14
DREW
“What do you mean you don’t have any restrooms?” A woman wearing ripped jeans and a Bay Area University hoodie stands at the doorway of True North. She shifts her feet, then crosses her legs together. “Isn’t this a restaurant?”
My poker face is one second from cracking under frustration. Resting my hand on the back of my grimy neck after an early morning’s work, I straighten. Despite the long days, nights have rewarded me with insomnia rather than sleep, my mind catapulting itself from one restaurant project to the other and then to Camille. Always to Camille.
So I’m in no mood.
“We’re closed.” I yawn, midanswer. “Renovating, as you can see from the banner.”
“Please? I’m desperate and almost next in line for the food truck outside. Otherwise I’d go someplace else.”
I’m supposed to decline all requests for the restroom, but the woman’s face is twisted in pain.
My resolve breaks. I can’t send her away. Been there, done that, and there isn’t another restroom for at least a half mile down the street. “We only have Porta-Johns. You’re welcome to use one.”
“Thank you so much.” She nods gratefully.
“Behind the sheet, then out the door.” I wave her to the area that used to be the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen. Before she disappears behind the curtain, I say, “Be careful!”
She’s the third restroom request in a couple of hours. Any more and it’ll circulate it’s open season. Not only will the interruptions be a pain in the ass, but my pop is sure to be pissed.
I pull out my notebook and write in block cap letters: NO RESTROOMS. I tape it right side out on the front door window, patting it down flat.
Still with my fingers on the glass, I can’t help but peer down the line of customers on the sidewalk. Fifteen deep, and it’s been consistent all day. If True North had the truck’s daytime customers the last three days it’s been here, we would still have a semblance of a successful restaurant.
Not that the renovations will be for naught. Once they’re done, customers are going to love the modern design aesthetic inside as well as the view of the Pacific Ocean and the Great Highway outside.
If that truck isn’t there to block it.
There is no way one cannot see that truck. Not only does it have a hideous mishmash design, but it’s also got lights that blink green and red. And the smells—the smells coming out of the truck make my mouth water, make my stomach growl. I’m tempted to jump ship and order one of everything. I’ll never admit it, though, especially to my parents. It’s an unspoken rule. According to my dad, “that damned truck” is off-limits.
The dining room is empty except for a couple reading the newspaper. Mr. and Mrs. Villa, regulars and residents who live a few streets down, are tucked into a corner, still doing their thing every morning: drinking coffee and reading the news. My parents convinced them to stay away during the demolition, a miraculous feat. But as soon as there was space for “their table,” the two reappeared. Because they’re old as sin and have gold lolo and lola—grandfather and grandmother in Tagalog—status, though they’ve never had children, we can’t tell them what to do, ever.
Their table has been moved to the window, away from the excitement in the kitchen, front row to the madness outside. A carafe of coffee, loyally provided by my mother, sits in front of the couple. Mr. Villa, gruff and big bellied, perches his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. “So noisy out there. Can’t we do something about that?”
“It’s America, Willie. People are allowed to talk.” Mrs. Villa scrolls through her iPad. Silver chocolate Kisses wrappers litter the table.
“She came all the way here and brought the downtown chaos with her.”
“I’m fine with it,” Mrs. Villa says. “Good to see some people out here. Good for neighborhood business.”
“I agree. The people aren’t the bad thing,” I add. “We want people. But if our customers are expecting a view when they get here—”
Mr. Villa shakes his bald head. “They’re loitering. I don’t get why people these days don’t want to sit. Trust me, Andrew, this is all uso. A fad. And like fads, they go away. Coming into a restaurant to relax over a plate of good food—that is forever.”
The woman who used the Porta-John walks in. She’s wringing her hands, smelling like the lemon hand sanitizer. “Thank you so much. I thought I was going to pee on myself.”
I wince at the visual but nod. “If anyone asks, our restrooms are closed.”
“The restaurant will be open in two and a half weeks, though,” Mrs. Villa says, finally raising her eyes from her device. “The fourth of June. Best Filipino food in the city.”
“Cool. Do you have a social media page?”
“Um, I—” Come to think about it, I don’t have any idea.
“Not yet, but look out for us soon.” Mrs. Villa’s voice is smooth. A real saleswoman.
“Yay. I’ll keep checking in whenever I stop by. Lucianna has the best panini. Out. Of. This. Fucking. World.” At the sight of Mr. Villa’s scowl, she adds, “I mean—sorry. Anyway, gotta get back in line. Gotta get my fix.”
She exits the front door and rejoins her friends in line. She spins to face True North, points back toward us, probably telling her friends about the reopening. But her friends barely notice, eyes glued to the easel chalkboard menu and the shadowed figures in the truck. How many people are in there? Three, maybe four? The panini are coming out quickly, even faster than junky drive-through fast food.
The realization hits that right now True North can’t compete with this attention. I thought my father was overreacting the other day. Now that I’m seeing this monster work its magic, the loyalty of customers who are willing to wait in line, it’s clear True North has to fight fire with fire.
Honest-to-goodness connection with customers.
I find my phone, tucked into one of the only clean corners of the restaurant. It’s been on silent, and I’ve missed an email. My heart races at the possibility it could be Camille. But first things first—I dial my dad’s number.
“Iho,” Pop answers without greeting. The kitchen exhaust whirs like a muscle car in the background. “I’m almost done here. Feel like menudo for lunch?”
“Yeah, Pop, that sounds really good . . . but I’m calling about this truck.”
The exhaust clicks shut. “Let’s hear it.”
“What do we know about them?”
“They’ve been around a little more than a year,” my dad says. “Was downtown for a few months. The chef is young. Their panini menu is homegrown, a fusion of American and Italian influences.”
“Interesting.”
“The word on the street is that their food is good. Really good. Her bread and desserts are all homemade, too.”
“So they aren’t really competition, foodwise.”
“No, but—”
“But I get it,” I interrupt. “It’s insane on our sidewalk. Mr. and Mrs. Villa couldn’t get in without having to sidestep the line. I agree with you. They have to go.”
I hear the satisfaction in my dad’s voice. “So glad we are on the same page.”
“Can they really park here?”
“They can. Fully legal, but we can contest the distance. I’ve already sent the appeal. They say it takes about a week for it to be approved. We’ll hopefully get a full city block of space.”
“Here’s what I see. People willing to stand in line. They’re relaxed, on their phones. Taking pictures. Customers are doing the advertising.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“We have to pump up our social media presence.”
A guffaw trails its way into my ears. “We’re already on Facebook.”
“But did you use it to spam? Or did you have actual connections with customers? Because social media done right can lead to lifelong customers. I mean, social media has to be taken seriously, managed by someone who has the time and experience.” Camille’s words flow from my lips.
I could kiss her and her genius brain right now.
“What’s your suggestion?”
“I’m not an expert either, but at a minimum we should advertise through every online outlet possible: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Post pictures of what we’re up to. Give them sneak peeks of the improvements. How about bloggers? Food bloggers can help spread the word for us.”
“Would you be willing . . . to help me with this? Along with the reno?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, Pop. I would. I can get started on it, and maybe delegate it as time goes on. If you trust me with it.”
“Of course, iho. Of course I trust you.”
I feel both relief and apprehension. Normal for us is usually being at odds, our conversations consisting of one-upmanship. We play the roles of the righteous father and the silently stubborn son. Now that he and I have agreed, I’m not sure how to end the conversation. Thank goodness my father does it for me.
“I will be there in twenty minutes with food. See you.”
“Later.” I hang up. In that short conversation, another ten people have joined Lucianna’s line. I get a good view of the backs of people’s shirts, since they’re leaning against the restaurant’s windows.
These customers aren’t there just to eat. It’s as if their taste buds are the last of the senses to be satiated, and by then, they’re primed to love it.
Whoever is behind that operation knows what the hell they’re doing. True North is going to have a hell of a time competing with them for attention.
My phone alerts me I have an email to read, and all my thoughts melt away when I see who it’s from.
Camille.
May 19
Camille,
I’m glad you are having a better day than me. The project I’m working on—helping with my dad’s business—was going well. Except a monkey wrench has been thrown into the mix. The only thing saving my ass with my dad is your advice on social media. But what if I can’t deliver? What if it doesn’t work? My pop’s counting on me.
I know. You’re thinking: stop vague-mailing!
I could sure use a Camille fix. But I’m patient.
Drew