in praise of sardines

Wild Ride, Part V: the name game + I'm in today's Chronicle!

[Guess what! You can read all about me and my restaurant in the Inside Scoop column of today's San Francisco Chronicle! Be forewarned, though, that the article may spoil the suspense of this post, which reveals the name of my restaurant after the jump.]

Coming up with names can be a challenge. We've all had to do it at least once or twice in our lives. Perhaps it was as simple as what to name a kitten or even a doll. Or maybe you've been blessed with the awesome responsibility of bestowing a name upon your beloved child. It's a task not to be taken lightly, and for those who have struggled with it, I empathize.

Personally, I've never felt particularly adept at coming up with names. Exhibit one: the name of my blog. Will someone please tell the Google search robots that it's not actually about sardines. The name pays homage to a plate of sardinas a la plancha I ate on a trip to Spain, a meal which was life-altering in many ways. Sardines are also a metaphor for the little guy - the tiny restaurants, small farms, and less appreciated ingredients I often write about (Ha! I bet even some of you loyal readers didn't realize that! Not exactly the hallmark of a good name, eh?). Google doesn't handle metaphors too well. Can you imagine the traffic MFK Fisher would have gotten had she lived today and named a blog after her book "How to Cook a Wolf?" Shoppers of industrial ranges, no doubt.

Exhibit two: I named my childhood dog Waggles simply because she wagged her tale a lot (in my defense, I was only 9). Suffice it to say when it came time to name my restaurant, I was feeling less than confident.

My first attempt at naming a restaurant came about two years ago when I nearly bought a spot on Irving Street. I gathered a group of my closest foodie friends and asked for their input on a half dozen names. It was helpful, yet I ended up being more confused after the process than before. My lesson was that some things shouldn't be decided by committee. It's also the reason I didn't solicit readers' opinions or start a Name that Restaurant contest on my blog, a la last year's Name that Sheep contest on Farmgirl Fare. While Susan has lots of sheep to name, I only have one restaurant.

I had several favorites for the spot on Irving, the main one being Django, after a favorite French Gypsy jazz musician. The name evoked the style of the food I intended to serve at that restaurant: the alegría of Spain mixed with the romance of jazz in wartime France. The only problem was that there was already a restaurant, a rather famous one I learned, bearing that name in Philadelphia. And another in New York. Although it may sound irrational to you, I didn't want to repeat another well-known restaurant's name. I craved something more unique and personal.

Despondent, I swore for months thereafter that, should I ever find another location, I would name that restaurant Parsnip. Surely, no one else would ever for a moment consider naming their restaurant after an underutilized, homely root vegetable. I liked the absurdity of it, especially the comic childlike voice my wife N used to pronounce it, tightening her lips to form staccato p's, with an emphasis on the "snip." Try it. Parsnip. It's fun to say. I also enjoyed the knowledge that, when asked, one of the current cadre of Chez Panisse chefs declared it her least favorite vegetable. Who would have thought an albino carrot could evoke such hatred? I grew rather fond of Parsnip as a name. Fortunately, though, I outgrew that awkward, rebellious phase.

My leading candidate for our current location was Boqueria, after Barcelona's spectacular food market with its fun kioskos serving fresh Catalan fare. It seemed so obvious. I couldn't believe that no one had thought to name their restaurant after La Boqueria before. As a restaurant name, Boqueria unified my love of all things Spanish and Catalan with my focus on farmers market inspired cooking. Literally the day I decided to register the name at City Hall - I was that serious - I read something in the New York Times Dining section that broke my heart. Click here to read it yourself.

Another candidate along those lines was BCN, the initials for Barcelona and also, coincidentally, for my wife's and my first names, with a C for Castro Street, the restaurant's location. Cute, no? Unfortunately, some actual Barcelona natives have already registered that name for their cafe on 16th Street in the Mission.

For those of you who think my restaurant's name should pay homage to my blog, I came up with Little Fish. I liked it because it also alludes to the fact that my restaurant will be a relative small fry in a sea of larger, more well-known restaurants. (What can I say? I like metaphors). Little Fish died a quick death when a friend inquired if the name was somehow a reference to the recent Cate Blanchett movie about a recovering heroin addict. Not exactly the image I hope my restaurant's name will evoke.

I also briefly flirted with Azafrán, the Spanish word for saffron. Although I don't often use the spice in my cooking, I sometimes describe my food as coming from the "saffron belt," an imaginary line drawn from Spain and Morocco, through Provence and parts of Italy, then the Middle East, finally ending in India. All these great cuisines have one spice in common: saffron. I also liked that it shares many letters with San Fran. Unfortunately, those pesky New Yorkers beat me to it again. Plus, there's already a restaurant named Saffron in Napa.

Wild Ride, Part IV: Starting from scratch

So, I've done it. Finally. I am now the proud owner of an elongated shoe box in which I hope to fit my little restaurant, the one I've dreamed of opening for the past decade. Let the real fun (and hard work) begin!

Before I start my tale of floor plans and sledge hammers, duct tape and copper pipes, let me back up and tell you the story of how I secured the future home of my restaurant.

Back in February, as I sat in a local hangout waiting for my tea to steep, I lazily flipped through the community newspaper from a nearby neighborhood. One sentence, on page 28 or so, shot a bolt of excitement up my spine: "On Jan. 31, the Board of Supes approved changes to the planning code that will allow three new restaurants or bars to move onto 24th Street." That was it. No more details.

My curiosity piqued, I later searched the Web for details and discovered an earlier article in a previous issue of the same paper. I learned that our local Supervisor (make sure you vote to re-elect him!) had, with the help of members of the neighborhood and merchants associations, drafted legislation to lift a 20-year moratorium on new restaurants along the 24th Street corridor (the main commercial strip) of Noe Valley. The new legislation paved the way for three new restaurants over the next five years. "Pretty cool," I thought. "I like Noe Valley." Then I promptly forgot about it, as I was flirting with buying another place at that time.

Fast forward a few months. Growing increasingly despondent over the futility of my restaurant quest, I decided to look beyond the list of currently available restaurants and started browsing all commercial listings. Listings for clothing stores, laundromats, art galleries, and video stores now joined the pizza places and Quiznos franchises (why are these always up for sale?) in my email inbox. Although every restaurant class I'd ever taken had advised me to buy as close to "turn key" as possible and warned me to avoid attempting to convert a non-restaurant space into a restaurant, I covered my ears, closed my eyes, and marched on. Ignorance is bliss, no?

What's all the fuss over converting a commercial space into a restaurant? Just two silly little issues, really: time and money. Floors need to be ripped up to install plumbing and gas lines, walls need to be torn open to upgrade electrical wiring, and a sturdy location needs to be found up on the roof to support the enormous motor that sucks grease and soot out of the kitchen. Construction horror stories and delays are as familiar to restaurateurs as molten chocolate cakes are to local diners. When one local restaurateur, for example, lifted up the floor boards to install plumbing, he discovered that the space he just leased on the ground floor of a 100-year-old three-story building had no foundation! Guess who had to pay for a new foundation without any assistance from the landlord? He still hasn't opened for business several years later.

All the construction tasks pale, however, when standing in the shadow of the most frightening beast that must be confronted. Yes, before you, the aspiring restaurateur, can take on any other exciting challenges, you must enter into the dark, cold, musty halls of the Labyrinth and slay the Minotaur City Hall and face the Planning Commission.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I decided to focus on the positive examples, the stories of happy chefs I'd met who had successfully built their own restaurants from vacant laundromats and such. If they could do it, maybe, just maybe, so could N and I. After many a long heart-to-heart, N and I decided we only had one life to live and we might as well pursue our passions and go for broke (I never noticed how literal that expression is).

Wild Ride, Part III: Meet the Brokers

As I mentioned in my last Wild Ride post a few days a week a month ago er, um, in July, there are two ways to buy a restaurant space. There's the smart, relatively quick way and then there's the way I'm doing it.

Today we'll look at the smart way. Buy a previously existing restaurant which needs relatively little renovation, no more than a new paint color, a few decorations, and a new sign. This is called "turn key," because you can theoretically stick the key in the door and hang up your "open for business" shingle. In San Francisco, the cost of such a space for a 40 to 60-seat restaurant ranges from around $99,000 to over $600,000, depending on location (the highest listing I saw was in Cole Valley a few years ago, the lowest on outer Mission). Most hover in the $200-300,000 range.

To find these places you need to establish a relationship with at least one broker or preferably - despite what your mother may have told you - with every broker in town. All at the same time. It may sound somewhat kinky, but here's a little secret. Having multiple brokers can be fun! Seriously, though, just remember to protect yourself and practice what I like to call Safe Search. By Safe Search, I mean two things. First, use caution in all your dealings with brokers, because, as I mentioned previously, they only represent the interests of their sellers and themselves. Second, hire a good attorney and accountant with experience in restaurant dealings to review all your contracts before you sign anything.

Restaurant brokers, at least in our city, are a curious breed, straight out of a Coen Brothers film. Here's a quick summary of my experiences over the past year or two.

Because he has the most detailed web listings in town, I started my restaurant search with the Invisible Man. I call him that because I spoke to him often, but never actually met him, not even when I entered into a deal to buy a space through him. I talked to a lot of people and never found one who had actually seen him. (Maybe he should become a restaurant critic?) If you are working with the IM, pay particular attention to what I said about practicing Safe Search.

Next I met the Mafia Don. Unlike most brokers who tend to work alone, the Don has a whole gang of people working under him. After a meeting in his office with him and his associates, I was confident I had found my man. Then I drove around and saw the places on his list. No, across the street from the Convention Center is not exactly what I meant when I said I was looking for a "small neighborhood restaurant." Nor was the 250-seater on Geary. Nor was the place next door to the projects.

I call him the Don because one day he called me and urged me to buy this particular restaurant on Valencia Street immediately. That day. He said the sellers were lowering the price "to a steal" and expecting multiple offers that day. "It will be gone by tomorrow," he warned me. "If you don't take this one, then you will never open a restaurant in the city." "But, um, sir," I countered, "don't you think the rent is a little high, about double anything else in the area?" "It is this one or nothing for you." Needless to say, I never bothered to call him again. And, by the way, that restaurant is still on the market 6 months later. Heh.

After the Don, I was happy to find the Kind Uncle. Uncle is jovial, sympathetic, and encouraging. "Take your time. Don't sign anything you are uncomfortable with." A breath of fresh air to be sure, but most of his listings were run down or poorly located. He was the broker I worked with back in March when I almost bought a spot that needed hundreds of thousands of dollars of work.

Towards the end of my search, I finally got in touch with the Smooth Operator. In that Coen Brothers film, he would be played George Clooney. I had tried for months to reach him, as his listings nearly always carry juicy descriptions, like the one that read "Gem in the Marina. Recently remodeled. Low rent." I called and emailed daily, yet never heard back. After months of being jilted and driven to near madness, I finally searched the Web and, shockingly, found a cell phone number for him. "How did you get this number?" he barked. When I explained, he instantly warmed up, as if we were long lost friends. "How can I be of service?" For the next few weeks, Smoothie called me back often, each listing better than the one before it.

Unfortunately, I met Smoothie too late. I had grown weary and frustrated of buying a previously existing restaurant using brokers. I had convinced myself to take the road less traveled. Yes, I had already begun negotiations to take over a space that was not currently a restaurant.

Tune in tomorrow - and yes I do mean tomorrow, as in Tuesday - to learn the more complicated way to open a restaurant and to find out the story behind the space where I am actually going to open my restaurant.

Read previous Wild Ride posts: Prequel, Intro, Part I, Part II

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Opening Restaurant|San Francisco