Nine Months at Sea: Life Aboard the Good Ship Burnout

Where in the world have I been these past nine months? I wish I could give you a good answer. Obviously I haven’t been following through on my stated mission of documenting all the elements of building a restaurant business. The best I can tell you is this: I’ve been cycling through various states of rage, horror, resignation, depression, and sometimes optimism, all overlaid with a thick veneer of burnout. This is modern life, people, the purgatory of adulthood in Trump’s America. This is putting food on the table. You know what I mean?

December 2017 - January 2018: Mordor, Middle Earth

You know what feels good, though? Killing orcs. Violently, and with a sense of purpose. I killed a lot of orcs over Christmas last year. A broadsword through the forehead of this one, an elven incantation explodes the head of another. Flaming arrows, exploding orc booze. Feeling irritable? Shadows of Mordor might help you get back on track. But what to do when all the orcs are dead, as eventually they must be, and you’re still feeling out of sorts? I’ve got no good answer to that one. I played through a series of video games after my trip to Mordor, and dozens of Sunday crosswords after that, and but I confess they’re no cure. Just a distraction for the wandering, agitated mind. It’s what one does when one’s mind is too roiled to even read books anymore. Peace of mind remains as elusive as ever.

Shadows of Mordor. Outstanding game, ridiculously violent.

March to May 2017: Oakland, California

I’ve spent some time working on my house. At the end of every rainy season, our yard is way overgrown, every square inch of open ground covered in oxalis and weed grasses. Pulling weeds is remarkably therapeutic, even more than killing orcs, if you can believe it. And when the weeds are gone, you can plant new plants, all the exotic succulents and flowering plants that grow in California. You get to take trips to the garden center and feel awed by nature’s diversity. I’m looking forward to picking out some new trees this fall to plant along our street. I was feeling particularly aggressive over Memorial Day weekend and took the Sawzall to an ugly evergreen tree and a strip of juniper bushes that have been on my botanical hit list since we bought the house seven years ago. You want therapy? Buy a Sawzall and cut down an ugly (small to medium sized) tree. Both the means and the ends are tremendously satisfying. Figure out what to do with the mountain of branches and the ragged stump when you're done. 

I also went through a toilet repair phase a while ago. Not that I wanted it to be a phase, mind you. I just wanted to fix the broken fucking toilet. But it’s the original from 1925 and, as you might imagine, century-old toilets are not repaired without considerable angst. Suffice it to say, considerable angst was experienced, only to have the repair fail. It seemed so close! At one point, we appeared headed for a nineteenth century life here at our house, so we gave in and bought a new toilet. Believe it or not, it’s really easy to install a new toilet. Unless, of course, you’re attaching it to an aged plumbing infrastructure, in which case you should (1) budget at least three trips to the hardware store and (2) embrace your improvisational skills. When all is said and done, about two months after the initial foray into repair, the 1925 model was replaced with a new Toto with #tornadoflush, and we were instantly whisked back to the 21st century.

June 2018: Akron, Ohio

Right now, I’m on my way back from a long weekend in Akron, Ohio, the Home of LeBron James (as the signs at the city border remind us). This was my big getaway for the year, three solid days of drinking with old friends. Not an exotic destination, but I haven’t been back in a few years, so it was about time for a visit. I had a great time. Friday night we went to see the Cleveland Indians play the Minnesota Twins. Great seats behind home plate, with a panoramic view of 40,000 white people, a shockingly high percentage of the men wearing goatees. The uniform whiteness (and the goatees) must have been familiar to me at some point—I lived in Ohio for twenty-two years—but it seems to surprise me more every time I visit. This was the longest time I’d ever gone without visiting, so the diversity gap was especially jarring this time. There were a handful of black, Asian, and Indian people in the crowd. All the Latinos seemed to be on the field. I’m not being facetious. I looked! Baseball is boring, people, so I had plenty of time to work through my disbelief at the state of whiteness in Ohio.

Chief Wahoo. This is what happens when too many white people get together in the same place. Credit: Jason Miller/Getty Images

On a related note, I was also surprised that the Indians are still playing games wearing the Chief Wahoo logo. I heard they were phasing it out, but it sounds like it’s going to take a couple years to get it off the field. I remarked to my friend, “so I see they’re still wearing the racist hats this year.” The guys in front of and behind us were both wearing Chief Wahoo hats, let’s call them Front Wahoo and Back Wahoo. The Wahoos’ take on the issue can be summarized in the immortal words of Front Wahoo: “at least we don’t call ‘em Injuns.” At least there's that, I guess.  

A little bit later, in some unrelated context, I hear my friend drop the term “mongoloid.” I wasn’t paying attention, so I don’t know how it came up. “I think you’re not supposed to use that word,” I advised. He was surprised to learn this; he seemed to think it was just a technical term of art, not realizing it has become dated and derogatory. My friend went online, confirmed what I’d told him, and learned something. So did Back Wahoo, who was eavesdropping. Close quarters. Overflowing with thoughtful opinions, Back Wahoo announces, “if you can’t say ‘mongoloid,’ this whole stadium’s in trouble!” Now, I’ve never had any reason to think the use of “mongoloid” was so widely prevalent in Northeast Ohio. But on the other hand, how unlikely was it that we ended up sitting next to both Front Wahoo and Back Wahoo out of tens of thousands of people in that stadium. Would our experience have been the same no matter who sat next to us? Later on, Back Wahoo changes the subject, tells us we need to go to the “longest bar in the world” somewhere along Lake Erie, going on at some length about its . . . length. “It’s fucking awesome,” he adds. “Sounds fucking awesome,” I respond.

July-August 2018: Oakland, California

Let’s pause here for a second. I wrote those first paragraphs sitting on a plane from Cleveland to SFO. That was a month and a half ago, and I’m just looking at this again now. I’ve been thinking about it, but that’s as far as I could get. Being strapped into a seat at 35,000 feet is enabling in some way that being here in my house isn’t at this point. I didn't buy the Wi-Fi. My kid just walked into the office for the fourth time since I started writing. I’ve been here long enough to review what I wrote before and write about five new sentences, if that gives you a sense of the frequency. He’s demanding. A delightful little fellow, to be sure, but he expends tremendous effort getting up in my shit. I just bought myself a few minutes by approving Captain Underpants on Netflix. No, wait. I speak too soon. A voice. Footsteps. He’s back. He’s wanting things. He’s gone again. A different show is on. Maybe I have five minutes.

Let’s pause again. It’s now six days later, and I’m just picking this up again. There are cinnamon rolls in the oven, what with the 5-year-old wanting machine having revved up early this Saturday morning. I have ten minutes until they’re done, so maybe I can write two sentences.  I hope I have the wherewithal to pick this up again later today, but I’m not terribly optimistic. So where were we again? I think I was talking about barriers to writing anything other than a lawyer letter or a legal brief. And that’s a segue into perhaps the main contributor to my ongoing inability to write: computer fatigue. I’m already sitting here 40 hours a week staring at these godforsaken screens doing my day job, and that doesn’t count the not insignificant amount of time I spend scrolling through news sites watching our contemporary American Trainwreck unfold in slow motion. Cutting out the news sounds like a great idea, but I’m not sure I have the willpower to pull it off; the next indictment or secret Omarosa tape, and I’m sucked back in. Just like that. Cinnamon rolls are ready. BRB, maybe today, maybe next month. 

This. I think I'll stick with the news for the time being. I was pretty into Season 1 of the Apprentice, but I'm way more into the spin-off. 

I’m back. It’s Monday night. Only two days this time, and I have good things to report. Yesterday my son rode a bike by himself for the first time. We tried a few times over the summer, but the first outings were lackluster. When we were out there, he had a blasé attitude about the whole thing, which drove me nuts. I was keeping him propped up, bent over, running up and down the street, but I had to remind him to push the pedals again and again and again. I yelled at him. It was counterproductive, obviously, but it goes to show I just can’t take it when someone is half-assing it and then gets bent out of shape because they aren’t succeeding. Small children require patience, though, I get it. I changed my tactic. We took him to a park with long paved trails and ran with him on both sides for a long distance, then dropped to one side for a bit, and finally let him go. Positive reinforcement. Success! He was proud of himself, which made me happy. I was hoping he’d learn before he started kindergarten, and he made it with one day to spare. 

Today we took him to kindergarten. First day. We herded into the school’s rec room with 75 sets of kindergarteners and their parents. Amid the din, the children were gathered into groups of 25 and abruptly marched off to a classroom, parents flanking both sides of the kinder-column, waving their goodbyes. You could think of it like one of those scenes of soldiers going off to war, boarding a ship or marching through the town square, attended by an adoring throng of flag-waving loved ones, friends, and citizen patriots. The Oakland parent crowd gives off a decorous white collar vibe, so definitely no rending of garments. I didn’t even see any tears, which I must say is a happy surprise. Let’s not lose our composure or do anything gauche, right?

When the kids were gone, and no teacher or school administrator had made any kind of announcement about anything whatsoever, we found ourselves left alone for what seemed to be some sort of Monday morning parental mixer and networking session. But I had to get to work - those hours aren't going to bill themselves, are they? - and Monday morning at 8:45 is way too early for that sort of thing anyway. We held out for as long as we could under the circumstances, which is to say we grabbed a complimentary coffee, slipped out the nearest exit, and got in the car.  

We went back to the rec room this afternoon to pick him up from the afterschool program. All the kids were peacefully sitting at tables hanging out, doing activities, playing games, looking reasonably focused, seemingly being enriched. My son, alone among the group, was walking around by himself, going nowhere in particular, and repeatedly gesturing his index finger toward his open mouth. What in the world are you doing? I’m hungry, he said. Apparently we didn’t pack enough food, and he’d lost his damn mind out there. Or maybe he’d just had it with how-do-you-dos of the first day of school. Probably both. 

Microcosm of My Life. "Daddy, my pants are on the Sun."  

I offered him pizza and sugary drinks in honor of his successful first day. He told me he wanted mu shu pork and tea from a Chinese restaurant. A surprising response, and somewhat disappointing for me because I’d wanted a good drink, and you can’t even get a mediocre draft beer at most Chinese restaurants. The mu shu was quite good, though, along with the Mongolian beef and garlic bok choy. I’m having a highball right now, so you could say all’s well that ends well. Look how productive I’ve been this evening. 500 words and counting. 

Actually, not counting. I stopped writing after I typed "counting." It’s now Tuesday. But I’m back, which is not bad all things considered. I’m going to wrap this up today, because I want to move on to a series of posts about the restaurant business. Get back into it a bit.

So let's get back into it. I'll be back soon.  

Travels in the Underworld: 2017 Year in Review

Remember just over a year ago, Halloween 2016, when you were thinking to yourself, "man, this year fucking sucked, it can't end soon enough." In due course, you got your wish. 2016 ended, just as experts had predicted it would, but not exactly in the way anyone expected. As the December days fell away, you were suddenly all desperation, clinging to what you were coming to realize wasn't such a bad year after all, relatively speaking. You wistfully swooned over Barack Obama's farewell tour, living brief weeks in a halcyon present, the rising tide of nostalgia concealing undercurrents of dread for the year that was to come.

In between feel-good retrospectives and holiday parties, you daydreamed that the Universe still might bail us all out. In your imagination, a massive sinkhole opened up and swallowed Trump Tower, whisking its human cargo straight to Tartarus for a thousand lifetimes of torment. But fantasy didn't get you very far before you remembered Donald already owns a golf course down there--Trump Underworld National CC--and is reportedly trying to do a licensing deal for a Trump Tower somewhere in the bowels of hell. If anything in the State of New York gets devoured by a sinkhole, you concluded with a sigh, it's going to be a house in Chappaqua, not a Midtown highrise. After all, hadn't Trump, or maybe some sinister, spectral creature in the form of Rudy Giuliani, promised to lock Hillary Clinton up for eternity?    

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Sinkhole. Actually, one opened up in front of Mar-a-Lago in May 2017. Photo credit: Palm Beach Daily News.

When the New Year came, the world still turned on its axis, the same as it had always done. Obama was still President; you got a twenty-day reprieve from whatever horrors 2017 had in store. At that point, though, you couldn't even contemplate life beyond Inauguration Day, the future as unknowable as you'd ever known it to be. But even if you imagined the gross corruption and the nuclear brinkmanship a la Twitter, to say nothing of the hurricanes and earthquakes and shootings--all predictable enough--you didn't imagine their scale or their scope. At Halloween 2016, you actually thought 2017 would deliver you from the Internet-news-cycle zombie-ism to which you'd fallen prey. But if you'd closed your eyes and listened closely, you would have heard a faint voice: "What's up bitches," whispered 2017, "I'm waiting out here, on the other side of your January horizon, and I'm going to fucking eat you all."  

So here we find ourselves, a year later, maybe more zombie than human by now. The news cycle never ends, the Internet is a cancer on our productivity, our capacity for concentration is shot. I don't need to enumerate the specifics for you; you lived through them just like I did. The world is on fire, and we are choking on the smoke. I'm not just saying this metaphorically. The skies of October here in the Bay Area were all orange haze and falling ash, as wildfires burned out of control in Wine Country. Every morning for a week we awoke, our houses smelling as if we'd slept next to campfires, rather than in the comfort of our beds. The children couldn't play outside at school. It was disconcerting and disorienting for us, and devastating for our neighbors to the north.

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Sonoma Wildfire & 2017 Natural Disasters

That's not to say that 2017 has been all bad. Just think back to that Monday morning a few weeks ago, when Robert Mueller offered up the comically ham-fisted colluder George Papadopoulos, a small sacrifice to restore order in the Universe. How, you wondered, did this tyro of a douchebag get a seat at table in the first place, his only qualification to be a presidential foreign policy adviser being participation in Model UN, the details of which he apparently lied about. He looks like the kind of low-level thug that gets killed in the first scene of an action movie. You know what I mean?

In that sense, from Papadopoulos's perspective, it's a win that he arguably made it to Act II before getting killed off. Now he's famous! As a matter of fact, his role is likely to blossom, as we learn about all the conversations he had with other douchebags when he was wearing a wire between his July arrest and October plea agreement. But what of Jared, Junior, and Jeffrey Beauregard Sessions III? The Universe surely requires their sacrifices, too, before any semblance of order can return. Seeing those three assclowns in orange jumpsuits, as satisfying as it would be, still wouldn't cure the disease that made them household names in the first place. In other words, more sacrifices are coming, rest assured, but we have bigger problems on our hands. I realize I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Public life in 2017, we can safely conclude, was a shitshow the likes of which we American Gen-Xers and Millenials haven't seen in our lifetimes. 2016 was an epic teaser trailer, for sure, but no matter how shitty that year seemed, that's all it really was. 

Papadopoulos Collage. "Following his arrest, defendant . . . met with the Government on numerous occasions to provide information and answer questions."  Upper left is the infamous meeting, unremembered by Jeff Sessions until later remembered by Jeff Sessions, at which Papadopoulos suggested connecting with the Russian government. 

What about private life in 2017? Ramen Chemistry is nominally about our restaurant business, frequent digressions notwithstanding, and there is a lot to say on that front. Before I get started though, as an aside, I take this opportunity to report a new finding made last night: just because fish at the farmers market is labeled "sashimi grade," does not mean you should eat it as sashimi. 

Anyhow, it was indeed a big year for our restaurant business. You might even say a banner year, although it hasn't felt that way, and not in terms of sales. We opened two new stores this year, Shiba Ramen Oakland in February and The Periodic Table in September. As I've mentioned on these pages before, both were expensive undertakings and we had to stretch as hard as we could to get them off the ground. Both projects opened 1-2 months after their target dates. In the case of Oakland, that caused us to miss a large chunk of peak ramen season.

Meanwhile, clouds have hung over our Emeryville business since early spring, with a massive exterior construction project displacing parking, disrupting traffic, and essentially operating as a moat around the food hall. Business dropped around 10% relative to 2016, which in the restaurant business is where all the profit is. The sales differential in the affected period is over $60,000 to date, and still growing. The new road still isn't open, although we're told it will be in a few more weeks, but only after we endure the closure of southbound traffic during the final week of paving. The big anchor grocery that was supposed to be open already just pushed back its opening until March. 

More Stars of 2017.

It was in this environment that we opened The Periodic Table, just as September--the weakest month of the year for Shiba Ramen--was beginning. Public Market was a lunch hall historically, and it doesn't have a reputation as a place to go drinking. We expect that to change over time, when more bars are in the facility, when the grocery and the 500 new condos are open, when it can credibly draw nighttime traffic. But we didn't expect things to start as slowly as they have. Alcohol sales are not exactly strong, and a significant portion is just cannibalism of Shiba Ramen's beer and sake sales.

People don't drink much at lunch, and the Market itself isn't currently capable of drawing much foot traffic after 8 p.m., so we're getting squeezed. Whereas being in a food hall helped Shiba Ramen to be instantly successful, it's having the opposite effect this time around--it's not capable of delivering the type of traffic we need to be profitable doing something other than a fast-casual food concept, particularly now with the construction disruptions. Certainly the longer-term prognosis for the Market is much more positive, but it's clear we're going to have to work a lot harder than the food kiosks to drive our own traffic.

We're doing our best to get the word out--$3K/month PR spend plus lots of social media--and a ton of great press has resulted. Other programs are in the works, starting with a sake/food pairing event (with lecture by yours truly) next month. Disappointment about initial sales notwithstanding, I feel very good about the product we're selling. The alcohol selection is exemplary, and getting better as we add products and build out a solid cocktail menu. The burger is very good, but we need to find a way to sell more. We also need to find a way to sell a couple more lunch items to increase food sales until alcohol sales are capable of standing on their own. 

Construction. Story of the year. 

My optimistic long-term outlook for the business is all well and good (and helps keep the motivation up) but things are still pretty painful today. Hiroko hasn't gotten paid in six months, and she's basically a prisoner of The Periodic Table on weekdays because there is no money to hire a bartender. The financial strain is taking a toll, although with the weather finally changing, I think we've passed through the worst of 2017 from the perspective of Shiba Ramen Corporation. The structure is now in place, so we have to figure out how to make money--and wait for the development to fill in around us and drive more natural traffic. That goes for our Oakland store, too, which is also in the midst of a ton of large-scale but still unrealized development. 

Meanwhile, I'm still practicing law everyday, and doing the bulk of the childcare around the house. Preschool is great, but it's damn expensive and they are on vacation all the fucking time. Three weeks in August, a week again starting tomorrow, and every pseudo-government holiday in between. As is true of so many people of our generation, we're living our life out here on an island, far from where we came from and without a support network. When I was a kid there seemed to be other kids and relatives and stay-at-home moms everywhere. Today everyone works all the time; families and friends are not down the street. We manage everything ourselves, except what we can afford to outsource. 

For months my mood has been dour, continuing this juggling act day after day with no respite, and no end in sight. External circumstances--the National Dumpster Fire and the ramen sales climate--add pressure to an already challenging situation. I feel exhausted when I wake up, in the morning my thoughts are viscous and unfocused, I require celebratory drinks in the evening as a reward for getting through the day. Nightly, after the bedtime routine, my face contorts at the thought of returning to my desk and facing the computer again. It's hard to get anything done. Something has to give at some point, doesn't it? 

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Successful Projects. Now they need to make money!

How should I feel about 2018? Well, how do you feel about it? Shit could definitely get worse, especially out there in the world. I'm not expecting deus ex machina in the form of an impeachment, but I could, however, imagine the chief executive choking on a chicken finger or a mozzarella stick; I just don't think it will go down that way, or that Presidential demise by rogue jalapeno popper is going to solve the bigger problems we're facing anyway. But for the time being I will relish the indictments as they unfold. General Flynn and son, are you gentlemen up next? As a new year's resolution I will try to look at the Internet less and get out of the house more.

On the business front, I'm optimistic. We're not building any more restaurants until the ones we have are making money, so no more capital expenses. Sales likely improve across the board as development progresses, and as we build our reputation. The coffers become replenished, and mental health improves accordingly. Whether it goes down this way or not remains to be seen, but for now I say, l'll say what I said at Halloween 2016: "man, this year fucking sucked, it can't end soon enough." I'll add, "let's give it up for 2018."

These Three. 2017 wasn't all bad. 

The Periodic Table: Design & Construction. Drinks Now Pouring.

The Periodic Table is open! This is practically old news at this point--it's been over two months already. As usual, construction seemed plodding; it started slower than expected and then there was an unfortunate setback when a contractor ordered (and partially installed) the wrong long-lead-time tile just as things were starting to move. That cost us at least a month. Not a huge deal objectively, but not great for our mental state. We were feeling almost desperate to reverse the cash flow situation, with all the capital outflow this year opening two stores, plus the slower summertime business and the drag of road construction on our business in Public Market.  Finally, at the end of August, about a year after starting the project, the construction barricade came down to reveal a stunning little space.

Photo: Eric Rorer

Functional Design

Coming in at under 400 square feet, The Periodic Table is a compact operation. Perhaps the most important feature is the pass-through window to Shiba Ramen's kitchen. Being "contiguous" with Shiba Ramen allowed us to use the same alcohol license for both storefronts. The Dept. of Alcoholic Beverage Control ("ABC") told us to build TPT in the next kiosk and "knock a hole in the wall." On one side, Shiba Ramen Corporation does business as Shiba Ramen, and on the other as TPT. We couldn't have done TPT as a standalone bar, because the kinds of alcohol licenses that allow minors to enter the premises (the kind we need in a food court) require a significant percentage of sales to be for food.

But to do this bar in such a small space, we couldn't lose any square footage for food prep. We also didn't want to increase our construction and labor costs by investing in another serious food service operation; i.e., we absolutely did not want to build another kitchen (of course, we could have followed the brilliant suggestion of ABC and gotten a "panini machine" or a "soup kettle" to satisfy the food requirement). The whole point was to piggyback on the infrastructure we already had in place, allowing us to focus on alcohol sales and devote as much space as possible to customer seating.  

Shiba Ramen is "Adjacent Tenant."  You can see the pass-through window under the back bar.

Every effort was made to pack maximum functionality in the bar area: a back bar cooler for beer kegs with a 12-tap beer tower, a display fridge for bottled beer and sake, a small fridge with worktop for food/drink prep, a dishwasher, and the various sinks needed for code compliance. A hot water heater is stacked on top of a mop sink in a discreet little closet in the back corner. The main bar itself seats 6-7, with another 10-12 seats at the counter that wraps around the room's back and side walls. All the food prep, except for a couple of cold plates, is done in the Shiba kitchen. Above the back bar is a wood lattice shelving unit, where we display bottles and other things.  As I discussed on this blog recently, we put a TV in the back of the room.

The compact nature of the project created a real challenge for our architecture and food service design team. Not only did they have to make sure all the functional needs could be accommodated, they had to make sure everything was code-compliant, and that the final product looked great. Needless to say, they made it happen, and without too many hiccups. We successfully deflected an uninformed eleventh-hour demand by the city that we install a grease trap in our essentially grease-less space, the inclusion of which would have disrupted the careful balance created over months of back-and-forth among the many stakeholders in the project. In a science fiction world, perhaps we could have fit a grease trap in the extra dimensions contemplated by string theory; in the real world, we were completely out of space.

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Photo: Eric Rorer

Aesthetic Design

We wanted TPT to be a real standout space, so we hired the folks at Oakland-based Arcsine, who had recently done some excellent restaurant work with Agave Uptown and Calavera. The design process was a low-stress, streamlined collaboration. Arcsine began by interviewing us at some length about the concept and our design goals. We were looking to build off of the modern Japanese-influenced design used at Shiba Ramen, while incorporating references to chemistry, science, and alcohol. The use of geometric patterns and shapes would allow us to act on each of these goals simultaneously, given the prevalence of geometric motifs in both Japanese design and chemistry. As with Shiba Ramen, we wanted tile and lighting to be feature elements.

Arcsine presented us with a set of three concept boards: one emphasized traditional Japanese design, one had a chemistry/industrial theme, and one was more playful with extensive use of color. In response, we suggested combining elements of each theme. We want TPT to present sake outside the usual sushi restaurant context, and we want to steer clear of shoji screens, brushstroke kanji, and the like. But we were excited to incorporate wood and Japanese geometric patterns. Similarly, we did not want to create the kind of sterile, monotone space that could result if we tried to make TPT into a chemistry lab. We viewed warmth and color as essential attributes of the space. The next time we sat down with Arcsine, they presented us with the refined composite concept slide below. We were totally on board. 

Over the next few months, we sat down with Arcsine for a series of conversations as they fleshed out the design (the images below include a refined concept collage and an interim material palette). We started with the floor plan, making sure the space had all the necessary technical and code features, arranged efficiently and usefully, all while maximizing customer seating. The main bar terminates with a bump-out in the shape of a half-hexagon, creating an intimate space for conversation, either between patrons or with the bartender. The wraparound bar along the back and side walls contains two more half-hex bump-outs, providing additional focal points for conversation and design features. There are low (34") segments of the main bar and the wraparound bar, both necessary to meet ADA accessibility requirements.  

The ceiling is closed off above the bar, with a half-hex soffit mirroring the bar bump-out, and oak slats running in parallel from the back bar wall to the front of the bar. The area above the customer area is open, allowing light from the Market's skylight into the space. The oak slats in this area run from front to back, perpendicular to slats behind the bar.

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The walls are primarily done in oak veneers, with a couple of exceptions.  The bump-outs on the wraparound bar feature gorgeous laser-cut oak screens from Lightwave above the bar, in a custom Japanese tortoiseshell pattern. Below the bar, the screens are mirrored by half-hex tiles from Clayhaus, teal blue with white accents, arranged in the same tortoiseshell pattern. The same tortoiseshell tile mosaic runs along the entirety of the main bar die wall, and is used again, although in plain white, as the backsplash behind the bar. The countertops are deep blue, made from a unique paper-polymer composite material called Richlite. The signature copper-coated beer tower has twelve taps. Butcher block is the countertop material on the back bar. The barstools are plastic/steel in a cool muted blue, from Normann-Copenhagen.  

Image: Arcsine

The space also has two features that are direct inspiration from chemistry. The oak shelving lattice behind the bar is comprised of parallel rows of square openings, suggesting the periodic table of elements itself. The reference is an explicit one, with some of the openings covered in colored fabric squares printed with chemical element symbols (H for hydrogen, O for oxygen, Cf for Californium, Nh for Nihonium), a graphic representation of the platinum atom, and our ethanol-molecule logo, among other things.  In front of both laser-cut screens are sets of pendant lamps shaped like Erlenmeyer flasks. The lamp is appropriately called "the Erlen," so its designers clearly had chemistry in mind when they developed the product. Side note: this was the one piece of the design Hiroko and I took direct responsibility for, exhaustively scouring the Internet for chemistry-themed lighting. Today we are serving sake by the glass in actual Erlenmeyer flasks.    

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* * * * *

So the space is pretty amazing. Arcsine came up with a striking design, which UpCycle Builders executed beautifully. The finishes and the carpentry are exemplary (and so are the drinks, by the way). I love spending time there, and I hope other people do too. It would be pretty sad if I didn't, though, because--brace yourself--this little room cost about $350,000 to design and build, financed through a combination of a Small Business Administration loan, cash, and landlord tenant improvement funds. Then add $40,000 for equipment. Total capital investment close to $400K. That's the cost of doing a tiny designer bar space in the Bay Area. The shock of these costs has worn off to a degree after three projects, but it still seems kind of appalling. There are still a few improvements to be made before the space is really complete, but we'll get to them when we get to them. We're working on some graphic educational collateral about our products for the wall, and we need a better sound system. 

We obviously need to sell a lot of booze, so if you're reading this please come and drink ASAP, and bring some friends! The burger is great, and you can eat ramen and wings at the bar. Here's where we are with the drink menu: 20-25 sakes, 10 draft beers, bottled Japanese beer and California ciders, a growing selection of Japanese spirits, including whisky, shochu, gin, and vodka, and a small cocktail menu. The food menu is minimalist at present, but likely to grow soon. We have cheese, charcuterie, and house-made pickle plates, all great drinking foods. Sports are on the television. See you there. 

Sleek blade sign fabricated by Sweitzer Fixtures and designed by Misa Grannis.

The Agony of Summer; or, Where's My Money?

I've had enough of summer. The sunshine is all well and good, but I'm ready to move on. I don't mean to be a scrooge about the whole thing, but I'm not finding it all that satisfying at this point. Summer is bad for business. And I'm cooped up all the time. I can't even get out and enjoy the season. Not that it's all bad. Tomato season is almost here, and that's something to look forward to. I'm also into my garden. Amazing plants out there. 

I used to revel in the summer sun, so in that sense you could say I was a devotee of Apollo. But the Sun God and I have diverging interests, I'm somewhat surprised to find out. I'm generally one to follow my interests, so I pray to the Fog Gods now. Hope stirs when I see the first tendrils of fog creep over Twin Peaks; I am #blessed when it consumes the Golden Gate and barrels into the East Bay. Let it last through lunchtime tomorrow, and if afterward it should go away, let it be back by happy hour.  

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The principal deities in my pantheon are the Rain Gods. Praise be unto them! Let us give sacrifice! The greater gift to the God of Cold Drizzle, the lesser to the God of Torrential Downpours. It is of great concern should the latter giveth too much. Biblical floods are bad for business, as is commonly known. I'm in the ramen business. Cold drizzle is the manna falling from my skies.  

I take solace in the fact that, as people are now wont to say, winter is coming.  Too bad it's only the beginning of August. There are still September heat waves to endure, a back-to-school slowdown, more of the massive, slow-burning construction outside our Emeryville store.  At least there isn't a realistic threat of baseball playoffs this year--the A's and the Giants are both terrible. Let's just get to the rainy season relatively unscathed, and then maybe we can start making some money, at least until the Warriors steal the attention of every jump-on-the-bandwagon fan in the East Bay, every other night for two months of literally endless NBA playoffs. Seriously, I never heard the word "Warriors" in my first decade in the Bay Area. Now they're great and every fucking person is walking around draped in blue and gold. It's bad enough that I'm a Cavs fan, but what I really can't abide is the impact of all this greatness on sales. 

The Warriors' victory parade went right by Shiba Ramen. 

So this is what's become of me. Shiba Ramen has been in operation for twenty months, and I now view everything, every public event and every shift in the weather, in terms of the likely impact on sales. I hypothesize about the influence of morning clouds on lunch volume. I'm an armchair psychologist.  Does commuting in dark conditions positively correlate to lunchtime ramen consumption, as compared to commuting under clear skies? Does the answer change depending on the season? Do clouds have a bigger impact in summer (i.e., to what degree do you have to correct for expectations about weather)?? 

I imagine myself as a SuperFriends arch-villain, some diabolical Doctor Drizzle. I'm building a giant machine on a remote volcanic island, capable of controlling Earth's climate. My sinister goal is to create a perpetual state of Perfect Ramen Weather,  all to increase ramen sales, so as to accelerate the moment at which I can finally take a fucking vacation, and buy a car on which both side mirrors haven't been knocked off. I actually have such a car. The engine light has been on since 2015, and it's wearing a spare tire. 

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What is money, and why is it needed? 

Money is something I do not have. I used to have it. Unfortunately, I still require it for things like "eating," which I must continue to do if I want to remain alive long enough to get my money back from Shiba Ramen. I want to get my money back from Shiba Ramen. I also require it for things like "shelter" and "preschool."  In a year, mercifully, I will enroll my child in public kindergarten. Even so, I will likely still need money.  

Where is the money? 

People took it. More accurately, I gave it to Shiba Ramen Corporation, which in turn gave it to people in exchange for goods and services. The number of such "people," defined to include corporate entities, to whom I regularly give money is staggering. Everybody gets in on the action. The many heads of the governmental hydra are first in line, followed closely by insurance companies, banks, and landlords. The employees eat the most, though, by far, and the minimum wage keeps rising. There are contractors, subcontractors, architects and engineers. And just when you've paid them, the government swings by for another bite, this time for some tax you didn't know you had to pay. Your last dollar goes to Waste Management, which charges a rate that reeks of noncompetitive bidding and municipal corruption.   

When everyone has finished eating, there are no leftovers. Well, sometimes there are leftovers, other times there aren't. Sometimes you have to pay just to have the privilege of feeding everybody. Also, technically, most of the above-identified diners never really stop eating. The contractors do if you stop building things, but everyone else will be back for breakfast tomorrow.

This is what happened to my money. I assume similar things happen to other people's money.  

Below: Summer hasn't been without highlights. Shiba Ramen had a stall at Umami Mart's matsuri festival, and the Shiba Party was incredible. 

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Where can I get money? 

I have the sense that the more I seek money, the less of it I will have. That's certainly true as a historical statement over the past three years. But I'm at my limit of being able to live like this, and my personal flow of dollars to the business needs to stop. It isn't sustainable.

The good news is that a year of non-stop real estate development is wrapping up by the end of the month. I'm not sure what exactly we were thinking last summer when we signed two leases at the same time. Naturally, we underestimated how much it would all cost and how long it would take for everything to come together. That's how these things go. If your initial estimate is accurate, you might scare yourself out of taking a risk, and you might miss a good opportunity! You need to indulge in a bit of sugarcoating if you want to get anything big done. 

A year after signing the lease, The Periodic Table is just a couple weeks from opening. Finally. I hope we'll sell a lot of booze, but I don't know how long it will take to get the word out and start drawing people to Public Market to drink and spend time in the evenings. We're investing in a big PR push starting this month to promote the concept. We also decided to sell a burger (something the Market currently lacks) as a means to get some lunch traffic while we work on driving alcohol sales. We had been planning to only offer a few small-plate sides, but it's imperative that we capitalize on the crowd that makes up the bulk of the Market's traffic.

Dinner in the garden is pretty nice, too. Grilling tai snapper, with oysters and great beer.  

The other good piece is that labor costs are going to be way, way lower than Shiba Ramen. Almost nothing has to be prepared in advance. The bad news is that we have to start paying the bank that financed The Periodic Table. We just got the last disbursement from our credit line, so the company has to pay the final contractor invoices itself just when we start getting the bank's bill.  

Whatever. I plan on selling good alcohol, and I'm confident in the capacity of humankind to seek out and consume good alcohol. The most significant thing is that the rainy season is only two months away, and that points to a coming renaissance for ramen sales. The summer days are getting shorter, back to school is in the air. Some evenings, when the fog comes in, you can almost believe it's October. October is the first rain, and October is what I'm shooting for. October is also when the worst of Public Market's construction is scheduled to be over. October can't come soon enough.