Taking one for the team

Early in my tenure at Foodservice News, a restaurateur told me that some sort of brain injury is required to want to start a restaurant. Perhaps because of a subconscious desire to get deeper into a story, I did my best to achieve that brain injury part about a month ago, on my to the Parasole offices for the story on their latest venture in Wisconsin Dells.

Being the good little promoter, I always try to bring extra copies of FSN to distribute to interview subjects who might not have seen the latest issue. They’re stored in our attached warehouse. It was a nice, warm day, and the large garage doors (our building was the former home to the St. Anthony Fire Department) were open, allowing in the breeze—but not open all the way.

Now, being six-feet-four-inches tall, I know I’m larger than average, but not outlandish. I’m still a pipsqueak by NBA standards. But I do have to duck on occasion, and this is one time I didn’t when I exited in a rush through the garage opening.

Wham! My head jerked back, and I must have gone out limbo-style into the parking lot. I saw the little blinking floaters in my eyes, but kept staggering toward my car, thinking, “Ah, I’m fine.”

See, blows to the head are not new to me. Through two decades of hockey and other sports, I’ve been knocked into near unconsciousness many times. I don’t panic when I’m stunned into an altered state. A garage door certainly couldn’t do me in. And it didn’t. But one thing that’s never happened to me is a head wound, which I discovered when I entered the on-ramp for I-35W. With the sunroof cracked open, I felt an unusually cool draft on my scalp. When I touched the area, my fingers discovered a significant amount of moisture—that being blood. I’ve been told that gashes to the scalp bleed like a busted water pipe. Well, yes they do. Fortunately, because I have a knack for spilling drinks on myself in my car, I stuff a wedge of napkins in my driver’s side door. I began to mop my head.

I was less concerned, actually, with the amount of blood than the amount of hair that was coming with it. I’m getting thin up there. So there I was, driving along the highway, trying to apply enough pressure to my skull in an effort to stop the hemorrhaging, while being delicate enough to preserve any follicles that might still be precariously attached amid the trauma.

Through this, I didn’t consider canceling the appointment, thinking the bleeding would soon stop, which it did, sort of, as I pulled into the parking ramp behind the Parasole offices. With a quick jog into a nearby coffeeshop’s bathroom to wash up, I was only 10 minutes late—thankfully, the Parasole group graciously accepted my apology. I just hoped I wouldn’t start dripping blood. I’m not sure what the whole leave-the-room etiquette is for that.

I’m glad my wound didn’t cause me to cancel the meeting (not that I could have, en route—I’m the last person in North America without a cell phone). As you will read in the article, it was a fascinating session, and I began to understand why some of those restaurateurs told me about head trauma being a helpful pre-requisite for restaurant ownership. And it also made me admire all the more the restaurateurs who had an idea and took the journey alone.

Parasole has the restaurant game figured out, pretty much down to a microbial level. That doesn’t mean they don’t take risks (Chino Latino was a large one), but the company doesn’t fly by the seat of its pants because it doesn’t have to anymore. And those clients who can afford their expertise are likely to succeed, also.

But there’s always something special about the guy who does take on the restaurant business on his or her own, and wrestle it into relative submission despite high odds. FSN recently featured Ismail Karagoez, chef and owner of the Istanbul Bistro in Wayzata. Is his location ideal? No. But his is one of those “cook great food and they will find it” stories.

Next month the paper will feature John Moore of Barley John’s Brew Pub in New Brighton. The pub just celebrated its sixth anniversary in March. His is a story of scrappiness to survive the early years. Now the joint is packed, and his tiny kitchen can hardly keep up. But with his specialty brews, people don’t mind the wait.

Do those people have head injuries? I didn’t look closely, nor did I think it polite to ask. But suddenly I’m noticing what could be ideal locations for something…


Judge this

Now, brain injury or not, I don’t think I’ve achieved “celebrity” status with my humble position at FSN. But that was the title bestowed upon me and about eight other judges for the Saint Paul Bread Club’s 3rd Annual Bake Off in April.

The club was started by Dan “Klecko” McGleno, the production manager at Saint Agnes Baking Co., as an opportunity for home cooks to get together and learn about baking. To regular FSN readers, Klecko is well-known. He’s a master baker and promoter, and seems to get his name in this paper at least once beyond the ad space Saint Agnes purchases each month. While he’s not shy about his desire to become THE face of baking, what really makes him successful is his genuine interest in people and the seriousness he applies to his profession. Throw in his assistant Lorenzo Allen, who trained in Italy, and you’ve got quite the faculty for a local baking club that’s open to everyone.

I didn’t know what to expect; I’ve never judged any contest. The production area at Saint Agnes was filled with people, and about 70 entries were listed. There were 11 breads in my category alone, including an Italian Easter bread, and a Finnish cardamom loaf. Needless to say, I carb-loaded like never before.

I don’t think I’m a slouch in the kitchen, but attempting the breads many of these home cooks made would, I think, make me hang up the oven mitts for good. Next time I complain about having to load my bread machine, I’ll think of these folks.