It’s 2004. We’re sitting in the lounge of the steakhouse across the street from the restaurant, the owner and me, the chef. The place is dimly lit, and the owner, who’s been MIA for most of the restaurant’s existence, stares down at his brandy snifter and tells me tonight was our last night of service.
The landlord, he says, has been unreasonable and unwilling to negotiate. The restaurant—with a spectacularly expensive buildout modeled on a New York restaurant, itself based on a dream of a French restaurant—is going to have to close its doors unless…
He looks at me meaningfully and pauses. “I am willing,” he says, drawing out his words, “to give you the restaurant. All you have to do is assume the existing debt.”
I know that none of our purveyors, including my friends who own the little cheese shop, have been paid in months. The rent hasn’t been paid in months. Our parking passes have stopped working, and there’s a rumor that …
