“But we have space for one hundred.” In Hope’s dreams, one hundred people was a packed house. Crazy, but doable.
But Camila pressed on.
“Yeah, we do, but if customers come in, and have a bad experience, have to wait, get a less than stellar dish, they won’t forget it. They’ll share that. It’s better to walk first, not run.”
More than anything else, Hope wanted every single person to have a perfect night, a great meal, a beautiful atmosphere, with a welcoming vibe from the staff.
Every place was set with that intention in mind.
Hope freaking out for several hours in front of hungry and disappointed diners was not what she envisioned. Camila outlined how easily that scenario could play out if they had one hundred people and an inexperienced staff.
“I see your point.” Hope was confident in her skills, but one hundred people, if they were full? She’d have to move like her rear end was on fire.
“I say, let’s spread the tables out, store the extras up in the banquet area. And that way, even if you’re at half capacity, it looks full. You look like a success this way, instead of chicken with her head cut off, ya get it?”
“Camila, you’re brilliant. I think that works.”
“Our current staff will understand our systems, and it will be much easier to onboard new people as we slowly ramp up to capacity.”
The conversation was a good opportunity to bring up her other idea. The one that no restaurant in the area was doing.
“Braylon, can you come out here?”
Braylon emerged from the back of the house and joined them. Hope was relieved they had fairly big workspaces because, for a sous chef, Braylon would make a good professional wrestler, size-wise.
“Okay, here’s also what I’m thinking. My goal is to source our ingredients ethically and regionally.”
“We’re aware. You’ve said that a million times, and we’ve known you ten or so days,” Camila joked.
“I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind. That means my menu must be different from what people are used to.”
“Well, it will be. It will be your recipes, your creations,” Camila said.
“More than that, it has to change. Week to week.”
Braylon smiled but also took a step backward. He’d come to understand that Camila was going to probably balk at this idea. A bespoke, ever-changing menu was more work for everyone involved.
“Lunch and dinner?” Camila squinted at Hope.
“Yes, each week we have one, maybe two lunch options, and one, maybe two dinner options. Our servers don’t memorize a huge list of sides, and there are no changes or substitutions. It’s one choice of protein, one side, one appetizer.”
“Are you out of your mind? What if people don’t want chicken or beef or fish or want asparagus, not squash? The customer is supposed to be right, not you!”
“They’re going to want it. I’m one hundred percent sure. Between my recipes and what Braylon is adding to our arsenal of ideas, they’re going to want what we put on the plate.”
“But if they like something, they can’t come back and order it again.”
“Not in the same way, no.”
Camila fashioned her index finger and thumb into the shape of a gun. She then pointed it down to her shoes.
“This is you,” Camila said.
“Shooting myself in the foot?”
“Right, how will you get that couple who comes every Friday for your meatloaf or whatever it is they have their heart set on?”
“They’ll come every Friday for the best meal with the best ingredients at their peak.”
