Tipping the Headsman: Government Agencies and the Startup Business

What makes this restaurant project most satisfying is that we've had the opportunity--yes, the opportunity!--to obtain permission for our activities from at least ten government agencies.  And what an opportunity it is.  Legions of paperwork, often on actual paper, trips to faceless government offices all over town, and the obligation to lay your neck on the metaphorical chopping block so that some bureaucratic stickler can take a swing.  

Best of all, you get to pay for the axe!  Indeed, the experience calls to mind the execution of the Duke of Monmouth for high treason against the English Crown.  Having mounted the scaffold on Tower Hill, Monmouth, "as was usual, gave the headsman some money, and then he begged him to have a care not to treat him so awkwardly as he [had recently done to one unfortunate] Lord Russell."  No such luck for poor Monmouth.  Eyewitness reports assure us that it took no fewer than five strokes with a blunt axe to have off with his head.

The actual situation is more like death by a thousand cuts: fees upon fees, filings upon filings, building inspectors.  Mostly the process is a drag. It's expensive because it's inefficient. Unsurprisingly, it can also be invasive.  The worst culprits won't surprise you: the California Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, aka "ABC," and the local building and health departments.  I've already written at length about the spectacularly overregulated process of getting a license from ABC to sell beer at a California restaurant, which I hope gives aspiring restauranteurs a good sense of what the government has in store for them if they want their business to serve alcohol.

This time, let's do a quick rundown of the basic government interactions you will have when starting your business.  Aside from ABC, and to some extent the Health Department, none of this is specific to restaurant businesses.  Depending on the nature of your business, who knows which agencies--state, federal, local--you'll have to deal with.  So please view this as a general starting point for your startup to-do list, with a slight emphasis on restaurant businesses.  

Duke of Monmouth.  Head on (L), head (nearly) off (R).  I assume this won't be your fate if you forget to file your fictitious business statement, but you probably don't want to test my assumption.

Step 1: Consider Limited Liability and Corporate Structure

So you want to start a business? That's good! And probably also a bit scary, especially if you haven't done it before. The first thing you've got to think about is what kind of business you want to be.  And I don't mean what kind of products or services you're planning to sell.  I mean what kind of legal structure your business will have. There are a lot of considerations, but the most fundamental is insulating your individual assets from the liabilities of the company. This is the principle of limited liability; i.e., that your risk is limited to what you invest in your company, and does not extend to your house, car, or personal bank accounts.

This is a big topic for another day, but just be aware (1) of the need to legally separate yourself from your business, and (2) that whichever corporate structure you choose--partnership, LLC, S-Corporation, C-Corporation, etc.--will come with its own set of rules governing everything from how you pay taxes, to how you raise money, to what kinds of corporate governance rules you need to follow after you start operating. An LLC is often a good choice for a small business, but every situation is different, and it's probably worth hiring an experienced business lawyer to give you guidance (to be clear, I am not providing legal advice here on Ramen Chemistry).  If you want legal advice about your business issues (or know someone who does!) contact me at work at Davis Wright Tremaine LLP.  

Corporate Status.  We are incorporated in California. Every state's SOS keeps a register like this of every one of its corporations.

Corporate Status.  We are incorporated in California. Every state's SOS keeps a register like this of every one of its corporations.

Step 2: Endless Government Interaction Awaits.  Here's Where You'll Start.

Once you've figured out what kind of entity you're going to be, your first task is to incorporate your company with your state's [1] Secretary of State (here's a link to the CA SOS).  This is a simple task involving completion of a document called the Articles of Incorporation (or whatever the appropriate initiating document is for the corporate form you've chosen), paying a filing fee, and--voila--your corporation is born. A person in the eyes of the law!  I was so amped up to start Shiba Ramen two years ago that I got up one morning to pay a personal visit to the SOS office in Sacramento to file our Articles. Completely unnecessary, and naturally anticlimactic, but I'm glad I went anyway.

If you're planning to sell taxable goods (ramen, burritos, consumer electronics, whatever), you'll need to get a Seller's Permit.  In California, you get this from the [2] state Board of Equalization. This permit allows you to purchase goods for your business without paying sales tax, so long as those goods are intended for resale. The idea is that a sales or use tax is paid only by the end purchaser. For example, we don't pay sales tax on drinks when we buy them from a wholesaler, but we charge tax when we sell them to customers. As a seller of goods, your responsibility is to collect that tax from your customers and remit it to the state.

You'll probably need to file a Fictitious Name Statement in any counties where you do business. Here in Alameda County, this is done at the [3] Clerk-Recorder's Office in Downtown Oakland. So what's a fictitious business name? This is the name under which you actually do business (i.e., your "DBA name"). If your DBA name is different from the official name of your corporation, you need to register it with the county. So, for example, Shiba Ramen Corporation is our official name, but Shiba Ramen is our DBA name. We filed a Fictitious Business Statement on Shiba Ramen. After you file the registration, though, you're not done. You then need to publish a notice in a legal newspaper for several weeks in a row before you are permitted to use your DBA name.

Assuming you issue shares in your company (as we do for our S-Corp), you'll file a Notice of Issuance of Shares with the [4] California Department of Business Oversight. You'll need to get a business license from the [5] city where you do business.  In Emeryville where we do business, this is given in exchange for a yearly tax payment of 0.1% of annual gross revenue.  

Once you start operating, you'll be in regular contact with the [6] Franchise Tax Board, to whom you'll remit sales taxes, and the [7] Employment Development Department (aka "EDD"), to whom you'll report data on your employees and remit employment taxes. Food businesses will deal with [8] the county Health Department and possibly [9] ABC.  Any business that builds anything must go through [10] the city Building Department.  

You didn't think there'd be any one-stop shopping in the world of government permits and taxes, did you? The good news is that the basic startup cycle is long enough that you have plenty of time to figure out the steps and get them done.  Most of these things you can do on your own as long as you do some research in advance. There are a lot of great corporate startup guides and web resources to guide you through the steps.  I relied pretty heavily on a couple of CA-specific guides from Nolo, which were extremely helpful for a project like Shiba Ramen. These are written in everyday language, are comprehensive, cover a huge scope of topics in many states, and are instantly downloadable. You can always call an attorney if something feels too far out of your comfort zone.  

Memories of the Bush Administration: Boots on the Ground at Shiba Ramen

"It's like Donald Rumsfeld said," I explained over donuts to our assembled employees on the first morning of Shiba Ramen, "you go to war with the army you have."  I realize it's not exactly fashionable to quote the Bush era Secretary of Defense.  So what in the world was I doing inviting him to Shiba Ramen orientation, quoting him to a group of people who, in the main, were in elementary school when Rumsfeld was at his warmongering zenith?  

Back in the days of time-of-our-choosing military interventions, voices less sanguine than those of Rumsfeld often cited the Powell Doctrine, named for Colin Powell's set of guideposts for avoiding Vietnam-style quagmire.  One of Powell's central tenets was that if you choose to intervene in a conflict, you do it with overwhelming force so you can achieve the objective and extricate yourself quickly.  Sensible, I completely agree.  I never want to risk an important job by committing insufficient resources.  It's bad for my mental health.  

At Shiba Ramen, though, being conservative with our staffing levels to open the restaurant wasn't really possible.  By the time we moved in, we'd managed to hire two prep cook/dishwashers, five front of house staff, and only two proper cooks, one of whom was part-time. This was not for lack of trying--it's a tight labor market, especially for a newcomer.  So we had to make do with a fairly egregious shortage of help in the kitchen. Our goal was to open to the public within five days.  

So back to Donald Rumsfeld.  If you ignore his context--the problem of ill-equipped troops a year after the Bush Administration's discretionary invasion of Iraq--he was right: you do the best you can with the resources you have.  On the first morning of Shiba Ramen, I had no idea just how right Rumsfeld's advice would turn out to be.  It turned out that after a grand series of meltdowns and flake-outs, four of our original employees were gone within a week.

Donut, anybody?  

These Guys.  

These Guys.  

Game Plan

So here we are, two restaurant owners who have never set foot in a restaurant kitchen--if you don't count sitting at the in-kitchen table in Buca di Beppo once in college--supported by a cast of employees too few in number and too thin in experience.  We risked getting bite wounds from rabid foaming-at-the-touchscreen Yelpers if we didn't do something from the outset to control the terms of the conflict.  

Our approach was to take the opening in bite-sized chunks.  It was obvious to us that under no circumstances should we attempt to open with our full menu, or for anything close to Public Market's full daily hours of 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.  So we resolved to open with just two or three ramens, and just one or two sides.  Of the ramens, we would make a very limited amount each day, and stay open only until we sold out.  We planned on ramping up to full menu, full hours over 4-6 weeks, as we added staff, figured out the production and service processes, and got the kitchen fully provisioned for peak operation.  

The point was to give ourselves enough space to retain our sanity and build confidence, while staying focused on adding hours, volume, and product scope every week until we reached full capacity.  Our thought was that we needed to actually make and serve ramen to train the staff, so we started preparing product right away.  We shot for a very small friends and family event at the end of Day 3.

Into the Breach  

No sooner had our donut-paved tour through Ramen 101 and the Employee Handbook (!) concluded than we had our first employee casualty: a fresh-faced 20-year-old just arrived in California two weeks earlier from a hometown somewhere on the Minnesotan tundra.  She turned deathly pale and fled the premises. We learned the next day when she came to quit that she'd had a panic attack brought on by the expected intensity of the experience.  Eek!  Maybe I should have left Rumsfeld out of my pregame speech.  Farewell, innocent one, we pour out some bone broth for you.  

Orientation thus concluded, everyone got down to business.  Hiroko worked with the kitchen people to start learning how to make ramen, and the front of house people learned about the point of sale system and helped setting up. I think I ran errands. In fact, I'm pretty sure I spent the first ten days of Shiba Ramen running errands.  Innumerable trips to restaurant supply stores, Home Depot (tools!), Costco, and groceries.  There are an astonishing number of odds and ends to buy; lots of things that are totally obvious, but you're so consumed with thinking about everything else that they don't occur to you until the moment you actually need them.  Adapters for the beer taps, CO2 tanks, a step ladder, a mop bucket, and on and on.  

And then there were the grocery trips.  When we first opened, all sorts of deliveries were coming in from a range of suppliers; the Japanese goods suppliers, meat distributor, general restaurant wholesaler, beer vendors, etc.  But it wasn't like everything we needed came at once, so we hoofed it to all sorts of different markets and wholesale places: Chinatown markets, Safeway, 99 Ranch, Berkeley Bowl, Cash & Carry, etc.  Anyway, chief gopher was a good job for me.  Kept me appropriately out of the way in the kitchen.  Way too intense for me in there, at least as the husband of the chef.  Much safer in the car.     

Top Gallery: The night we moved in.  Still calm, no mess.  Above and Below: Images sent from the field back to HQ.  Which grater?  Is this the right bok choy?  Bottom Gallery: Cash drawer goes in and--JFC!--the first delivery arrives in the loading dock.

Training Exercise 

While I was busy cruising all over the East Bay, Hiroko and the team were busy starting to make ramen, organizing the cold and dry storage, and stocking the shelves with ingredients.  By the third day, we were ready to serve ramen.  I use "ready" in the loosest sense of the word.  We were capable of serving a limited amount, to people who weren't paying for it.  We invited some friends and neighbors, and so did our workers.  We asked people to pay for their drinks, but we gave ramen out for free.  

I think we only served about 30 bowls that first night, but I'll tell you it felt like we served many multiples of that amount.  We tested out four different ramens, including our labor-intensive miso, so there were a lot of moving parts for our first service run. We survived without any real issue, although our nerves were completely frayed by the time we got home that night. Objectively, I think it was fine, but the intensity of the past few days had really caught up to us. Things weren't helped by the fact that one of our new employees inexplicably tried to foment trouble at the end of the service, sidling up to me while I was washing dishes and telling me that some of the "other employees" were unhappy about "lack of direction" or some other vague complaint, and that we didn't yet have a tip jar.  Because we'd had a good feeling about this employee up until then, we took her comments seriously, and fretted more than we should have that night at home.  

Of course, the impossibly bad timing of her comments also gave us pause about this employee, suggesting poor judgment or even a manipulative nature.  Not only were Hiroko and I enduring some of the most stressful days of our lives, but it was the practice day, two days before our actual opening!  As you'll see next time, our misgivings were confirmed in dramatic fashion two nights later, when this employee decided to stage a showdown about the conditions of her employment, fifteen minutes before our first public ramen service.  

By the way, Rumsfeld's complete quote was "you go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time."  No kidding.             

Having My Cake and Eating None of It: My Life as a Ramen Baron

I'm living the C-Suite dream over here.  I'm a CEO, people.  Sitting atop my ramen empire, printing money, golden parachute in place if the Board of Directors pushes me out of the fast casual airplane.  Damn, I'm living the life, you know?

OK, reader, I'll level with you.  I wouldn't want you to give you the wrong idea.  After all, Ramen Chemistry is committed to the transparency of the experience.  So let me try again.  Yes, I am a CEO.  No, I do not have an empire, I have a (very busy) kiosk.  If by "printing money" you mean "signing checks," then yes, I am printing a lot of money.  Obviously, there is no golden parachute, although as Chairman of the Board, my risk of dismissal is relatively low. And when I say "I'm living the life," what I really mean is "I have no life."  

Like really, I have no life.  I think I only leave the house to go to and from preschool.  I've been subsisting for weeks on a four-pound bag of M&Ms from Costco.  My existence is just an endless cycle of putting out little fires, office work, childcare, and power naps.  All from the isolated dual-screen comfort of my home office!  I don't even have time to go to work.  Who has two hours to spend in bus transit everyday?  

Shiba Ramen.  I don't actually come here very much.  Gravitational forces keep me pulled toward the home office, pretty much all the time.  

Shiba Ramen.  I don't actually come here very much.  Gravitational forces keep me pulled toward the home office, pretty much all the time.  

Living From One Power Nap to the Next

Daily routine goes something like this:  I wake up.  I dress and feed a three-year-old child, make said child's lunch and collect sharing toys.  We go to preschool.  I return home, make coffee and eat cereal, put on my lawyer hat, bear down, and spend the whole day drafting briefs, stipulations, emails, and meticulously recording my activities in six-minute increments.  Possibly, I take a power nap.  Late in the afternoon, I return to preschool and collect a napless and ecstatically needy toddler, who I then entertain/hold at bay for several hours, while trying to finish whatever lawyer work still needs to be done, clean the house, make dinner, etc.  

My wife, you see, has been working late in a hot new ramen shop almost every night for the past 3 months.  When she gets home, beer is opened and we finally eat.  The toddler is still awake, happily going about the business of watching shows and demanding snacks.  At maybe 10, we finally put him to bed.  Then I put on my CEO hat and do Shiba Ramen.  At some point I probably eat ice cream.  Or more cereal.  Weekends aren't much different; the lawyer work is just replaced with childcare, vacuuming dog hair, and running errands for Shiba Ramen.  Is it any wonder that I've taken too-frequent refuge in fast food, or that I bought myself a box of Lucky Charms (magically delicious!) as a completely transparent coping device?  Actually, two boxes of Lucky Charms.

At Least We Can Still Enjoy Physics!  A trip to one of our favorite places, the Lawrence Hall of Science at UC Berkeley, while mom was at work.

At Least We Can Still Enjoy Physics!  A trip to one of our favorite places, the Lawrence Hall of Science at UC Berkeley, while mom was at work.

Running an Empire (With a Noticeable Limp)

I'm sure you've had the feeling at some point in your life that you are doing so many things that it's impossible to do any one of them well.  That's where I am right now.  There are certain things I can't avoid--my day job and childcare--those have to be handled before anything else can happen.  A lawyer can't drop the ball for his clients (or his employer), and a dad can't give his kid short shrift during the middle of a huge life change, especially when mom has been devoured by the restaurant monster the two of you created instead of going in for the (admittedly more traditional) second human child.  

Shiba Ramen gets whatever is left over at the end of the day.  On many days, that isn't much. And there are plenty of Shiba things that, like my day job, can't be avoided.  I've got to staff the restaurant, deal with employee issues, run payroll, and so on.  So most of the time all I can manage is the bare minimum; whatever has to be done to keep the business functioning seamlessly.  The fun stuff, the stuff directed to growing the business--marketing, social media, writing a blog--necessarily takes a back seat.  But when you're trying to pull off this kind of juggling act, knowing your limits is essential.  If something isn't urgent, it waits.

Solace comes from the fact that all this is consistent with expectations, more or less.  We knew opening a restaurant would be pretty brutal, that Hiroko would be at the shop all the time, at least for a few months.  Not that it's possible to be fully prepared for the effect of something like this on your day-to-day life.  It definitely isn't.  You just have to assume it's going to be painful, that the details will fill themselves in as the adventure unfolds, and that you'll adjust. Like by going part-time at work, which I actually did last month to create enough space in life for all the childcare I wasn't doing three months ago.

Action.  The staff is coming together nicely.

Action.  The staff is coming together nicely.

The Future of the Ramen Barony

I don't mean to sound all doom-and-gloom.  Far from it.  Objectively things are going great. We've survived the worst perils of restaurant opening.  Despite having our share of hiccups in the first six weeks, our concept has gotten a great reception in the local food press (East Bay Express, KQED Bay Area Bites, East Bay Monthly), we're putting out well over 200 bowls of ramen a day, quality control is improving, and there are tons of repeat customers. We seem to have navigated the worst of putting a functioning staff together and, although we're still bringing on and training some new folks, we're developing a great core of competent and motivated workers.  We have almost twenty employees now, only two of whom were with us on Day One in December.  Seems crazy for what is technically a "kiosk" in a food court, but that's actually what it takes to put out a serious volume of high-quality made-to-order ramen seven days a week, lunch and dinner. At least it is when a lot of people are still in training.  

We're getting to the point where the right people are taking on positions of responsibility at Shiba Ramen, which means Hiroko can get out of the kitchen and spend her time living up to the only-half-joking title we've given her: Vice President of Product Development and Quality Control.  She's also the company's CFO and, as I often tell people, she's more of a QuickBooks person anyway.  And that's the point: as mom-and-pop as this whole enterprise seems today, this isn't a mom-and-pop business model. Shiba Ramen needs to be able to operate without either of us being in the store all the time.  We can only go where we want to go with this business--multiple outlets over a broad geographic space--if other people can run the day-to-day.  

Before that, though, I'll settle for some relief from changing diapers.  I'm confident help is on the way.

Up next, I'll explain how we took our operations from their oh-so-tenuous December days to today's place of optimism.

When the Portal Opens, Walk In, Don't Look Back: The Lights Go on at Shiba Ramen

Last month, after a seemingly endless amount of planning, waiting, and theorizing, the lights went on at Shiba Ramen.  One day, the whole project still was on paper for us.  Daily life was the routine of a salaryman dad and a stay-home mom, increasingly interrupted by meetings and paperwork, but otherwise business as usual.  The next day, in an instant, the world turned upside down.  It was like a portal to an alternate reality opened up and swallowed us whole.  Then, of course, the portal closed permanently.  It's a one way thing.  We own this thing, and vice versa.  Life is Shiba Ramen.

The World Turned Upside Down. Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Fight Between Carnival and Lent, 1559.

The Long Windup  

Door to door, it took us 17 months to get from the moment of conception to the moment the lights went on at Shiba Ramen. Considering we were restaurant nobodies at the start, and considering the plodding realities of design and construction, 17 months is really pretty good.  Day to day, though, it felt like things were going in slow motion most of the time.  How could it not?  It gets to the point where everything is in place on your end; you're just waiting on a million other people to get their jobs done.  In situations like this, waiting is a real killer.  All you can do is sit there burning up inside, offering up occasional sacrifices to the twin gods of Negligence and Delay.  

This sense of endless transition was most acute during the 3+ months of construction.  The experience is one of periodic bursts of rapid transformation, followed by weeks where nothing seems to happen at all.  During the former, you think--Great Scott!--this is really about to happen.  During the latter, it's hard to imagine that anything ever will.  Your ideas have begun to take on physical shape, but the whole thing nevertheless remains in the abstract.  Except, of course, the contractor's bills.  Those are really quite real.

Um, no, it isn't like Top Ramen.  You are not hired.  

While We Were Waiting: Getting Employees

So if this wasn't already clear, we had absolutely no idea when we'd be able to move into our space.  We had an estimate, evolving ever further into the future.  Our job was to find a collection of employees, all to start around the same time, on some date uncertain, two weeks or two months in the future.  The employment market in this business is really fluid; people don't start job searches months before they're planning to make a move.  They want (or need) a job now.  We didn't want to hire too early, or people might get tired of waiting around. Nor did we want to risk not having a staff when we opened.  

We'd never hired employees or opened a restaurant before, so you can bet this state of affairs was a bit nervewracking for us, especially when we realized how hard it was to find good cooks. The national cook shortage is an actual thing!  We spent a lot of time looking at resumes, talking to candidates, figuring out what we needed and how much we should be paying for it.  We always met with people at the construction site, so that they would get that the job was for real, and was probably not that far off.

This part of the startup experience was definitely the most alien.  This is not fall OCI at Boalt Hall School of Law, I can assure you. I had a kitchen manager candidate ask me if our food is "like Top Ramen."  More than once a candidate just flaked on the interview. They don't write, they don't call, and they certainly don't answer your texts.  "Hey, it's Jake from Shiba Ramen.  I'm here for our meeting. Are you coming?"  One guy showed up to the interview with the papers from some criminal case he was involved with. He told me all about it, in great detail, assuming I understood everything he told me because I'm a lawyer.  I didn't understand a word that came out of his mouth.     

December 4, 2015: Portal Opens

The contractor scheduled our portal to open at noon on December 4, 2015.  This is when the portal's gatekeeper, the county health inspector, was able to fit Shiba Ramen into his schedule. We were on edge when he showed up.  Who knew if he'd flag us for some arbitrary shortcoming, one we couldn't anticipate having never been through this before?   We couldn't bring so much as a chopstick into our space until he signed off.

When he arrived, his first act was to look upward, disapprovingly, at the wood finish above our counter.  These guys are really sensitive about how wood is used around food.  He remembered we'd talked to him about it last summer, and even though he'd signed off, there still seemed to be misgivings.  I told him we'd taken out the planned counter water dispenser at his direction (no water vapor under a wood ceiling!).  So he responds (incorrectly) "but now you're wasting all this space" on the counter.  He suggested that we put up a sneeze guard and a clear plastic sheet over the wood and "sell some pastries."  He was quite insistent about the pastries, as a matter of fact.  I politely explained that we're a Japanese noodle restaurant, and that we don't plan to sell pastries.  To which he responded, "I'm just trying to help you.  That's what I do.  I try to help people."  After that, the tension eased up a bit.  He stuck his hand in the hot water to see if it was hot enough to be up to code: "yeah, that's hot; I know hot water."  Then he told us that he "really likes our kitchen."  And that was it.  Approved.  

Moments later, our first employee showed up and we got to business stocking the kitchen.  The next morning, I got donuts and did an orientation for the nine employees we'd hired in the fall.  In the afternoon we got down to business in the kitchen.  Little did I know, five of those people wouldn't last a month.  Three were gone within a week.  Today, six weeks in, we have around fifteen employees.  The storyteller in me thinks there might be some wonderful details in there amid all the crazy.  I'll get to work on that. 

The Thirteenth Labor of Hercules: Getting a California Alcohol License

ABC.  The California Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control.  Now here is a government instrumentality that appears to exist solely for the sake of self-perpetuation.  Sort of like a virus.  Although it's not quite clear what socially useful function ABC is performing, taxpayers can rest assured that whatever the function, it is being performed with maximum inefficiency.  Here in the nation of the War on Drugs (sigh), it's no surprise that we have a massive state machinery in place to regulate the sale of alcohol.  See also, e.g., Prohibition.

Our purpose seems innocuous enough: to sell beer in a Japanese restaurant.  But if you think a short license application and a fee would be enough to make that happen, you are sorely underestimating the capacity of the state bureaucracy to make work for you and, by extension, for itself.  I'm laughing right now because I thought I just heard you ask if any of the process can be done online.

The Twelve Labors of Hercules.  Roman relief, 3rd century AD.  Getting a license to sell beer in the State of California is about as daunting, and probably less pleasant, than cleaning the Augean Stables.  

Behold the Bureaucratic Plunder, and Tremble  

This process typically starts with a trip to the local ABC office so they can tell you exactly what documents you need to file.  This is actually what ABC recommends you do.  They realize their scheme is so opaque, complex, random, and unrefined that they need to explain it to you in person. So that's what you're dealing with.

I had the pleasure of a trip to the Oakland ABC office (my first of three).  It's up on the 21st floor of a State office building downtown. The waiting room feels just like a doctor's office, except instead of jungle animals and Highlights magazine, there's a huge case of confiscated drug paraphernalia.  Cocaine, meth, PCP, pills, tinctures, bongs, scales.  The works.  All looking especially downcast, like some kind of junkie time capsule that had been filled in 1988 and sealed tight ever since.  Naturally, I took a picture.

I dinged a bell and a rather immense and stone-faced man came to the window.  I told him I wanted a Type 41 license for On-Sale Beer and Wine.  I immediately explained the circumstance that we're a kiosk in a food hall, because you know that's going to throw up about 100 red flags.  That being the intermingling of multiple alcohol licenses covering the same space.  He told me that I'd either have to license the entire food hall just for Shiba Ramen, or else I'd have to license particular tables for our use.  Wait, what? That means either I'm the only tenant in this big place that can serve alcohol, or else I have to find a way to shunt every alcohol-buying customer to a specific table?  That just doesn't make any sense.  

The same guy (I think) had said the same thing on the phone a few days earlier, when I'd first called for info.  So'd I'd done my own research before I went in.  Issued alcohol licenses are searchable online, so I looked up the prior Public Market tenants (multiple licenses) and the Westfield in San Francisco (multiple licenses).  When I told him that there are currently a bunch of licenses issued at the Westfield, and that they have no seating restrictions, he tried to tell me "well, that's San Francisco."  That, of course, is not how things work.  This is a matter of State law, not of local municipal fiefdoms.  

He obliged me and went and talked to someone deep in the warren of cubicles behind the (bulletproof?) glass.  He emerged a changed man, talking good sense and (much to his credit) admitting he'd been wrong about the rules.  Now we just had to prepare a map of the food hall interior and mark the areas where we proposed to serve alcohol.  Reasonable.

He then pulled out a multi-page checklist of forms and manually checked off every one of over fifteen items items I needed to fill out for the Type 41.  It seems we're having a scavenger hunt!  Out came a printing calculator, very old school, and he typed up a receipt for all the various fees I'd incur for this application.  Just short of $800.  

Off I went, forms in hand, pen at the ready!  Filling them out turned into some strangely protracted process, inputting the same bits of basic information again and again, page after page.  It took hours over several sittings to actually get everything in order, filled out completely.  Proudly, I returned in person to ABC (take no chances!) and dropped off my package, and my $800.  

This Isn't Even Everything.  Submission 1 (left), submission 2 (right) in assembly.  With shibas.  

This Isn't Even Everything.  Submission 1 (left), submission 2 (right) in assembly.  With shibas.  

You Didn't Think This Was Over, Did You?

About two weeks later, I received a letter from the investigator assigned to our application.  Included was another seventeen-item checklist of new forms to fill out and new actions to take.  Including posting a notice outside Public Market for 30 days, mailing a letter to every resident within 500 feet (hire a vendor to do this for you), FBI fingerprinting, and giving ABC a ton of financial information: personal bank records and company bank records to demonstrate every dollar of money being invested in Shiba Ramen, corporate resolutions, tax records, share ledgers and stock certificates.  

Apparently ABC is terribly, terribly worried about money being laundered through California's restaurant alcohol sales?  Or what? Do you realize that ABC needed more detailed financials about us than did our landlord, our lenders, or anybody else in this entire enterprise? Spectacularly invasive and totally over the top.  And if the concern is money laundering, has anybody over at ABC (or at the State Assembly, where the laws are made, for that matter) watched Breaking Bad, the show that taught America how to launder money through a car wash?  

I ended up spending even more time on the second submission than the first.  I returned once again to ABC, said hello to the crack pipes on display in the waiting room, and handed over all sorts of seemingly irrelevant and highly confidential documents to the government.  

Finally, after some weeks, I got another letter in the mail.  Mercifully, no new checklist.  Instead, I was informed that I would need to petition for a "Conditional License," due to an "undue concentration" of alcohol licenses in the relevant census tract.  Because issuance of an unrestricted license under these circumstances would be adverse to the "public welfare and morals," extra restrictions must be placed on ours.  I'm assuming that it doesn't take much to reach an undue concentration, or to threaten public morals.  Emeryville is not some kind of red light district, for pete's sake, nor is it in danger of becoming one any time in the foreseeable future.  Anyway, I signed this thing.  It seemed pretty much non-negotiable.

Money Laundering.  Is a Japanese restaurant really the best way to do this?  TV suggests otherwise.  

Money Laundering.  Is a Japanese restaurant really the best way to do this?  TV suggests otherwise.  

You Didn't Think This Was Over, Did You? Part II

Some time passed after signing the Conditional License petition, but no license arrived.  So I called the assigned investigator, who told me that ABC was still waiting for info from me.  Strangely (or not), I had never been notified that there were still holes in Shiba Ramen's application.  After all this, what in the world could the government still need?  Well, it turned out that we hadn't perfectly dotted all the i's in our financial submission.  See, one of the things ABC requires you to do is to tell it how much money you're investing in your business, and then prove that you have every penny of whatever figure you provide.  Of course, before your business is open, before you've even started construction, you have no idea how much money you're investing, so it's essentially an exercise in pulling a number out of a hat.  ABC never verifies the actual amount you invest, mind you, but if you say you're investing $100K, you'd better be able to source $100K.  

The problem, of course, is that if your company has been spending money on startup expenses, money that has been invested has been spent, and it isn't sitting placidly in a bank account awaiting inspection by the government.  In our case, I think we had $10-20K less in the collective accounts than our stated investment amount.  Careful lawyer that I am, I had recognized this problem in advance and had submitted a cover letter with all of our financials, explaining this (completely natural and expected) disparity, and inviting ABC to contact me with questions.  Naturally, the cover letter was ignored and I was left to wonder why our application had stalled.  The investigator told me to go back and cobble together bank statements from the past year showing the movement of the company's money.  Good lord, really?  Fortunately I was able to trot out a recently-obtained line of credit and short-circuit the required financial reconstruction.  New sources of $$$!

At Last, Beer Is Served

The last box to be checked is the physical inspection by the ABC investigator.  Once construction is finished, the investigator came out and took a look.  Yep, this is a bona fide Japanese restaurant, not some kind of dubious Albuquerque car wash.  Let beer be sold!

And so, a good six months after submitting our initial application, Shiba Ramen was anointed with a Type 41 On-sale Beer & Wine license.  We have three draft beers on tap, a permanent stationing of Sapporo, and a rotating selection of Bay Area craft beers. This week, we're featuring outstanding beer from Novato's Baeltane and Berkeley's Fieldwork.  Oakland's Linden Street was on tap last week, and will be arriving again soon, and we'll be looking to roll out a keg from Alameda's Faction Brewery in the next few weeks.  Over in the fridge, we're serving canned Japanese craft beer, including the super-popular Belgian-style Wednesday's Cat, and sake.    

Please come drink.  

p.s. This post is not intended to point any fingers at the individual employees of ABC who, after all, are just doing their jobs.  The problem with ABC is systemic, policy-driven, and ultimately political.