I’M THE BEST DISHWASHER
IN ATLANTA. We’re doing
things differently now with
takeout. I make sure every-
thing is in its place, and I don’t
let anything get behind me.
That’s how we’ll get it done.”
—Rasul Abd’al-Aquil, dishwasher
at Southern Belle, AtlantaWE LOST OUR BUSINESS OVER-
NIGHT, but it’s not just the money
we’re missing. Our world revolved
around restaurants; they’re the
foundation of our farm. Our mixed
heritage breed pigs were devel-
oped with chefs’ feedback. I miss
talking to chefs about their plans
and the products we can make for
them, and I miss feeling like part oftheir menu production. It’s the only
job I’ve ever had where I give some-
body a bill—often a large one—and
they’d say ‘thank you.’ It’s emo-
tional driving past empty park-
ing lots that would otherwise be
packed, worrying about the people
we’ve become friends with.” —Matt
Weik, farmer, Carlton, Minnesota74 JULY 2020
IN MARCH, I HAD BIG DREAMS: The second location of Reem’s,
which opened in the Mission right before the pandemic hit, would
be the jump-off point for our 10-year plan, which included a
robust catering program and a foot in the wholesale game. Then,
everything changed. All of our catering gigs canceled, and the
shelter-in-place mandate came down. It quickly became clear that
we were spread too thin trying to pivot to delivery and takeout
in both locations; Reem’s Oakland, which had endured a rough
winter and whose business depended heavily on foot traffic, wasn’t
going to make it.
When I realized we’d have to close in Oakland, I was sick with
grief. I mean, I was in bed for days. But
as I took some time off the hamster
wheel to process, I found clarity
about who I needed to step up for,
and how. I began to ask myself: “What
are the things that we really want to
intentionally do? What do we want to
use this time to teach? How do we use
this time thoughtfully?” I realized that
in my depression, I had been making
the loss of Reem’s Oakland about me
and how I had personally failed, but
in reality, it was an opportunity to step
up for my employees who have to be
in the trenches right now.
I turned my attention to our team, which decided that we
would keep a core of seven people, and everyone else would take
a reduction in hours. As a result, we managed to keep almost all
of our employees from both locations on payroll, with some doing
deliveries and others doing odds and ends. I don’t know what
Reem’s will look like on the other side—I’m still in discussions about
the future with my landlord, who invited me into the space because
they wanted a community-driven business there. What I do know
is that if we—chefs, owners, landlords, and workers—think and act
and look out for each other rather than solely after ourselves, we
will come out better on the other side of this than we did going in.Reem Assil is the owner of Reem’s in San Francisco. Her Oakland café was a
F&W 2018 Restaurant of the Year.It’s NotReallyAbout You
Reem Assil on coming to terms with closing
her groundbreaking Oakland restaurantannouncements like “Please be fastidious about hand-washing”
became “We are closed until further notice.”
The bubble I’d been living in for the past few years—65-hour
workweeks of prep lists and nightly service—was burst overnight
by viral threat. On our last day of work, the entire staff was told
to file for unemployment. We have no idea when our restaurant
will be running again. The only thing we know right now is that
we don’t have jobs.
Restaurants have been my home, on and off, for 10 years. I
started as a hostess when I was 18, a job to make money between
college breaks. After graduating with a nebulous English degree,
restaurants were sanctuaries that supported my life, small shelters
in the large and often terrifying city of New York. Three years ago,
I transitioned from my day job as a server to line cook, and then
jumped into pastry: a career that’s demanding physically and
emotionally and has been anything but easy.
Now, many like me are flooding unemployment sites and
wringing their hands at the technical difficulties on the phone
line. Government mandates to close restaurants have been the
right response to curtail potential catastrophe, but it’s undeniable
that we have been a monumental casualty. Being jobless in a gutted
industry feels like clinging to driftwood in an empty ocean.
It’s difficult to imagine the future right now, so I’m taking it daily.
To stave off depression during quarantine, my boyfriend (also a
cook) and I have gone into production mode. “Think of a project
and make it” is the mantra. Tonight is pizza night, tomorrow pork
belly ramen. Ice cream testing, cookie dough in the freezer. Our
only limitation is the flour shortage we’re experiencing and our
capacity to eat. It’s a privilege and comfort to be surrounded by
food and to find so much joy in making it; still, I wonder at how
bereft this all feels, like running on a treadmill or playing air guitar.
We are waiting in our homes, but for what? Will this industry ever
recover fully, and even if it does, will it ever be the same?
For now, we’re trying to break through an unemployment relief
system not built to hold such an enormous capacity. We call our
senators and urge them to consider restaurants in their subsidy
plans. We support takeout operations and buy gift cards for a
sunnier future. And when all else fails, we keep cooking.
I will always be grateful to be part of such a strong and resilient
industry. Kitchens aren’t running, but we are still here. Restaurants
are eclectic, strange groups of weirdos you didn’t choose as family,
but who’ll be there for you through every fight. And although one
of the worst parts in all of this is that we cannot gather around
the same bar, we can pour a combo beer and shot at home and
reassure each other that we’ll get through this. There will always
be another service.Jane Brendlinger is a writer and former line cook living in New York City.