margaritas!), love of eighteenth-century French antiques (I need a
restaurant so people can see them, see what good taste I have!), love for
that great Bogie film they have all that memorabilia from. These poor
fools are the chum of the restaurant biz, ground up and eaten before most
people even know they were around. Other operators feed on these
creatures, lying in wait for them to fold so they can take over their
leases, buy their equipment, hire away their help. Purveyors see these
guys coming, rarely extending more than a week's credit from the outset,
or demanding bill-to-bill payment. In fact, if you ever have any question
about the viability of your operation, ask your fish purveyor: he probably
knows better than you. You may be willing to take it in the neck for a few
hundred thousand dollars, but he isn't. He's got it all figured out as soon
as he claps eyes on you and your ludicrous restaurant—exactly how
much he's willing to get stiffed for when you suddenly throw in the
towel. Chances are it's no more than a week's worth of product.
Given these perils . . . why? Why would anyone want to do it?
Inarguably, a successful restaurant demands that you live on the
premises for the first few years, working seventeen-hour days, with total
involvement in every aspect of a complicated, cruel and very fickle
trade. You must be fluent in not only Spanish but the Kabbala-like
intricacies of health codes, tax law, fire department regulations,
environmental protection laws, building code, occupational safety and
health regs, fair hiring practices, zoning, insurance, the vagaries and
back-alley back-scratching of liquor licenses, the netherworld of trash
removal, linen, grease disposal. And with every dime you've got tied up
in your new place, suddenly the drains in your prep kitchen are backing
up with raw sewage, pushing hundreds of gallons of impacted crap into
your dining room; your coke-addled chef just called that Asian waitress
who's working her way through law school a chink, which ensures your
presence in court for the next six months; your bartender is giving away
the bar to under-age girls from Wantagh, any one of whom could then
crash Daddy's Buick into a busload of divinity students, putting your