A complicated crisis.

Recently a flurry of comments responded to the Ottawa Citizen’s Food Section editor Ron Eade’s blog about the sudden closure of Benitz’s Bistro, a chef-driven Ottawa restaurant manned by Chef Derek Benitz and his wife. I met Derek only once, at a Savour Ottawa food event—and I recognized him immediately: he had the same wild, harried look I see sometimes in my own eyes, usually right as the latest bus is barreling down the ramp towards me. I do not profess to know him and I do not write this as any sort of defense; this is just my emotional reaction to the piece as presented in the Ottawa Citizen’s ‘Omnivore’s Ottawa’ blog…But, like I mentioned, it was a Savour Ottawa event where I met him, and that means that he was on my team, a local foods guy, a guy with values, someone else who is out there trying to change the system. Turns out, we are alike in more ways than one…the fact is that I gasped as I read the article, airing out the Benitz family’s dirty laundry—knowing that my own story would read, depending on how it was written, with just as much seemingly salacious detail...the unpaid bills, the personal failures, trials and errors that seemed to err more than try...Whatever catastrophe finally pushed Derek and his business past the point of no return, I haven’t got a clue, but I do know this; ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I....’

I don’t know if my business will still be here next week. At the time of this writing there are any of a dozen different serious crises that could destroy the last four years of blood, sweat, and tears that have made the branch restaurant what it has become. Another slow week and we’ll miss one of two payments, either to HST, who will freeze our account, seize whatever they can get and prevent us from paying any other bills, or to our mortgage company...who, probably, wouldn’t do anything right away, but they could, and that would set a very bad domino at the front of a long line of other bad dominos into a forward falling motion--you know, like that HST I mentioned, or PST, source deductions...payroll, our liquor license renewal, or any of a number of other creditors including our families, our friends...purveyors, artists; all of whom expect and often need for us to pay them.... Or the walk-in refrigerator could stop working, or the stove.... The health unit could decide our grace period for putting in a new kitchen floor was over. Or I could get run over by a bus. We don’t see too many buses in Kemptville these days, but, you know, it could happen. Everyone always throws that ‘run over by a bus’ line into the string of worst case scenarios; I wonder how that started? I know why it’s there; it’s a placeholder, a reminder—‘it could be worse!’, ‘You’ve got your health!’, or more to the point...’quit complaining! Life is short, get on with it!’

My dad was an entrepreneur; that’s where I got the bug. Even before he opened ‘Samuel’s’, his namesake restaurant, the place where I fell in love with this, with my industry, (and, perhaps more importantly, his last business...) he had a string of other ventures, including, you guessed it, a bus station. That idea, getting run over by a bus, resonates in a strange way to me—Some folks, when they hear that, probably picture a bus from the outside, from a distance—I was so young and at such an exploratory age when we had the bus station that sometimes it feels like I was born on one. Like a bus is in my DNA. I don’t just picture it...I hear it rumble, belch, and hiss, I smell diesel, the sooty smoke, I remember standing next to the wheels when they were so tall that I couldn’t touch the tops. I remember crawling through the luggage compartments, unlatching the whole back end to reveal the gigantic motor; I remember the antiseptic smell of the on-board washroom, the fabric and vinyl seats, the ashtrays in the armrests at the back, the bus driver with his giant movie-screen-sized windshield. But mostly, I remember my Dad, the boss of the bus; conducting a symphony of bus; choreographing a ballet of bus. Yeah, I could get run over by a bus; in some ways, I already did.

In 2006, it occurred to me for the first time that I might actually be able to open my own business. I got run over by a bus when the first dozen attempts at financing fell through, then in October of that year I got hit by another bus when we actually opened our doors. I got run over by another one on our first busy night, during the blackout, again when the Hydro company threatened to shut us off because of a stack of mis-mailed bills, when I had to fire someone for the first time, when a cook unplugged the meat fridge overnight, when the health inspector showed up during a busy lunch, when we over-prepared for an Ottawa festival by a factor of ten and got stuck holding the bag.... When I got my first complaint, when I got my first review which implied (mistakenly) that I served grapefruit! (...it was grape chutney, Anne; the grapes were from our own vine out back!) Honestly? I’ve been hit by, knocked down with, run over by, and sent to the back of the bus in some way or another every week since we opened.

But every time, I have gotten back up. We did find financing, we survived opening, busy nights and blackouts, we passed health inspections (with flying colours, in case you’re worried...) and have paid our bills, paid our bills, and paid our bills; sometimes late, sometimes on installments, and sometimes with little more than promises and hopes. But when push has come to shove, for four and a half years, we have rolled up our sleeves, gotten back up and we have done what had to be done.

And more. We started a thriving Farmers’ Market; we host three or four charity events every year. We provide an income and stability to our employees and their families. We manage the upkeep of a piece of local history, our 160 year old stone and timber building in the heart of downtown. There is nothing farther away from staring at the grill of that oncoming Greyhound than reading our customer comment cards that say: ‘excellent, excellent, excellent, amazing, 10 out of 10, best meal ever!’ Or, ‘we love it here!’
And we have managed this entire project in line with our values. I set out to open an organic and local foods restaurant, a business that did minimal impact to an environment that is even more stressed out than me—And, four and a half years later, we still buy local and organic as much as or more than the day we opened—more than almost anyone you know—Our meats do not come from factories, our vegetables taste fresh from the field because they are, and our pantry is stocked, floor to ceiling with certified organic foods. We still use natural, biodegradable cleaners, recycled and compostable paper goods, and we don’t even have a dumpster because most of our waste is either recycled or composted...In addition to those local, small farmed and natural meats, we include lots of healthy, vegetarian and vegan options, we use mostly whole grains and we even control portions of salt and fats, easy to do when you prepare almost everything from scratch—and you don’t even have to ask us about MSG or trans-fat because there is none here. We don’t have to add veggies to our kid’s meals, they already have them.

For now. Today, we are here; tomorrow, I may get run over by a bus.

Which brings me back to Ron Eade’s blog and Benitz’s bistro. The comments on the blog were what really got to me. They ranged in scope from impassioned defense to cruel accusation, and, in all truth, having nothing more than a passing recollection of the chef in question, I cannot say where the blame should lie. But here is what I imagine: Derek had another slow week. Fewer customers came in than the week before, fewer regulars returned, fewer new people saw the sign or the ads. A bill was put off, because there wasn’t quite as much money as he thought there would be. He worked harder, he made the food better, he tried a new approach, but, whatever it was, it didn’t take. He had another slow week, he put off another bill. A piece of equipment broke, it slowed service, it made his work harder, but there was no money to fix it, so he plugged on, worked around it. The slower service turned a few people who were on the line about his restaurant around—they told a friend or two, and Derek had another slow week. Each of these things became a domino in a row, the bills, the broken equipment, the slower service, and as each one of those dominos lined up, he tried new things, he crossed his fingers and he hoped. He stuck to his guns, he worked on the delivery, on cutting costs, on keeping people happy...But one day, he put off one bill too many, or maybe something else broke that he couldn’t repair. One day the bus ran him down and he couldn’t get back up.

Was this a personal failure? Should he have fought on against all odds? Sure. I have this conversation with myself every week, and if I didn’t keep saying ‘Yes! Fight on! Find a way!’ then this adventure would have ended in defeat long before this day...But does that make him a villain? No. Fraudulent? Again, no. Our culture is littered with stories of winning against all odds, of pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps, of turning lemons into lemonade....To have quit any sooner than was absolutely necessary would have been his, and would also be my end. As long as there is a chance that this company can turn itself around, I will keep trying. As long as people keep turning up, keep encouraging us to succeed, keep thanking us for doing what we do, I will keep on fighting, I will keep on trying.
My Dad showed me how to put those buses in line. He taught me how to be not just a business owner, but a good one, a fair one—but in the end, a restaurant took him down. Restaurants are bigger than buses, and meaner; just ask Derek Benitz, or, I’m sure 99 out of 100 restaurant owners you could meet. Margins are slim, diners are fickle, trends and tastes change with the wind and season. And how many newspapers have a ‘Haircut Reviews’ section waiting to pounce on the first barber who tapers unevenly or fails to provide a perfect bob? Restaurants are hard work; they are demanding, intense and unforgiving.

My restaurant may not be here next week. It probably will, and every instinct has told me not to tell this story, this truth, to let you see behind the veil.... But I get tired when I see good guys like Derek lose the fight, like my brother, like my dad. I don’t want to be one of those guys or gals. I made it past the first hurdle; I didn’t fail, like 23% do, in my first year, and I’d like to not be one of the 60% that fail in the first five....The fact is that I love this place. I love the work, I love the response, I love the people, I love being able to effect change by the simple fact of existing and I love that I don’t have to be like McDonald’s, The Keg, or the Olive Garden to do it. I love that I can depend on local farmers and not buy from big, industrial suppliers like the others. But if I’ve learned anything, if stories like Derek’s have taught me anything, it’s that I’m not going to succeed by laying down in the ditch, waiting for the trouble to pass, I’ve got to get out in front of that bus and make the driver stop and let me on.
So here goes. Tomorrow, I really could get run over by a bus, so it’s time for me to quit complaining and to get on with it. So what, pray tell, am I trying to say? How about this: if you value your local and local foods restaurants, visit them. Frequent them. This is not an easy business; fun, yes, but not easy. Come to the branch; buy something this week or next. If you can’t come, send a friend; if you can come, bring a friend. We want to succeed. We want nothing more than to offer you a little home away from home; a friendly, smiling face, and a great meal grown and raised by the good people all around you. If you value that in us, if you value that in any restaurant, then support us. Support all of us; give us a chance to get on the bus. Honestly? Give us a chance to drive the bus.
And that is what I really want to say.