Authors: R. J. Blacks
“Find one?”
“Did you know there’s not a
single restaurant between here and the interstate that caters to
out-of-towners?”
“Never thought about it.”
“If someone were to pass
through here, they’d either have to stop by the interstate or wait until they
got to Ocala.”
“What about those Mexican
places?”
“Not everyone wants Mexican.”
“Nothing we can do about it.”
“Well actually there is.”
“You want to open a
restaurant.”
“Yes, that’s it. Will and I.”
“That right, Will?”
“Well, can’t say it was my
idea. But yeah, I’m in.”
“So go ahead. Do it.”
“There’s a teensy bit more,”
I say.
“If you’re asking me to go in
with you, the answer’s no.”
“Don’t you want to at least
hear the plan.”
“Okay then, go ahead.”
“Will brought up a good
point, about how expensive it was to rent a place on the highway. And I don’t
like that idea anyway. So... we wanted to do it... here.”
“Here? Where would I live?”
“No, not in this building.
Just near here, somewhere on the grounds.”
Will cuts in; “I told her you
wouldn’t like it... ”
“Wait, let her finish,” Fargo
says.
“The guests that come here
have to eat before and after they go on the nature tours. That’s money slipping
through your fingers.”
“Go on.”
“If we opened a restaurant on
the grounds, the guests would spend that money on breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And maybe even at a gift shop.”
“What would I have to do?”
Fargo asks.
“Nothing really. Just give us
permission.”
“Fargo, before you agree,
remember how you like it quiet, how you never wanted a lot of people around
here.”
“Will, you’re right, never
liked large crowds. But it’s always been my dream to be in business with you.
You know that, always told you so. And when you went off to join the Navy, that
dream was crushed. Right now there’s not enough coming in for both of us. The
airboats need to be replaced, the house needs a roof, the parking lot needs to
be resurfaced, and you know how bad shape the dock is in. This is our chance,
maybe the only chance we’ll ever have.”
“Never thought you would
tolerate being around crowds.”
“Everyone has to make
compromises at some point in their lives. What are you going to do around here?
There’s no jobs. When you were working, you helped me and our mother. Her last
words were, ‘Help your brother’. I’ll never forget that. It’s time for me to
put my wants aside. It’s time for us to help each other.”
The room goes quiet for a few
minutes, and then, Fargo breaks the silence: “What do you want from me?”
“I suppose the first step is
to decide where to put the building and then get the necessary permits.”
“Forget the permits. They
come through tribal council and they never turn anyone down.”
“I have some money saved
which I can donate to the project. How much do you think we’ll need?” I ask.
“Follow me,” Fargo says, and
leads us towards the door. He grabs a spotlight on the way out and takes us to
the unfinished pavilion about a hundred yards away. It has a nice view of the
water and is convenient to the parking lot.
“I built this for my mother.
She wanted to use it as a meeting place for our people, but then she got sick.
One day, when it was obvious her time was short, she hands me this box filled
with gold coins. Told me she was saving it for a rainy day, but now she wanted
me to use it to turn the pavilion into a restaurant. Told me it would always
bring me income. A few days later she passed. After that, I lost all
motivation.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
Fargo continues: “I
appreciate your offer of funds, but you may need it yourself. The money my
mother willed will be more than enough, and it’s what she wanted.”
“Are you sure you want to do
this?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
I walk around the darkened
pavilion creating a mental image of how the finished restaurant would look. I
use my outstretched arms to mark off sections attempting to transfer my
visualization to Will and Fargo.
“This whole side should be
dining area because it has an unrestricted view of the lake. And the kitchen
could be here, facing the parking area making it convenient to bring in food
and supplies. And the restrooms could go over there where there’s nothing
outside to view.”
“Fine with me,” Fargo says.
“Make up the plans and I’ll take care of getting material.”
Next morning, Will and I are
up at first light measuring out the pavilion. I hadn’t slept well last night. While
lying in bed, in the dark of my room, my mind was running at a million miles
per hour, thinking about the possibilities, and how much fun this was going to
be. But if I was tired this morning, it didn’t show. A couple of cups of coffee
and my overwhelming enthusiasm fixed that.
I record the dimensions in my
laptop and create some engineering drawings using a Computer Aided Drafting
program I had acquired during my school days. I finish up the drawings and then
drive over to the area library to print out the plans. Fargo approves them and
then we go to the tribal office to get the necessary permits. On the way back
he stops at a building supply company and makes arrangements to have the
materials delivered. By six o’clock we’ve completed all the planning and are
ready to begin construction as soon as everything arrives. We all settle back,
snack on leftovers, and prepare ourselves for the busy week ahead.
Monday morning arrives, and
as I lie in bed in the pre-dawn darkness, I hear the sounds of heavy machinery
outside. I peek out the window and see some trucks dropping off building
materials. Fargo is already up, directing the drivers to where they should
unload the material. In thirty minutes it’s all over and the vehicles vacate
the premises. As the noise of the engines fade in the distance, the lake and
surrounding forest return to the gentle tranquility I have come to love.
I wander into the kitchen
just as Fargo enters.
“Is that everything?” I ask.
“Everything but the air
conditioner. That’s coming next week.”
“How long will it take?”
“Well, the foundation and the
roof are ready to go. That just leaves the walls, the windows, the wiring, the
plumbing, and of course, the air conditioning. I think a couple of weeks should
do it.”
And Fargo wasn’t kidding; in
ten minutes a couple of his Native American buddies show up and they are
relentless. By late afternoon all the framing is done. By Tuesday evening the
windows are in. It takes just one day for the wiring and another day for the
plumbing. It was now Friday, New Year’s Day, and no one was slacking off. At
8:00 AM they are already putting up sheetrock and by the end of the day they
had finished painting the walls. It was really starting to look like a
restaurant.
Saturday rolls around and
they start laying the ceramic tile floor and then on Sunday, install the
kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures. On Monday, a truck shows up with the
air conditioner and a couple of Fargo’s buddies install it. Later in the day,
as the men leave, Fargo, Will, and I stand back to admire the building from the
parking lot.
“A sign! We’ve forgotten the
sign,” I say.
“Not exactly,” Fargo says. He
and Will lead me to a barn and cover my eyes with a bandana. They take me
inside and remove the bandana. Directly in front is a sign with the words,
“Indigo Place” in giant letters. I’m speechless.
“It’s a surprise,” Will says.
“But you had as much to do
with this,” I respond.
“But it was originally your
idea and would have never happened without you,” Fargo says.
We stroll back to Fargo’s
cabin and realize we still need tables, chairs, menus, and a supplier for the
food.
“Can we get food from the
swamp?” I ask.
“It’s against tribal rules.
We can use it for ourselves, but not for commercial purposes,” Fargo says.
“So what do you suggest?”
“I’ll hook up with some local
farmers. They have everything we need.”
“And menus?”
“That’s your department. Make
one up by tomorrow, and I’ll have it printed by Thursday.”
“So there’s a chance we can
open on Saturday?”
“I don’t see why not,” he
says.
Opening a restaurant is one of those
things that seem easier than they actually are. Just putting together a menu
can be an experience of daunting proportions. First off, it’s not good enough
to just know how to make the meal; you have to work to a ticking time bomb. Those
customers sitting at the table are hungry, and getting hungrier by the minute. They’re
not willing to let you, the cook, spend your sweet time experimenting with
alternative ingredients. They want their meal fast, and if they don’t get it, they’ll
be telling their friends to pass on your new place of business. That’s one of
the reasons American restaurants serve the salad first, instead of last, which
is the custom in Europe. It takes the customer’s mind off his hunger and gives
the kitchen some breathing time. In Europe, the dinner clientele are less concerned
with time as dinners are expected to last several hours.
Then, even if you happen to
be a gourmet chef, you need the right ingredients at the right time. And the
more variety you add to the menu, the more food items you need to stock, which
brings up another knotty problem. Food has a very short shelf life so you
better use it up or it’s just like throwing money in the trash. The ideal menu
would appear to the public to be quite diverse, but in fact utilize much of the
same basic ingredients. That way, your capital outlay is reduced and it
simplifies the maintenance of your inventory.
Fortunately,
the clientele we hope to attract are the steak and seafood type which allows me
to fulfill the requirements of the kitchen with a somewhat modest pantry.
I
put together a list of all the foodstuffs a good kitchen should have, and then,
work backwards from there, writing down all the meals I could dream up using
those basic ingredients. I spend the evening refining the list and by noon, the
next day, I’m ready to give Fargo the proposed menu.
“What do you think,” I say.
Fargo takes the list and
looks it over.
“If you can make all this,
we’ll have a winner.”
He hands the list to Will.
“I hope we’re not getting in
over our heads.”
“Let’s not advertise right
away,” I say. “That will keep the crowds smaller and give us time to get
organized.”
“Good idea. I agree,” Will
says.
“This needs to go to the
printer now, or we’ll miss our schedule,” Fargo says, as he takes back the
menu, folds it up, and then rushes out the door.
I make myself a sandwich out
of the leftover turkey and stroll out to one of the high-back Cape Cod chairs
on the porch. As I gaze at the horizon and enjoy my lunch, it suddenly occurs to
me that the excitement from the recent construction has distracted me from
doing what I originally came here for, to pursue my PhD. I was supposed to
contact Dr. Parker in a week and I’m three days overdue. Funny she hasn’t
called me.
I finish up my sandwich and
then dial her number. The phone rings a couple of times and then she answers.
“Hi, it’s Indigo,” I say.
“Oh, Indigo. Is it a week
already?”
“Sorry to bother you, but...
do you have the lab tests yet?”
“The lab tests? Oh yes, on
the water samples. Well, I ran them through and nothing unusual came up.”
“Nothing unusual? Some of
those samples had a distinctly metallic taste.”
“Could be from iron oxide.
Nothing abnormal about that.”
“Would you mind if I looked
at the printouts?”
“Not at all. I’ll email them
to you.”
“Didn’t you want to keep this
confidential?” I ask.
“That’s right, I did, almost
forgot. Tell you what, when you bring me more samples, I’ll have the printouts
for you. By the way, when do you want to meet again?”
“I kind of hoped those samples
would tell the whole story, lead me to the next step. I’m disappointed.”
“Disappointments and false
leads are the lifeblood of science. They drive more research. You should know
that.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it. It’s
just that... well, I was so sure those samples would reveal something.”
“Don’t get discouraged. Get
back out in the field and keep bringing me samples. We’ll get to the bottom of
this eventually.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then bid
her a goodbye.
As I put away the phone,
anxiety creeps into my conscience. Something didn’t seem right. The enthusiasm
she exalted at the earlier meetings seems to have evaporated. What could have
changed? Has she been found out?
This is completely
unexpected, and having no new samples, I find myself at a standstill.
If the restaurant had been merely a diversion, a stopgap
measure to keep me from imminent poverty, it has now gained a new level of
importance. The analysis is taking longer than expected, and has no end in
sight. W
ithout a source of income, my money would eventually run out,
and I’d be in worse shape than before. I would have to leave the area to find
employment, and my research, the only chance I have to vindicate myself, would
come to an end.
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with an
obsessive sense of urgency. Whatever it takes, the restaurant must succeed. I must
give it my all. I can’t let it fail!
Fargo returns and he’s all
wound up.
“Come on, get in the jeep. I
want to show you something. You too Will,” he says.
“What is it?” I say.
“A surprise.”
We all pile into the jeep and
Fargo races down the dirt road to the main highway. He pulls into a parking lot
in front of a corrugated steel warehouse. We exit the jeep and follow him
through the front door. A large man in jeans and a tee-shirt approaches us.
“Okay if I show them?”
“Sure Fargo, help yourself.”
Fargo leads us through a door
into the back area, a supermarket-size room filled with restaurant supplies of
all types. Fargo zeros in on a group of about twenty tables and a pile of
matching chairs.
“What do you think?” he says.
“Well, the wood matches the
decor,” I say.
“How much,” Will asks.
“They just came in, told me
two-thousand.”
“Two-thousand for all of
them?”
“Only if we take them today.”
“I say go for it,” Will says.
“Indigo?”
“They’re nice, yeah, let’s do
it. How do we get them home?”
“He’ll deliver them. Come on,
let’s go tell him.”
We wander back to the front
office and Fargo closes the deal. Back at the restaurant, we spend the rest of
the day washing the floor and cleaning up the place. And then, the next day, at
9:00 AM sharp, the truck shows up as promised. It backs up to the service door
and two men unload the tables and chairs into the dining area. Fargo tips them
and then they drive away.
We spend a couple of hours
arranging and rearranging the tables until we find a layout that pleases all
three of us. I stand back to admire our work.
“What about curtains... and
blinds?” I ask.
I see Fargo roll his eyes.
“If you want curtains, that’s
on you.”
I pick up what I need at a
mega-discount store and Will does me the favor of putting them up. Fargo
surprises us later with a carload of Indian crafts like baskets, dream
catchers, tomahawks, wampum, blankets, jewelry, and paintings. Will adds them
to the walls giving the place a decidedly Native American look. And then Fargo
takes a large stuffed alligator head out of a box and places it next to the
cash register. He takes the dish with the after-dinner candies and places it
into the wide-open mouth.
“Kids will love it,” he says,
causing me and Will to laugh.
The menus arrive on Thursday
as promised and the food on Friday. As the food truck backs up to the service
door, I suddenly realize this is not like stocking your home refrigerator. The
amount of food is enormous, enough food for hundreds of people, and the task of
organizing it takes us the better part of a day.
Saturday rolls around and we
open promptly at 6:00 AM hoping to catch the early morning crowd. I wait in the
kitchen manning stoves and food processors in anticipation of a plethora of
orders and Will stands by the front door working double duty, as maître-d and
server.
But no one stops in. Although
the new sign was up, none of the guests knew the restaurant would be open and
everyone had already eaten breakfast during the drive in. The rest of the day
yields no business, the folly of not advertising, but then, in the late
afternoon, some of the returning guests stop in to trade fish stories and brag
about their catch for the day. The business is not exactly brisk, but it’s
enough to keep Will and I busy and test our skills.
Fargo meanders in and engages
his guests in some exaggerated stories about battles with alligators and
survival in the swamp and they seem glued to his every word. When the last
guest has departed, he gives me a look that tells me he’s curious about how
much we made.
“About $250,” I say.
“We need to advertise,” he responds.
“Listen, we have an awful lot
of food, more than we need. What do you say we invite all your buddies over on
Sunday for a free meal?”
“A free meal?”
“Well they helped us out...
and I don’t want the food to go bad.”
“Are you up to it?”
“It’ll be a test,” I say, and
so it is. About a hundred people show up, including wives and children, and
some are even dressed in Native American garb. The whole experience gives me an
excellent opportunity to test the dynamics of the kitchen. When you’re minding
thirty cheeseburgers, twenty steaks, and a dozen servings of seafood, all at
the same time, you have to make sure nothing gets burnt or undercooked. It’s a
daunting task, but my experience at Sid’s serves me well. I get not a single
complaint from any of the guests although I’m sure it has something to do with
the fact the food is free. Will seems comfortable with his role as server and
it’s good practice for the real thing on Tuesday. We all decided to stay closed
on Monday since it’s Fargo’s day off and there won’t be any customers around
anyway. It would become our day of rest.
I peek through the tiny
window that connects the kitchen with the dining room and see children playing
Indian games and Fargo chatting with his friends. He seems to be enjoying the
atmosphere of having his own people around and is finally fulfilling the dying
wish of his mother, to maintain and propagate the culture of his people.
Overall, the banquet is a huge success and business continues to be brisk aided
by a new sign Fargo has added to the old one out on the main highway.
A week later, Will rushes
into the kitchen and tells me there’s a guy from the State of Florida in the
lobby and he wants to speak to the owner. The first thing that comes to mind is
our permits are not in order or the health inspection didn’t go well. I meet
him in the lobby and he tells me the Department of Tourism is doing a new
brochure and they want to include us because of our Native American
significance. Best of all, it won’t cost us anything. Naturally, Will and I are
elated and tell him so. The man has us sign a release giving the state
permission to advertise our place of business, and then, asks me and Will to pose
by the stuffed alligator with the candy dish in its mouth. He takes a picture of
us plus a few more of the dining area and the grounds outside.
A week and a half later I get
this brown manila envelope in the mail and inside are a dozen multi-colored brochures.
Surprisingly, our restaurant is featured right on the front. A note inside
tells me they’re printing 100,000 of them and distributing them to rest stops and
motels from Florida to North Carolina. I show the brochure to Will and it’s
obvious he’s delighted.
“Look, it says ‘Proprietors’
under the picture of you and me right here on the cover. I guess that makes us
pretty important,” he says.
“Indeed it does,” I say.
Business doubles and then
doubles again and we hire three additional servers, an assistant cook, and a
greeter to manage the long lines on the weekends. We are now bringing in
several thousand dollars a day and use the extra money to repair the dock, get
a dozen canoes, landscape the grounds, add some picnic tables and a playground,
and build a wading beach which is lined with a steel fence to keep out
alligators. Will is proposing we build an addition and Fargo is close to giving
his approval.
It’s now the end of January,
and after expenses, we are each realizing a profit of several hundred dollars a
day. It’s not exactly a fortune, but it does ease our former anxiety and gives
us the security we so yearned for. One day Will surprises us and shows up with
an SUV. He tells us he always wanted one and bought it from the guy that sells
us food. It was such a good deal he couldn’t pass it up.
And then, as I lay in bed
after a tiring day, I get this uneasy feeling something bad is about to happen.
I don’t know what could have prompted it, after all, the restaurant is going
well, I’ve been giving Dr. Parker water samples on a regular basis, and I’m the
happiest I’ve ever been. By all accounts, life is good and getting better all
the time.