Soy Sauce to Sawdust
When I first laid eyes on the place, it was eerie.
The ghostly remnants of the previous tenants’ hopes and dreams were still scattered around the now abandoned restaurant like evidence markers at a crime scene. There were definitely signs of a struggle.
A cheery mural of Mount Fuji flanked by blossoming cherry trees stretched across one wall of the long, hallway-like dining room. Its bright disposition clashed sharply with the torn Chinese paper lanterns that drooped over dusty four-tops. Chairs were scattered everywhere—about half of them knocked over like they’d been abandoned mid-escape. International flags hung haphazardly over the doorways, as if to shout, “You’re not eating some dumb old American food, buddy!”
The kitchen—if you could call it that—was somehow worse. A thick, brown film of grease coated the once-white walls like nicotine stains in your grandma’s smoking room. Four stainless steel handwashing sinks, ripped from their moorings (presumably to be sold), lay discarded on the floor. The only equipment left behind was a reach-in cooler (clearly too big to fit through the door—miraculously, it worked), some battered metal shelves, and a handful of small wares that screamed Asian cuisine only.
I turned to my soon-to-be business partner in disbelief.
“You’re serious?” I asked, half-convinced I was having a stroke.
He just smiled, nodding. His thick Eastern European accent cut through the silence:
“It’s going to be a lot of work. You’re going to live here.”
I looked around again, but this time something shifted. The grime, the grease, the ghosts—they faded. In my mind’s eye, I could see what this place could become: the book clubs, the live music, the movie nights and game nights. I saw myself in the back, slinging sandwiches for friends and strangers who felt like family.
He was right. It would be a lot of work. But anything worth having is.
I turned back and held out my hand to shake his.
“Let me talk to Cat,” I said. “But I think we have a deal.”
That was months ago.
Since then, we’ve gutted the place. Said goodbye to Mount Fuji, ripped the lanterns from the ceiling, scraped and scrubbed away the ancient grease. I’ve driven hours for used equipment that barely fits in the back of an undersized trailer. I’ve painted, patched, rewired, and reimagined the whole damn thing. Not to mention the actual blood and gallons of sweat.
It’s still a mess in places. There’s sawdust in my hair most nights and bruises I don’t remember getting. But the bones are good. And something’s waking up in here—something honest. A coffee shop. A kitchen. A place where weirdos and night owls might come to eat, hang, talk shit, and feel a little more human for a while.
I can hear it taking its first breaths.
This won’t be the kind of spot where you come for white tablecloths and tasting menus. It’ll be the kind where the sandwich hits just right, the music is a little too loud, and you find yourself staying longer than you meant to. A place for the curious. For the tired. For the hungry.
It's getting real now.
Soon.
-Brandon
