Merrimack Valley Magazine

A View From the Kitchen – If You Don’t Have Anything Nice To Say …

November 12, 2021 by Scott Plath

“Kareem” apparently missed the memo.

It continually riles me to read pleading posts by my restaurant kin seeking understanding and patience as we struggle mightily, still, due to soaring costs and supply shortages — both in staffing and product — and the related tone deafness of many.

Right there on our brunch menu we provided the transparency to enlighten Kareem and anyone else. He gave us a one-star Google review anyway. Although such insult represents less than 2 percent of our online evaluations — nine in six years — they sting each time. “What a jerk” is my innate knee-jerk reaction preceding detailed contemplation of the circumstances and the auto-humble response. Generally.

From his perspective, he just stomped his spoiled feet at “Cobblestones,” the place of business. To us people who breathe restaurant (through masks for months), passionate about guest health and happiness, quality food and hospitality, it’s more personal. Kareem visited for our brunch relaunch after months of being closed. It’s possible he didn’t know that, or that the day before we were crushed by our busiest day in two years — a welcome-yet-harrowing Saturday of old, thanks to the return of downtown Lowell events and, oh by the way, hallelujah! The onslaught lasted day and night, depleting supply and staff — only three of whom have been with us more than a year, hence the commonplace: “We are rebuilding.” Do you have any idea how difficult this is? And at 50 percent of pre-pandemic sales? We barely hang on.

Kareem wouldn’t have known that due to a lack of drivers, our food delivery arrived too late for proper prep processes or that we considered postponing, but decided that offering a reduced menu was better than turning enthusiastic guests away. Once decided, the leadership team did a tired, late-night inventory to determine menu options, and early on Sunday we reformatted and reprinted just in time for opening. For all of that effort, we still got Kareemed!

Most people don’t know half of what we are bearing. I get that. And maybe Kareem had a rough morning, or life. Regardless, he gets no pass. He chose. I maintain that the vast majority of people who would submit such a review are suspect. Whether childish, bullies, the ignorant or without empathy, a nasty word exists for all of you free-speech posers who dole out “fair critiques” while hiding behind your screens, amplifying your stories. Walk a mile …

One more thing about Kareem: Did he experience smiling hospitality? Was his mimosa sparkling? We will never know, he didn’t say. What set Kareem off was limited options. Life is so unfair.

When I reported his discontent to our Stones Hospitality social media tribe (that’s right I did), they were supportive in their responses, as expected. They gave old keyboard Kareem the what-for! “Every straw poll has an outlier,” said one wise fan. Honestly, these days I seize every opportunity to share insight while seeking empathy and understanding for our industry.

Which brings me to Facebook.

Merrimack Valley Eats is a restaurant-review page started by a Haverhill- based foodie named Gerald Schiavoni and one that I frequent too often (in part due to Facebook’s biased algorithms). Early on, judging by the page’s great lean toward Haverhill-area restaurants, typical negative commentary and Gerald’s near-weekly good-natured appeal for folks to be respectful and proactive, I assumed that a majority of the snarky followers were his actual friends. I falsely figured that he was complicit while attempting to keep his homie hood-rats in check. After meeting him, I was embarrassed to see how wrong I was. He proved a warm and friendly brother-in-large — genuinely pained by the incessant trolling and ignorance. In fact, his page finally began selectively deleting and/or blocking those deemed offensive — to the annoyance of many a loudmouthed fan. I cannot tell you how much this tickles me. “Start your own page,” his administrators encouraged. “Join the Yelp community,” they mocked. Let the foul abuse and amuse each other elsewhere in their common “honest” misery and mean-spiritedness; this here page is intended for positivity and respect.

Here’s my thing: In one way or another, we have universally suffered this virus in the past year and a half, and it just bloody continues. One of our chefs lost both of his parents within 24 hours of each other while I was typing this column. Illness remains pervasive, evolving science and data frustrates and confuses, careers have been ruined, homelessness and inequity increases, our freedoms to do what we want, when we want, have been compromised — the list is endless. At all times, but especially at times like these, I believe we should be confident and courageous enough to reject further disorder, to seek greater understanding and societal healing, while lifting others up. It blows my mind that this is so hard for so many.

Scott Plath, along with his wife Kathleen, owns Cobblestones of Lowell, moonstones, in Chelmsford, Mass., and Stones Social in Nashua, New Hampshire. Scott possesses a deep well of humorous and insightful stories, which are available here. >>>

A View From the Kitchen – Pizza Confidential

October 27, 2021 by Scott Plath

… and Other Tales of Midflight Plane Assembly

At our “baby” restaurant, Stones #1 Social, I was sitting upon my favorite barstool equidistant between our drink mixers and their counterpart dough stretchers.

Within a 20-foot span, our tight team of four works together but separate — an operational ideal inspired by an iconic Chicago restaurant, Au Cheval. Only two nights earlier, while sipping on a seltzer, I listened as the bartenders discussed the preciseness of ingredient measures. The effective balancing of an artichoke-based liquor, Cynar, is not to be taken for granted. There was agreement that short of enough lemon, the drink borders on unpleasant. Use artichoke in a cocktail at your own risk.

On this night, same stool and likewise within earshot of the two chefs’ conversation, I heard “… grams …” and grew immediately eavesdroppy. “Wait, grams, what?”

They were brainstorming the new Throwback Thursdays pizza promotion — and challenges presented by my strategy to wait eight months before utilizing our wood-fired hearth to discover our pizza power. More on that later.

I recalled the expression “building the plane while flying it” as the head chef claimed to have adjusted the dough recipe yet again, “… 600 grams of flour.” The younger, co-fantastic Chef AJ was intrigued. “And how many grams of yeast?” They continued: grams of water, the higher humidity in the past few days, mixing, proofing, kneading — all the challenges to creating the “perfect” crust. More on that later, too.

During the previous (extremely cold) week, six weeks into the ongoing development of this new initiative, they had achieved what I have always defined as “the eureka moment” — the peak at which a developing recipe yields the elusive ideal and a composing chef believes the dish could not be any better. Rarely are the great ones truly satisfied — and, I contend, thusly linked.

On this occasion, their consensus standard was a medium-to-high (puffy) rise, medium char, light-to-medium chew (gluten); the reward of weeks of tweaks. The satisfaction of their triumph was short-lived as yet another variable was introduced. We ran out of dough. The promotion’s popularity was rising weekly, now challenging the goal of having enough but not too much — one of the many doctrines of a successful restaurant. It was now required that we increase the recipe, and frustratingly, maintaining the ratio between flour, water and yeast does not produce consistent results. Balancing the science with the art form is an omnipresent condition in our environment, but one thing is certain: When consistency is the goal — and in my book, it is king — being precise in measurement is essential, and weighted measure yields the best science. For hard-core clarity, it is worthy to note that there are 28-plus grams to an ounce, and hence, “my guys” were talking grams. They were resolute in reestablishing the perfection attained a week earlier.

There were multiple reasons why we chose to postpone pizza when we opened last June. Aside from the uniqueness of the brand we sought to initially nail, I had also sought to minimize the pressure of direct comparison to the previous restaurant at this site, the incredibly talented chef-owner having been a friend who has since passed away. Not ironically, his emerging vision of “the best” while he was running our first two restaurant kitchens years earlier inspired a road trip to pizza mecca New York City. On the Lower East Side of Manhattan, we found South Brooklyn Pizza — an outpost of a celebrated pizza maker from, you guessed it, Brooklyn. It was here that Chef Rob discovered the wood-fired nirvana he pursued, and what a treat it was to watch him! Each bite, poker-faced concentration while chewing purposefully. With large hands, he tore the crust gently, pulling side to side, turning it in his hand. He raised the crust to his nose, inhaling the smoky-sweet essence of fire, sugar, yeast — next inspecting the crumb (air bubble) ratio of the bitten dough, pinching the crust between doughy fingers. The standing-room-only counter was his laboratory, a paper plate his worktable.

After that weekend, we returned to work and ultimately he moved on. He would eventually open PigTale and, as expected, the restaurant was incredible while it lasted — the pizza as good as what we had sampled together.

Ask 10 people what makes pizza great and you are likely to get 10 different answers, often inspired by regional nostalgia. There is a funny saying that “Pizza is like sex. Even when it’s bad its good.” I get it. I have been high in my life devouring pizza bagels with dorm mates in closed-eyes paradise. But I have sayings of my own. As much as it deserves love, “English muffin pizza is not pizza.” Also, “Frozen pizza is not pizza.” Then there’s, “Cracker-crispy-crust pizza is not pizza,” and my Bart Simpsonish go-to, “That pizza sucks.” To my way of thinking, chicken parmigiana is a lot more like sex. When it comes to bad pizza, this snob is prone to abstinence.

Revolving Test Kitchen Reopens with New Focus

September 16, 2021 by Digital Manager

Earlier this week business, civic and education leaders celebrated the reopening of the Revolving Test Kitchen on Northern Essex Community College’s (NECC) Lawrence Campus.

In existence since 2016, the Revolving Test Kitchen is transitioning from an incubator and pop-up restaurant serving one entrepreneur at a time to a shared commercial kitchen and food business incubator that will accommodate a wide range of food businesses, including food trucks, catering companies, small batch manufacturers and food delivery companies. The space also offers members access to culinary and business experts in the food industry. Food entrepreneurs are now being recruited to join as members.

The leaders enjoyed a buffet prepared by two RTK member entrepreneurs, Danny Torres of El Encanto, who runs a food truck featuring Puerto Rican foods, and Jessy Melo, owner of Jessy’s Clean Meals, a weekly meal prep service (read our story on Jessy here) . There was also a short program emceed by Wendy Estrella, Lawrence Partnership board chair and featuring remarks by Lane Glenn, president of NECC, Mike Kennealy, secretary, executive office of housing and economic development, Lawrence Mayor Kendrys Vasquez, and George Ramirez, executive director of the Lawrence Partnership.

Jessy Melo and Lawrence Mayor Kendrys Vasquez — Jessy Melo (left) of Jessy’s Clean Meals shows Lawrence Mayor Kendrys Vasquez (center) the dishes she prepared for the reopening. Jessy is a member entrepreneur of the RTK. Courtesy photo.

“Lawrence is emerging as a growth area for food-based businesses…” said Ramirez. “This new approach to the RTK offers serious entrepreneurs an important hand up through experts and facilities that make it possible to bring their idea to life and sustain it for the long term.”

RTK members pay a $350 refundable deposit and a monthly base rent of $350 that includes 10 hours of kitchen time as well as well as facility costs, food safety auditing, member meetings and roundtable discussions, and promotion. The facility will be open for food production from 4 a.m. to midnight with 24-hour access for its members.

To learn more, more or access the application, visit here.

RTK Ribbon Cutting photo at top of page: (Left to right) Jessy Melo, Jessy’s Clean Meals; George Ramirez, Lawrence Partnership; Theresa Parks, MassDevelopment; Lane Glenn, NECC; Wendy Estrella, Lawrence Partnership; Mike Kennealy, Executive Office of Housing and Economic Development; Mayor Kendrys Vasquez, Lawrence; Senator Barry Finegold; Representative Marcos Devers; Danny Torres, El Encanto; Hilton Torres, El Encanto.

A View From the Kitchen – Let The Good Times Roll

September 10, 2021 by Scott Plath

“Let’s bring back the fun,” encouraged our newest director of operations, rallying staff days after our restaurant group’s annual outing. Opening on a Monday just for us, the staff of Tyngsborough’s Shoreline Beach Club watched in amusement as we engaged in gourmet Jell-O shots (the epitome of an oxymoron), Stoner’s rum punch, Cards Against Humanity, and watching team members tip over in their kayaks! It was a great time and, likewise, a proper prelude to the director guiding our group’s future fortunes as we turn the focus upon our new social-themed restaurant; inspiring fun being a key component of our vision. I am so ready. His predecessor, like many, succumbed to attrition-by-pandemic as we essentially took “a gap year.” Where some see setback, we see opportunity. This guy is great.

As he spoke of our industry’s passion and all the ways we bring the “feel good” — words from my own heart — he suggested tongue in cheek that we design a new, politically incorrect company tee shirt: “F&#K It!” boldly pronouncing our intention to cease playing scared. My mind began to wander, recalling endless inspirations (and notes!) of my restaurant heroes — those who create ultimate success measured by full tables and defying the odds by continuing to feed body and soul for the long term.

Amused by my industry’s sense of humor, I read through pages of my collected notes leading to our recent opening: “Duck in a jar,” “House Spam and PBR breakfast,” “Hanging monkeys,” “Kama Sutra wallpaper in the bathroom,” and “Half-keg urinals.” And, also by our commitment to community: “Hometown heroes,” “A portion of the proceeds…” and “Parking for older persons only.”

I love how the owners of Westford’s Korean-inspired Seoul Kitchen recruited other restaurants in feeding the hungry, and how they gave away fruit and toilet paper during the pandemic. And how at New York City’s Mighty Quinn’s, guests queue for their barbecue beginning at windows to the butcher’s room, allowing a peek at the messy work prior to the sexiness of smoke, sauce and smiles — our kitchen people are too often taken for granted.

Years ago, I fell in love with Chicago’s Au Cheval burger; yes, their double-patty-double-melting-sharp-American cheese with oozing Dijonnaise and chopped pickle goodness, and yes, I took copious notes. (I even brought a burger home to be analyzed by our chef … “imitation is the highest form of flattery”); but also, their diner-come-tavern feel and the perfection of comfort food with a DJ as backdrop. Fried baloney and Beyoncé … how fun! Most of all, I love how the bartenders and cooks share the same space, harmoniously handling the room as one. Good luck getting in.

More recently (and more love notes), my heart belonged to Bar Tulia in Naples, Florida. I ‘jones’ to be sitting at their bar for the smell of the woodfire, watching pizza dude tucked into the corner alternatively stretching dough and skillfully spinning those pies to achieve perfect char, while also supporting the bartenders hustling mere feet away, shaking two mixing cups overhead. Regularly smile-winking at guests, they deftly avoid the conversations that will slow their roll. Low lights and happy hip-hop, the boldness of playful black and white nudes along the walls, crispy pig ears served in a jar. At Bar Tulia, I feel things.

At Boston’s dimly lit Toro, I love how the tables and chairs are set so close together — like those in the dark, smoky comedy clubs of old — elbow to elbow, emotions stirred, the tickling of humanity’s funny bone before delicious mezcal cocktails and messy street corn. Sign me up!

I love how we love to burn stuff (but not trays of bacon, I hate that). Smoldering wooden boards complement whiskey drinks, creme bruleed sugar for that cotton candy smell, and how at Manhattan’s now-closed Desnuda, when you ordered the “tea smoked oysters,” the bartender lifted a giant gravity bong onto the bar top and sparked the bowl with, hmm, something that smelled vaguely familiar.

I love the ways we inspire warm and fuzzy feelings. How Starbucks plays music that pays cultural homage to the beans’ origins, how the queer-owned Seaweeds on Martha’s Vineyard seeks a welcoming, safe haven by stating on their menu “no space for hate,” and how when visiting Jacques-Imo’s in New Orleans we are led by the host right through the center of the kitchen (“Hey Chef!”) on the way to the rear dining porch for amazing Creole soul food. Similarly, when last visiting taverns in Great Britain, “us locals” went up to the bar to order our Sunday roast and get our own waters, taking part in the practices of a communal environment before sitting back to hoist a few with “our” neighborhood.

We are excited to put the last year in the rearview, poised to put the pedal to the metal and get back to it. Dear all you surviving restaurant brethren, with sincere thanks and love, good luck to you all. As our new director says: “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

A View From the Kitchen – Writing the Restaurant Rule Book, Still

July 17, 2021 by Scott Plath

or Chief Problem Solver and Bottle Washer

“Sir, my shrimp are cold.”

No matter how long I live, remembering my first complaint as a new restaurant owner remains. Survival in this business commands an ability to problem-solve without a manual — to derive solutions, often in split seconds, generally every day, mostly small in the grand scheme. That is why, in my yet-to-be-written book, the chapter “When the Guest Is Always Right” will be, like, a million pages long. Applying that philosophy covers most solutions.

Of note, she had ordered a shrimp cocktail: “Four chilled jumbo shrimp. …” True story. In the flash of silent space that followed, I processed: Did she forget her glasses? Is she crazy? Is she messing with me? Am I crazy? Then, does the truth even matter? “So sorry. Let us get those heated up for you right away, dear” — the no-brainer of possible responses.

My steak is overcooked. My salmon is undercooked. It’s too cold in here, it’s too warm, it’s taking too long, it came out too fast. And, there’s a pandemic and no sales, you need a mask, you don’t need a mask, there aren’t enough employees to handle the recent surge in business — like, this is what we do, we’ve got this.

But actually, do we?

In a recent manager meeting, my lips said things never before imagined: “Until we have more staff, forget about driving sales. Close stations. Create a wait. Limit reservations.” They eyed me like I was maybe drunk. Telling restaurant managers to slow down, particularly after months of pandemic-ravaged wasteland, is like telling fish not to swim. “We must protect our reputation for the long term,” I said, uncomfortably. Even I wondered if I was drunk. Forever, these things have worked in tandem — great food and service drives sales — ready, set, go.

We’ve created waits before, but never with half the tables empty. It’s long been a rule (Chapter 3?) that guests will (mostly) wait patiently until seated, when the timer starts ticking. “Our server took 10 minutes to greet us.” “Our drinks took 20 minutes.” So it goes. During these seemingly never-ending, never-before days, our small, heroic staff loops relentlessly from table to table, kitchen to bar, to the phone and front door — “30,000 steps!” a server recently boasted while checking his pedometer app. Another exclaimed, “I’ve never made this much money before,” more excited than exhausted. To be young!

We’ve placed “Help, I need somebody” postcards on tables offering guests $1,000 in gift certificate bonuses for staff referrals, while also asking for kindness and patience. Our Facebook pages double as job boards. We employ recruitment firms, post memos, urge staff and family to send friends: “We will train.” We remain closed on days we should be open to preserve the team we have.

Recently, my wife, some friends and I were waiting for a table at a favorite Lowell restaurant where they refused to serve us drinks to avoid overwhelming the bartenders. Yikes! Our restaurants were not delivered burgers due to a shortage of burger makers. Short on drivers, our largest supplier can only deliver once a week. Chicken wings doubled in price due to supply chain issues. It’s never been like this. We hired back a whiny cook at 30 percent more than what he was making pre-pandemic, while giving similar raises to others in the kitchen, unsure of the best strategy to afford all the increases we face.

Months ago, with both trepidation and resolve, we added a supplemental charge to our menus — rather than simply increase menu pricing, thereby avoiding additional tax and gratuity expenses — in order to legally, directly bonus kitchen staff, as they are typically lower paid throughout our industry. (It’s a problematic, systemic thing). In Massachusetts, kitchen team members cannot legally share in the percentage of sales (gratuities) paid by guests to servers — an ancient compensation system now being called into question. Guest reaction has been overwhelmingly positive (and greatly appreciated), as we assumed a leadership role in establishing greater wage equity. In a year’s time, the only verbose, ornery response was from a (former) regular guest who happens to be a multimillionaire. Go figure. His complaints came after consuming two dozen oysters, a steak and a couple of martinis. To me, this epitomized our challenge, both as a society and as small-business owners. How do we ensure that “essential workers” can afford their rent or to order the steak they cook? It is a problem worthy of a solution — on behalf of our economy and collective souls. Whether you look away or offer dollar bills to outstretched hands, homelessness hurts us all.

When a local newspaper reporter asked my perspective on the current labor conundrum, to his disappointment I answered: “Fascinating.” He skipped using my quote. As suspected, his slant was to simply chronicle the obvious. He expected that I’d be distressed (I am), but that I’d also blame liberal unemployment benefits — the easy target (I don’t, entirely).

And it’s here that the whole thing becomes super complex for my problem-solving powers — this chapter ultimately to be a doozy. Heating up shrimp cocktail with a smile and sincerity; not rocket science. But this here …