kitchen seemed darker. Only Chuy and Sergio remained a familiar sight. The owner, Michael, had kind of recognized me and gave me a passing nod as he sat in the chair I was so used to seeing Jeff in. Chuy was dismantling chickens, something he was incredibly adept at, and stuffing what looked like a compound sage butter under the skins. We shook hands and chit-chatted about what had happened in the past few months.

He asked how my family was, I asked the same of him, I wondered what he had been up to in terms of work for the past few months. I had the luxury of another job, and if worse came to worst I could have always packed up my bags and went home to reconnect myself to the parental teat. He did not have that luxury, he had a wife and three kids to support, he needed money ASAP. So he was a mercenary cook for the past few months, just cooking where he would be paid and accepted for it, and no doubt excelling as he is one of the most technically sound cooks I have ever worked with.

He gave me some encouraging words as I told him how difficult it was for me to find a job as a cook in Chicago. He explained that's why it was important that I go to culinary school, because on paper I just didn't have the requisite experience to do any serious work. But he encouraged me and told me I had done very well at Va Pensiero. That I was a reliable cook, a nice guy and of passable intelligence. It meant a lot to me. Having never really had a father or an older brother, Chuy had become something of both to me in the 9-10 months we worked together. I know that seems silly, but when you're working next to a guy for that long, in close quarters with high heat and stress, you bond quickly. It's one of the most fascinating things about the kitchen, the camaraderie it inspires through tribulation.

And I wanted to believe him, but I'm not so sure. I look to my next tasks, my next step in life with a bit of trepidation. I'm going home to start over, to round out my education and to really sink in to my career.

I considered this last year in Chicago kind of a fun, "testing-the-waters" year. It still was pretty college-like, all my college friends pretty much in the same place, still playing ultimate and doing stupid things on the weekends. I was just getting a crash course on what was to come, working 40-50 hours weeks in the kitchen at a leisurely pace, and then spending my off days waiting tables. It wasn't terribly difficult in the perspective of labor. I enjoyed it, I learned a lot, but I think I spent most of this year focusing on myself and my friends.

I don't think I can afford to do that anymore. Not only will I not have much in terms of time, but I will be isolated in the suburban dystopia that is Long Island. It will be time to put my skills to the test as I focus on what is truly important to me and my family, i.e., our own restaurant.

For those who are curious, I plan to start culinary school at The Culinary Institute of America in the Spring 2011. It may be pushed back, so we shall see, but as of now, that is what I'm hoping. I will work lunch in Pearl East's kitchen, probably doing prep on dim sum, Chinese barbecue ribs, vegetables and your usual suspects of soups (won ton soup, chicken and corn soup, hot and sour soup). Hopefully I will get to work the line and learn how to stir fry off a jet butane burner and a cast-iron wok, but as my mother thinks I am the clumsiest bastard alive (not totally unwarranted) and worries for my safety, that may take some working up to. During dinner, I will work the floor using that smile you guys all love (don't lie, you do!) to charm the rich, Jewish grandmoms that make up our clientele.

I don't know what to expect. I really don't know Chinese kitchens at all, I'm not even sure if they really do mise-en-place (I'm assuming they must, as I don't think there is a more efficient system to kitchen work). I've only known, worked in and studied Western kitchens. And my mother constantly bemoans how inefficient and lackluster her kitchen can be. She has lost her dim-sum chef, essentially her executive chef, to another of his ambitious solo projects (talent is hard to keep around), and things are a bit chaotic. I don't know where I'll fit in, I'm scared of the possibility of working with people who don't care about food, but I'll hope for the best. For God's sake, I just hope the kitchen is nice and clean.

The dining room I know. If I had any talent at restaurants, it's working the floor. I know how to mollify an angry customer, I know how to make it all better, I know how to make customers feel cared for. In that arena I know I can help and have a significant impact.

So I guess I have some goals. Restaurant wise, I need and want to get that place on stable ground. Pearl East is very busy, but it's hard to please everyone consistently and we could definitely get our name more established. We are somewhat unknown, and at the very least we should be a "hidden gem." I recognize these as faults. So we turn to Yelp, and other food media outlets, and try to tame the beast that is the public opinion. We try to deliver a more consistent product, and when we inevitably make mistakes, we try to patch those up better than before.

I can't quantify it exactly, but if I can establish a system that makes my mother's life easier, increase our ratings, our public awareness, our kitchen consistency, then I will be very happy. If I can make it so my mother doesn't have to be there seven days a week, ten to twelve hours a day, then I will be very happy, because I don't think she should be working that hard at her age (which I won't reveal because even though she can't use the internet, she'd fucking kill me if I ever told anyone).

So we shall see. It's been a fun, yet difficult, enlightening, yet at times depressing year in Chicago. I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. And I have a lot of mixed feelings about going home. Most aspiring cooks would be slogging away in a (hopefully) excellent kitchen, focusing on working their station well. Somehow I've managed to skip all that and gotten to the managing an entire restaurant phase. Granted, I won't be alone and if I mess up, there will be back up for me. But I can't help but ask myself the question, am I ready? Am I ready to take this on? Am I ready to make this my life? Am I ready to give up a lot of the other things I like in life? Because I foresee it will be many, many hours and many, many weekends, and many, many holidays.

But I always knew that would happen. That this day was coming, when I could no longer consider myself a kid and do whatever I wanted, and play ultimate whenever I pleased. But perhaps now that the reality is staring me in the face that I am a little nervous.

Let's just hope I don't revert back to high school habits of doing triple-feature movie days, and doing drugs at the train station. I like to think I've gotten past that point at least.

If you're ever in New York, you know who to call. See you there,

EP6

How We Got Here

I think it's important to recognize the cultural component of the dining revolution. There is a powerful social undercurrent running abreast a literal culinary movement, and understanding both is going to be important to succeeding in today's industry.

But let's backtrack, start from the beginning. Where did the idea of the restaurant come from? And how did we get from there to an army of obnoxious "foodies" flooding the blogosphere (like this asshole) with their insignificant observations?

Shortly (read a few thousand years) after man discovered that fire + sharp sticks + dumber animals = meat, and that "MEAT!" was a much better pick up line than "Hey, do you come to this primitive rock structure often?" and then that lead to boning, and that man later drew the conclusion that women kind of dig dudes who can cook, and then a few million guys get in to this industry for the wrong reason, and then ...

Shit, derailed. Restart.

Okay after all the shit about the fire, not after the nerds learning to cook to increase their sex appeal (Honestly, who does that? ...), we had professional cooks. As you can imagine, the first professional cooks were hired by royalty and nobility. What peasant, who was following his cows around so that he could burn their poop to keep warm at night, was going to actually pay someone to cook? And anyway you can't smoke a rack of ribs with cow poop, you need some fackin' hardwood, bietch.

So in a time where the divide between the rich and poor was wider and more impassable than it is today, a lucky few serfs were pulled into the royal house for their ability to make a mean stew, or their ability to take a good royal bum running. Maybe both.

A royal cook has some serious pressure and job stress. One little upset stomach, one botched banquet and off with his head! But there are some job benefits as well. Nigh-infinite budget and inventory. Royalty don't need to worry about no profit/loss statements, food waste, or menu budget. They can eat whatever the hell they want in whatever quantity they want, and luxury is expected at every step of the way. So professional cooking in the Middle Ages is predictably ridiculous.

Sauces were often vats of valuable meat cuts, aromatics and herbs reduced down to a fraction of their original volume. A powerfully, powerfully flavored sauce was the end product, with enough gelatin and body to set at room temp, and enough spice to hide the ubiquitous scent of past-due meat.

Entrees were equally ridiculous in ingredients. Imagine a meat pie with a turducken inside. Except this meat pie was the size of a dinner table. And it contained upwards of twenty animals, ranging in size from a goat to an ortolan (a little bird that was kept in a cage with a cloth over it so that the artificial darkness caused it to feed constantly, eventually making it a diabetic, morbidly obese morsel of deliciousness ... oh by the way, it's illegal to sell now).

See, you don't need a lot of imagination when you have a bank account that rivals God (Take notes, Brian Cashman. You have the easiest job in baseball). One surprisingly efficient idea from professional medieval cookery was the "trencher." You didn't use plates back in those days you used a stale round of bread that served as a dinner plate. It had about as much flavor and texture as a dinner plate also. The trencher was eventually discarded to the dogs or servants but not after soaking up some fat and sauce, so a decent scrap all around.

And then The French Revolution happened.

The French Revolution (at least what Les Miserables, the musical, taught me) saw the upheaval of the aristocracy. Generally, people thought they, the rich, sucked a lot and it was time to tell them to kindly fuck off. And then once they were gone, we suddenly had tons of unemployed cooks whose only marketable skills related to food. There were a few restaurants in existence, but those also only served the elite. What was an out-of-work cook to do?

Well, creating a more egalitarian restaurant and using sharp business practices to make a profit whilst remaining competitive seemed to be the only option. Necessity is the mother of invention. Modern kitchen techniques have much to thank for this period of innovation. All of a sudden professional cooking wasn't about having an endless inventory from which you could not out-do yourself with luxury. It was now an exercise in efficiency, taking one animal and stretching it through 5-6 uses, using every scrap some way or another. Because if you can get that extra dish out of a pig, or an extra soup out of your vegetable scraps, that could mean the difference between profit, and loss.

Stock, the foundation of French culinary technique, was a product of this period. Who could afford to make those ridiculous meat-based sauces of the past? And what can I do with all these animal bones I have left over? What a beautiful little invention stock is. Let me roast these bones, throw in some vegetables, let them simmer away, and then I have the building blocks for thousands of sauces.

The whole concept of the garde-manger station was to collect all the scraps from around the kitchen, and make a dish out of them. Pates, terrines, the application of charcuterie was about maximizing a kitchen's potential. Garde-manger literally means "to keep to eat," and that neatly reflected the importance of the position. It required impeccable technique and precision, and is an essential asset to the brigade, even today.

The restaurant era had begun and is still with us today. The explosion in popularity, and wide spectrum of diversity ranging from your Waffle Houses to The French Laundry, from what Bourdain affectionately calls T.G.I. McFuckwad's to your USHG Shake Shacks, is all a result of some people who were a little upset about being poor in 18th century France. I think restaurants are more integral to society than people give them credit for. We may not be saving the world, or curing cancer, but the restaurant groups that can donate often do. Not just catering charity events but donating monetarily as well. And everybody can appreciate good food and a good restaurant experience. The word, after all, comes from "restaurer," French meaning "to restore." Maybe you had a joint your family went to every Sunday. Maybe you had an extraordinary experience with that girl from a few years ago. Maybe you had a life changing steak. Either way, that's exactly what we're here to do. To restore you, to care for you, to let you kick back and have someone else do the dishes so that you're refreshed and you can go save the world or something. All we ask for in return is a place in your budget, but more importantly a place in your heart.

So there we are, my brief history on restaurants. Now let's talk about what's happening today.

Quite obviously, recessions hurt everyone. But just under the tier of bankers, market runners and brokers who are getting axed first, are the slew of restaurants who suffer from everybody panicking about saving money. Now restaurants really got to freak, the competition for customers is severe and the cash flow is thin. But again, necessity is the mother of invention, and you can start figuring out ways to make your business better until things smooth over (if they do ...). I see recessions as purging fires. All the establishments of mediocrity are going to either be forced to improve or they will be wiped out. Unfortunately some good and great restaurants go down with the fire, I think Va P being one of them. But things will pass, and from the ashes there will be growth.

Now the aforementioned cultural movement is an important part to surviving, and hopefully thriving, in this economy. Food has a very different place in society than it did 50 years ago. Back then it was all about a home cooked meal every day, maybe a family outing to a restaurant every now and then. An anniversary or birthday warranted a night out. Now the appearance of a home-cooked meal is less common. People have thousands of take-out options at their fingertips, and they go out to eat more than ever, even if budgets are tight. Yelp, Grubhub, OpenTable, and the whole gamut of restaurant-related websites have given unprecedented ease and access to this dining community, and a powerful sounding board as well.

So not only are we eating out more, but we're making it a hobby of its own. And as a result people are becoming far more educated about how restaurants work, and what really makes the difference between a good and a great place. There's no more hiding, and messing up with one customer not only deprives you of another loyal patron, but will have your mistakes well publicized to the dining community.

My chef used to describe Yelp.com as a "necessary evil." It was only a matter of time until someone made such a streamlined and powerful site, and it can help you just as much as it hurts you. I think it may give some people a little too much power, but that is just part of the necessary evil. For every customer you've wowed and they gave you warm, honest feedback in return, there are going to be a few who will be jilted by a minor negative experience and vilify you for it. I think the most common problems I've seen are customers complaining about employee attitudes. Adjectives like "surly," "unfriendly," "cold" are thrown around, and it's hard to evaluate that properly and use it as constructive feedback. And then because of one "surly" host, who acts as your first line of defense, a Rube Goldberg machine of disasters is created that could have significant impact on your overall rating. Yelp.com even gives ranking, title and power to the most prolific Yelpers. And whereas restaurants could be neurotically prepared for newspaper critics (and they still are), now any and every customer could have a powerful voice for or against you.

Thankfully, there are ways to react to this. Danny Meyer likes to describe media and publicity as a shark. You can't swim across an ocean alone, you'll drown. But you could ride upon the back of a shark to get to the other side alive. The only problem being the shark could destroy you at any given moment, if you're not careful. You can survive a few nips, bites, and even get thrown off, but you have to get back on and make sure the shark doesn't swallow you whole.

I think part of what that means is soldiering on through anything they throw at you, and knowing how to carefully please your customers.

First, know where the threats are and frankly, now they're everywhere. A restaurant is all about consistency and mistakes. You strive to be as consistent as possible in every arena, but you have to be able to handle inevitable mistakes. I don't think you really can exclude and label anyone as "strictly VIP" status anymore. Everybody is equal, everybody is worth winning over. It starts in the kitchen. If you believe in your kitchen and trust that it works hard to deliver a quality product, then things fall in to place from there. Then if a customer doesn't like something, it's more likely to be a kitchen mistake than a difficult customer. So it comes off their bill, no questions asked. If I had more authority at Futami I would do just that. I know all our grilled chicken entrees come out dry when Jorge is in the weeds. He gets pressured and he stops cooking smart, he just tries to beat out the tickets. That means he doesn't rest proteins properly and tries to make up for it by drowning it in sauce. I hate that. That's cooking without integrity. So I see a customer's chicken entree is unfinished, and even though they tell me everything is "fine," I know very well they think the chicken is dry. I want to take it off their bill for them, but I don't call the shots.

Trust in your kitchen, care for your customers, the short-term loss of a $14 chicken entree is worth the long-term gain in faith from your customer.

Secondly, know your clientele. Whether you like it or not, your restaurant is going to reflect your personality. That personality is going to attract a certain crowd. I'm not saying you're going to get a homogeneous blend of customers, but maybe a reoccurring flavor of sorts. You've got to play to their likes and dislikes.

Maybe you have a grand dining room that is going to attract middle-aged people looking for an extravagant experience. Maybe you have a quirky little room that is going to pull a youthful, hipster-tinged, urban crowd. Maybe you have a neutral but classy decor which is going to invite a whole manner of people. Recognizing your environment, and fitting in to either fill a niche or add to the overall culture of your location are paramount to success.

And finally, you need something unique. Almost everything has been done before or is just about to be tried in the restaurant industry. You push too far out of people's comfort zones, and they are confused. If you offer the same thing that everyone else is offering, you'll get lost. When developing a menu, when birthing a restaurant you need to think about what is going to set you apart from everybody else. I think this is especially important during a recession. There are probably 7-10 sushi restaurants in my area, and 4-5 in the immediate Evanston area alone. What is going to make someone choose you over the others? Is it your pricing? Your customer service? Is your product of higher quality than the others? A customer who is pinching pennies isn't going to go out for sushi at every place very often. They're going to choose one place to splurge on here and there. The same goes for any restaurant, and even more so for high-end, 4-star dining establishments. When you offer an 11-course tasting at $135 or whatever, a customer is only going to spend that kind of money so often. Most likely, the next time they're going to try another joint at that price tag just to try something new. What is going to make them choose you not just once, but again and again? You have to keep bringing something new to the table. Diners are too smart nowadays, and have too many choices to be romanced by just one great dish, or one charming manager. You got to keep pushing the envelope.

Somehow this became a summation of my ideas for what it takes to succeed at restaurants. But I think understanding the history is important before moving forward. And nowadays moving forward is the only way to keep afloat, handling a "shark" or not. Both you and the dining public have to keep moving for survival. They have to keep searching for the next new thing, and in doing that we in the industry have to keep providing the next step. Unfortunately, novel ideas don't come from just anywhere. I don't know if I'm a powerfully creative person, but I think a career's worth of accumulating ideas and learning techniques is going to be the only way to getting close.

EP6

PS - Write your Yelp review the day after your dining experience. That way you'll really know how you felt about the place. Either your disappointment or your wonder subsides, either way you're going to be able to give a more fair evaluation.