ROI

(Continued from "The Lion's Share")

“Great! Charlie, you won’t regret it. I’ll send over an invoice, and as soon as the check clears we’ll get you started.”

A week later we were listed on the website as one of Whalen’s Picks. Sales jumped. The wait for a table on a Friday or Saturday night suddenly became twenty minutes, up from zero. I developed a knack for spotting Whalen’s fans on their way in the door. They had a certain look – middle aged, sociable, out for fun. They were happy people. They dressed in shorts and tropical shirts. They made eye contact with the staff and were enthusiastic in their small talk. None of these things were unique, of course. But put them all together and you were probably looking at a Tomcat.

I liked them, and not only because they ate and drank with abandon. I liked them because, when you work in a restaurant, you learn to appreciate people who show up with every intention of enjoying themselves.

The months went by. At the end of the first quarter, Whalen did a rapturous review on his radio show.

“Folks, great little place I have to tell you about. I discovered them when they first opened, and I knew right off the bat that these guys were the real deal. Well, now they’ve got a few more months under their belt, and I tell you they are killing it….”

That night was our busiest yet.

“Did you know Tom Whalen reviewed you today?”

“I heard!”

“That’s why we’re here tonight!”

“Well, I’m a big fan, so I’m real happy he likes what we do. How’s everything so far?”

That conversation took place eight or nine times in a single night. The next day, I mailed Whalen a check for another three months.

I’d be lying if I said the ruse kept me awake at night. Plenty of other things did – rent, payroll, and food costs, to name but three. But paying off Whalen didn’t exactly devastate me, morally speaking. It wasn’t as if we were filling top-shelf bottles with well liquor. When guests came, no matter what had brought them in, they generally enjoyed the experience and were glad they’d found us. Viewed from a certain angle, with a healthy dash of cynicism, a pay-for-play restaurant critic could be seen as just another marketing tool. Companies are always trying to smudge the line between advertising and editorial. Look at product placement in movies and television. Look at magazine advertisements masquerading as articles. Look at half the ads you see online. Look at me rationalizing.

If there was one thing I felt confident in as a brand-new restaurateur, it was my earnestness. Other places might be more consistent. They might have bigger menus and quicker service. They might have a better backstory. They might have nicer décor, or a more robust HVAC. But none of them could beat me at earnest. It oozed from my every pore, carried by a sweat that smelled of fear.

In those early days, I really worked the room – touched every table, in the parlance – making sure I knew what problems we had and, more important, making sure every guest knew that I was actively sussing out what problems we had. People understood that we were a small, independent operation trying to make a go of it in a landscape dominated by corporate chains. The moral high ground was ours.

Now I went to the tables with a dirty secret. Every conversation had me wearing a screwed-on smile, anxiously shifting my weight from left to right and trying to come up with a good parting line so that I might move on to the next table before my conscience reached its breaking point and I blurted out of nowhere, “Hey, by the way, Tom Whalen? He’s a whore worth every dime.”

And that was the problem: he was worth it. Business was great. The investment had paid for itself many times over. As a businessman, I’d be a fool to abandon the single most effective marketing angle I knew out of some high-minded notion about the legitimacy of a restaurant reviewer. The competition wasn’t so squeamish. A lot of them were listed on his website, too. Suddenly dropping off of Whalen’s Picks would put us at a major disadvantage, one we could scarcely afford in those days.

And lest we forget, he was a fucking restaurant reviewer! He wasn’t a district attorney or an NBA referee. He wasn’t a sworn defender of the public trust. He rated pizzerias on a scale of one to eight slices and talked about a plate of jalapeño poppers as though it were the pinnacle of Western achievement. Even people who took him seriously couldn’t really take him seriously. Could they? In a thousand reviews the man never wrote a discouraging word. Did anyone honestly believe he was a food critic? What a laugh. He was a 63-year-old cheerleader with yellow teeth.

And he was about to put us on the map. At the end of the second quarter, Whalen taped a sit-down segment at a table (three tables, actually, all pushed together) crowded with every dish on the menu, each presented that particular afternoon more photogenically than ever they had been before. The cameraman counted down from three. Between two and one, Whalen’s smile appeared in all its golden glory.

“Howdy, folks. I’m here today at one of the best, most exciting new restaurants in town….”

There followed a verbal handjob I can’t bear to repeat even now. He loved everything, of course. That which wasn’t a revelation was an affirmation – of our skills, of the timelessness of the dish, of life itself. To hear Tom Whalen tell it, we had raised the bar to heights heretofore only theoretical. I watched the taping from a far corner of the room, embarrassed by the thickness with which he laid it on.

Remember, I kept telling myself, the man knows what he’s doing.

The following Wednesday, the segment would be broadcast on the KCRP Action News at Noon. Thousands upon thousands of people who, in the course of their ordinary lives, would never have suspected our existence, were soon to learn that the greatest restaurant on earth was less than a fifteen-minute drive away.

After another record weekend, Whalen called me Sunday afternoon.

“We’re just about done putting together the segment, Charlie, and I am loving the way it’s turning out! Staff up this week because, trust me, you’re gonna get a lot of business.”

“That’s great, Tom. Can’t wait to see it.”

“Listen, just realized: quarter ended yesterday, time to re-up. I’ll be in the neighborhood tomorrow afternoon around four and I can swing by to grab the check. Thought I’d pick up dinner for the woman and myself while I’m at it. How’s that sound?”

He arrived about five past four. He was in his work attire of long-sleeved shirt and suit pants. I had dinner bagged and ready to go. He stuck his nose in the bag and breathed deep.

“Mmm, smells amazing! Cardamom, right? Mrs. Whalen’s gonna love this.”

“I hope so.”

“You have that check ready?”

“Actually, I don’t. Tom, I’ve decided we’re not going to do another quarter.”

“Really?” He tilted his head about thirty degrees, like a confounded setter. “Well, Charlie, that’s a pretty big surprise. Mind if I ask why?”

“It’s just a feeling I have about how we should use our marketing budget right now.”

“Well, let’s sit down and talk about it.”

“No, I’m sorry Tom, I’m pretty well decided. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m settled on this.”

He had a hurt expression for a few moments as he stood there by the bar with his arms wrapped around a bag of take-out. Then his face changed completely. His eyes brightened. He grinned wide and held out his hand.

“Charlie, I wish you all the best of luck. You’ve got a great operation here, full of potential.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, I can’t air the segment we shot.”

“I figured that.”

“Hell of a segment, too. Well, if you have a change of heart, just give me a call,” he said. We were still shaking hands. “I’d love to help fill this place up night after night. I think you know how much I can make that happen. If you ever decide you’re ready to reach my people, you’ve got my number.”

“I do,” I said, taking my hand back. “I’ve got it.”

I watched him through the front window as he carried the bag out to his car. Halfway there he stopped suddenly and fumbled in his pocket for his phone, which must have just rung. He looked for a few seconds like someone delivering bad news, then put the phone back in his pocket.

I kept watching as he got his keys out and loaded the bag into the backseat of his car, looking for all the world like any other man bringing dinner home to his family.