Merrimack Valley Magazine

A View From the Kitchen – Stress Rides Shotgun

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Prosecco sure. Lambrusco, naturally. But the fizz on my tongue incited by our pinot noir was suspect. We were thrilled to have scored four stools along the outside of the square inside-outside bar of a bustling French brasserie in Naples, Florida. After multiple sips, it took a few of my well-honed cool-guy, upward “Hey bartender” head nods to finally alert busy-him to my urgent dilemma. After all, the foie with port-poached figs was due at any moment. Such fun! His own well-honed “customer is always right” response comforted. With “Let’s do this” face, he plucked a fresh bottle from the center bar and opened it with practiced efficiency. He presented a new glass and poured some sample ounces, deftly twirling his bottle while simultaneously wiping its lip and stepping back at black-vested attention. “Same,” I frowned, opting for my confused puppylike face versus my bougie wine snob frown. I was clueless. With stubborn intention, he repeated the entire action. New glass, new bottle, head cocked: “Sir?” 

Swirl, sip … “Weird. Maybe it’s me?” He grabbed yet another bottle with such commitment that I wondered if he was mocking me just a bit. One in our group suggested the whole case was tainted. I now wondered aloud whether the (extraordinary) Gorgonzola in our (excellent) honey crisp apple-endive-walnut salad was maybe reacting with the wine. Those kooky bleus. I shrugged and decided to stick with it — three bottles deep and simply stoked to be dining again among happy, shiny people.

 

Then, a thing happened. Dude lowered his mask before orating upon minerality in wine.

My “at risk” friends gasped. We noted later with faux offense that our hot and hustling bartenders stopped throughout dinner to share bits of hospitality, each time lowering their masks. “Where the hell are we right now?” we wondered. The patio was full. The bar, full. The dining room, too, while the sidewalk bustled with diners waiting. “There’s no COVID here” we joked throughout multiple restaurant visits in the Sunshine State. “They missed the memo!” The joyful guest and former “prisoner” in me was tickled by the abundant normalcy while the Northern restaurant owner in me cried inside each time. Why can’t we, too, be in denial? Why can’t we, too, calculate risk for ourselves?

We had gone “over the wall,” escaping the confinement of extremely cautionary, cold, and oft-depressing Massachusetts for a grand buffet of alternate reality — the “wild west” of Florida. Having personally never been overly concerned about getting the virus (call me what you will), I indeed got it months ago. It is theorized that I then passed it to family members as we met in my small condo and projected our restaurant group “decision tree” on my TV — analyzing worst- to best-case scenarios. We all promptly quarantined, suffered mild flu symptoms and mostly recovered in days. I was relieved by both getting it and getting over it — and that my loved ones did, too, as we padded the growing numbers of those who went from “positive” to recovered. I hopped a flight weeks later feeling liberated, excited, guilty and burdened with business no better off and eternally fearing the worst — be it someone becoming ill, another unaffordable repair bill, or another press conference, each one a kick in our industry ass.

At first, it felt wrong to leave our struggling teams behind, perpetually perplexed as to what else we could be doing to positively influence fractional, static sales. In my heart, the answer had been confirmed over the past year. Very little. And trust me, the stress rides shotgun — chattering morning, noon and night. There is no true escape. Conversely, the potential for discovery travels, too. The reality is, while working from Florida the comfort of warmth and a rogue community (call it what you wish) proved a welcome breather when all the tossing and turning, reading, researching, emailing, zooming, and staring into the sunny abyss came to the end of the day. Freedom rings. 

When I shared my observations on our Facebook pages, I inspired dissension — the best kind, as I am mostly connected to intelligent, thoughtful and respectful “friends.” (Whom I pray are avoiding the absolute poisoning of our society by Facebook’s pursuit of profit. A column for another day.*) I asked how was it that per capita, “the numbers” in living-life Florida were reportedly better than locked-down Massachusetts. Comments followed. “Density,” one friend theorized. “That’s bullshit,” dropped another. “Florida fudges their numbers.” “They test less.” “How does anyone know that Florida isn’t reporting true numbers?” And so it went. This debate rages on because there is limited absolute truth — we all have varied core values and beliefs while the science continuously evolves. Yes, we should protect one another. And yes, we should have control over our own fate. (And reporting false numbers should face harsh penalties!) Personally, I am reminded of a Virginia Woolf quote from a favorite movie scene: “This is my right; it is the right of every human being. I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of the suburbs, but the violent jolt of the Capital, that is my choice.” Here is wishing good luck and good health to both the safekeepers and the risk takers, and sunnier days ahead for us all.  

*I recommend “The Social Dilemma” on Netflix — an eye-opening portrayal of how social media is negatively impacting our society.

When Life Gives You … Clams

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A waning summer’s waist-high tide and slowly setting sun framed the French girl’s legs flailing in the air — her body upside down, bikini bottom visible through the surface of the pristine and brackish waters of Vineyard Haven. Time and again with eyes closed and breath held, one of our daughters’ numerous visiting and vacationing friends excitedly foraged in the mucky sand with bare hands — regularly bursting upright, hand thrust in the air clutching a quahog and shouting to the rest of us, “I have won!” With an accent that we could all enjoy forever, she was probably exclaiming: “I have one!” Either way, triumphant.

My brother, having recently fled NYC to become a Martha’s Vineyard transplant and part-time, shellfish-permitted clam whisperer, guided seven of us from our large holiday household to his secret sweet spot, where that first day’s haul would set the stage for what we playfully dubbed “Clam Week 2020,” every day inspired by sunshine, friendship, escape, nature and, of course, the low-cost (free!) component of feeding so many, with half being unemployed and managing uncertainty.

We had hit the road a day earlier in an attempt to put this world’s growing struggles in our rearview for at least “a minute.” We committed to letting go: the unknown, the anger and dissension, and endless, gnawing noise. We came together from other “faraway” places such as England, Brooklyn, West Concord and Nashua. It wasn’t long before the first rule of our vacation was proposed: “No COVID talk.” Amendments were added along the way: “No politics” (thankfully!), and then, oddly, zucchini made the list. For the record, there was a lot of squash on hand. “Enough with the zucchini already.” 

 

When the first edict was proposed by my middle daughter, it sounded like a great idea, though ultimately it proved a challenge. How could we avoid recognizing that the beautiful farmhouse we found at a greatly reduced price only a month in advance was available because the previous renters-to-be canceled due to … that thing I can’t talk about. Or, furthermore, that we discovered this opportunity because the house we had originally secured months ago, pre C-word, was suddenly canceled by the lessor due to same-same. “We’re so sorry.” The story continues. … 

Our regularly scheduled vacation housemates reside in infected Florida with a new baby. In canceling their own vacation, space was created for others to join and, in fact, all of our group’s ultimate availability was made possible thanks to you-know-what, including one who was a mere four days from his actual Broadway debut before the lights went out. 

It has been more than 14 years since all three of our incredible daughters were living locally at once. They are currently working for our restaurants at a time when it could not be more “lifesaving.” This improbable, unintended consequence became a huge reason we moved forward — a rare all-in family vacation born of outrageous times.

Grateful for each day, and also for that freshly brewed pot of coffee, we shuffled one by one into each morning’s kitchen, where soon began the daily banter of which beach we would visit, and then, inevitably, the plan for dinner! As restaurant owners and passionate supporters of those in our industry, it felt wrong that these frequent conversations all but ignored our favorite places to eat — annual traditions falling by the wayside as most were offering “takeout only,” if they were even open. Alas, Clam Week 2020 raged on, tucked away on a hilltop with a house full of food enthusiasts. We further foraged an abundance of wild raspberries on the property, for fresh-baked clafouti or a simple syrup, complementing daily menus with herbs from the huge garden and by supporting local fishermen and farmers. Each day culminated in the communal kitchen — our rotating gourmands directing the picking, shucking, chopping and mixing. “I’ve got the mignonette,” “I’ll bake some bread,” and “Who can whip up a roux?” — most meals beginning with super-fresh chilled clams on the half shell!

Did you know that mollusks (hard- and soft-shell clams, oysters, etc.) can be frozen whole and taken out of the freezer to be consumed at a later time? The stuffed ones, too! Or that yesterday’s leftover clam chowder — either the bacon or the caramelized garden fennel-base versions — can be reduced as a seafood cream sauce for a white clam pizza on freshly made dough? On and on it went, great collaborations, conversations, love and laughter.

As our vacation sadly came to an end, and with some time to kill before our ferry home, I suggested we stop for lunch. “How about fried clams?” Garnering no such support, we boarded an earlier boat and armed ourselves with a Dunkin’ iced coffee — rested and ready for our return to battle. 

 

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 >>>

Finding The Cure To Breathe Freely

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Alone in the darkness and feeling sorry for myself — shades drawn down, wife down South and many weeks deep into our restaurants being shut down and shuttered from this latest plague — the time had come for a self-repair day. For allowing personal despair in, giving fear permission, contemplating worst-case scenarios, shunning phone and email while embracing sad movies. And peanut butter. 

“Positive energy” is my default setting, but through these long weeks my emotions have relentlessly roiled just beneath the surface. I have become the breathing, seething version of an emoji menu, finger scrolling: laugh, cry, eye roll, grumble, growl, bulging bicep, middle finger — I’ve been functioning under the ceaseless menace of “all this shit.” The unknown, the death, the media assault, both the overreactions and sheer stupidity. For all our superiority, our human race suffers from widespread ignorance. 

Even so, “Great!” remains my go-to response whenever anyone asks how I am doing. It blurts out and I rebuke myself: “Dude, you are hemorrhaging.” 

 

Then, much like this pandemic, in an instant dope-slap of a parallel reality … George Floyd was murdered.

And there it came. Incessant internal pulsing began to slowly erupt. Emotions reaching decades back through my past. Unexpected guttural noises escaped my soul for days, lured to the surface by tens of thousands of protesters who get it and got after it, en masse. I became further repulsed by the many who just don’t get it. Or won’t. Those who deflect and redirect the focus — who refuse to recognize this pandemic, but choose instead to be dismissive rather than attempt to understand — unwilling to put in the work. 

For those about to boycott me, offended by alternative perspectives, let me be clear on mine. George Floyd was killed by a man, first. An abusive, reckless man. While other men watched, lacking the courage, culture, permission or humanity to intervene. Which was it? The murder of my brother does not represent my police, although he was a police officer. While I support the need for sweeping change, the evil and the ignorant remain so, regardless of their cloak. When we give power to bullies, they become more dangerous. Black people are disproportionally vulnerable in a system where bullies are awarded so much power and too often not held accountable.

All at once, my previous personal struggle waned — much like CNN’s regurgitating coverage of COVID-19. Finally, something more urgent. My silent musings about the people wearing masks while walking outside refocused upon those who would retort “all lives matter.” No shit, Sherlock. A mocking quip requires less empathy than thinking upon the “why” and the “how” someone else is hurting. 

“Try being Black,” dared one of my oldest friends once upon a time. She and I fought recently over my insensitive reaction to her sensitive reaction to something insensitive I said. We didn’t talk for a couple of weeks. Then we did. We’re now better for it.

She once eloquently explained white privilege to me at a time when the truth made me defensive. I listened. It was easy to grasp coming from someone who suffers because of it. When I contended that I don’t even think about color, she scoffed, “And there you have it. That’s your privilege. But Black people can never stop thinking about it.” I understand it now and own it. Today, I am embarrassed that I’ve never asked other boyhood friends — Spencer, Dave, Kenny, Mike, or my very own sister, all Black — how their lives have been challenged. To be color blind is to ignore their truth.

Following a recent staff meeting to discuss our reopening with newly mandated safety procedures, one of our more impassioned employees called me out privately on my failure to speak to the human race’s other worldwide pandemic since our beginning — having ended infinitely more lives prematurely than COVID-19, and still counting. “You missed the opportunity to take a stand.” There it was again. My privilege to overlook what she cannot. (I remain a work in progress!) She challenged me further: “Black people’s equality requires that white people become better allies and that we all amplify the message of racial injustice.” At first feeling defensive, I continued to listen through her pain. She was right. She humbled me. 

By the time you are reading this, our restaurants will have reopened with improved education, training and protocols as we continue our struggle for professional survival, in harmony with fighting both these scourges. We will shine light upon social distancing, along with social justice, emphasizing our ideals of mutual respect, dignity, access and opportunity for all people, and that the color of one’s skin ought not to dictate outcome. It’s time we grasped this as a society. And I, for one, can do so much better. 

Come Together

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“Start Me Up.” The Rolling Stones. “Spirit in the Night.” Springsteen. “Stir It Up.” Bob Marley. Not more than a few weeks ago, we were rolling into Nashua, N.H., ready to rock a new restaurant while seeking song titles that would best embody our vibe — a bit more hip and socially dynamic version of our first two Stones.  

In painting the above picture, I was rallying our leadership team while off-loading some of the adrenaline that was pumping through my veins, every minute of every day. The opening of Stones Social was to occur nearly 12 years after Moonstones of Chelmsford, which arrived 14 years after Cobblestones of Lowell. I’m not what you might call “impulsive.” 

Yet here we were, discussing how we had launched our flagship with just three key holders. By the time we opened Moonstones, we were eight.  Now we were a team of 19 strong — leaders whom we entrusted with “our babies” — evidence of the proportionally greater opportunity and growth that comes with expansion.

Let the good times roll!

But less than a month after that euphoria, I painfully chronicle the results of this debilitating crisis — a pain that grows more acute with each word I type, laying bare our collective nightmare — all 80 of our employees laid off in the blink of an eye. Imagine. Having just one choice, and that being to force 100% of your beloved workforce into joblessness and fear. I cried that day.

 

Like millions of others, we are struggling mightily. Every minute of every day. The newly hired single mother who immediately sought our assistance for her baby, to the 25-year general manager who never before envisioned her career at risk. Many have no time to struggle with the why — they have mouths to feed.*

We are fraught with how to survive. With the redeployment of a courageous few, we have attempted to morph our hospitality-rich environment to batch cooking and packaging for pickup, maintaining a whole new level of safe practices while also our reputation for remarkable food. Our new normal — this business model formed to battle the mounting debt, fear and doubt that loom simultaneously, like a devil’s prong.

We are struggling, too, to understand. Commiserating recently over beers — properly spaced in case you are wondering — we grappled with the reality that none of us knows anyone who is sick. Not a family member, neighbor or friend. We see the news and are imperiled daily by the specter of the big picture — menaced by how we are now living. Healthy yet scared. Bored. Desperate. Shuttered. Uncertain. Bankrupt. And without hugs.

As a small group, we are currently doing what we do. We innovate and problem solve. Restaurant people are epic warriors. We protect each other’s families and our guests, as both are accustomed to relying on us for more than sustenance, but for care and comfort — a home away from home. Quite often we are the port in someone’s storm. But never quite like this. Not after Cobblestones’ fire of 2001 nor the Great Recession several years later. Back then, there was a level of certainty — a map of sorts where strategy had us moving toward a distant beacon, a glimpse that better days lay ahead. This feels different. 

Amidst it all, we are considered “essential,” permitted to drive to work each day upon empty roads. Like in those postapocalyptic movies — a lifeless wasteland — the lack of traffic the faintest of light in days otherwise filled with dread. Can we can save our businesses? Can we reemploy our people? Will relief and aid “bail” us out like the banks and the carmakers and the Wall Street folk of before. Or will we be offered only more debt? How essential are we really? Our political lobby is small. Despite our national workforce of 15.6 million people, or the billions we produce in taxes, we tremble on behalf of our industry and the many who live paycheck to paycheck.  

A friend and fellow business owner said to me early on in this mess how he had “never worked so hard for so little.” I smiled while comprehending how much we were factually working for. All of it — the whole damn thing, man. We are fighting to avoid the loss of a lifetime’s worth of dedication, effort, sacrifice and success.

Our lyrics today are a lot less emboldened, the beat less zippy — this titanic gulf from yesterday, when all our troubles seemed so far away. We preach that together we will pull through, hoping that a “minimum” of lives will be lost and that maybe proactive societal change will occur in respecting the science and heeding the warnings. Before the “next time.” Before it’s too late.   

*Should you be in a position to contribute to our suffering workforce, the Stones Hospitality Employee Relief Fund can be accessed by clicking here. Please stay safe.

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