Christmas and year’s end sticks me with existential mood and thought. Though not much of a believer, there have been moments when some uncanny happenstance saves me from my own ineptitude. It corrects my path recognizably enough to the point of suspecting that there might be a providence in my favor.
☞ Best example occurred when I was squeezed out of teaching, Twisty McFate working on college degree holders. Thus there befell an alternate opportunity to revive an old run-down building in the family and turn it into a restaurant. And so it happened. But the existential part of the story raises the question whether the almighty might prefer entrepreneurs to preachers.
☞ The building was located in a small California town across the street from a Nazarene Church. Construction alone was often a singular effort, with interested friends and neighbors nosing in to retard it further. The building itself, almost beyond repair, took a much longer time than a novice first anticipated, especially after initial budget was blown.
☞ At a later stage, after sagging roof corrected and walls sheet rocked, menu ideas were forming. Along with kitchen plans came the notion to apply for a beer and wine sales permit. Necessary funds were in pocket, the license application was on. Next step was to post a notice received from the state Alcohol Bureau on the front window announcing intentions to engage in the sale thereof. A dinner house specializing in Italian cuisine, there had to be wine for the opening.
☞ One table in the dining area occupied the spot where the table saw had lately stood. I was sitting there when the minister from across the street showed at the glass front door. He was invited in, as had the inquisitive neighbors before him. He took a seat at the table. We exchanged friendly chit chat until the point of his visit: he objected to the intention of liquor imbibing on the premises.
☞ My polite explanation followed that it wasn’t a drinking house. The beer and wine, along with other “soft” drinks, were merely to be served with dinner.
☞ But to no avail. Not only did the reverend disapprove of drinking in the neighborhood, he even argued that there was a day care center at the church. He must have suspected booze sneaking across the street to get the tykes drunk.
☞ Under what authority, I asked, did he decide what I should do on my own property. His answer was blurry but loaded with the idea that some people need guidance. Spiritual protection, no doubt, from demon rum. Weakness requires salvation from a higher power. At one point he was belittling Frank Sinatra for singing My Way.
☞ “Nobody does it their way,” the reverend declared, condescendingly.
☞ Then I inquired why he was against the drinking of wine when it was the first miracle of Christ. At the wedding feast in Cana, according to the Apostle Luke, didn’t Christ change water into wine? The reverend’s response was unintelligible. (It was later explained by the Alcohol Control Board agent, a southern boy who knew about the “unfermented grape juice” theory.) It really wasn’t “wine,” you see, that appeared at the feast. So there I found myself in a hopeless argument. I was giving the minister the Gospel of Saint Luke, and he in turn was giving me Frank Sinatra.
☞ He was clearly on a crusade and made good on his promise. His objections duly recorded, permit suspended until the appropriate hearing presently took place. In bureau talk, presently meant months. And in those following few months, still pursuing the operation, there brewed up some murderous thoughts about a certain preacher.
☞ But construction continued, and carried on through countless turns and delays. At the time when handicap accommodations were being newly enforced, a retroactive change in rest room reconstruction was enforced so one could handle a wheelchair. Not enough room for food prep— so an extension needed to be constructed.
☞ And all the time the thought of a liquor permit denial was grinding. That would certainly be the kiss of death before the business even got started. And I even witnessed that same horror years later in Bozeman, Montana. Some unfortunate wretch lived the thing I’d dreaded years before. The guy started an Italian restaurant without a liquor permit. He bore the look of a sinking man when he had to recommend to his diners that they could buy a bottle at the hotel bar across the street. Next time I got to Bozeman, that restaurant had disappeared. And the sauce wasn’t so great, either.
Bearers of food & drink
☞ Finally the permit hearing came, judgment finalized. My southern ABC ally showed up a few days later to inform me that the permit was indeed granted. Then, in parting he reminded me that I had to open the business in thirty days or lose it.
☞ Remind me! I was unaware of that detail. In all the hubbub of construction there was no time to read the fine print from the bureau. Thirty days! And I was looking at needing twice that time, or more.
☞ Thus it was necessary to put on roadrunner sneakers and scoot. Beep, beep! More help came on board. And when the door officially opened— under the wire— it turned out to be a sloppy opening night. Without advertisement, only a couple of close friends showed up. Major error with the salad dressing. But the place was running. Wine was pouring.
☞ With the demands of a new business, especially a restaurant, there wasn’t much time for reflection. That is, until one evening months later. Spying through the hot window into the dining room, I watched the waitress place a half-liter of wine at a couple’s table. Then she poured two glasses half full for the diners, who clinked their glass together, and sipped.
☞ That’s when it struck me! If that Carrie Nation-style reverend crusader hadn’t raised his objection against demon alcohol and delay the permit deadline, the project would have over-run the time allotted. Spaghetti City would never have been completed in thirty days. Consequently, the license would have been lost by forfeit. So the reverend inadvertently saved for that couple, and all remaining diners, the pleasure of a good California wine to wash down some dynamite cannelloni. At the sight of it an old English pub song came to mind and sang inside: “Landlord, fill the flowing bowl/ till it doth run over.”
☞ Thinkers like Carl Jung have considered the phenomenon of coincidence. Jung called it synchronicity, attaching a psychic connection to coincidental events, but not very successfully. As for a plain reason why a teetotaling preacher would protest imbibing across the street, there had been a past tic among local religious leaders of the town to curb troubles attached to a popular dance hall. To this day there’s a city ordinance against live music in public establishments. That movement had occurred decades before, the dance hall long gone, but maybe the reverend was living out past glory. Whatever the impetus, he was sent to save me from the grievous error of overlooking bureaucratic requirements, and consequently save the permit, and the business.
☞ Because of anti-growth attitudes in those like the holy man, not to mention the disastrous Carter economy, the town began to die. After a good run, serving some delectable items like the lasagna made of authentic large-curd ricotta from the cheese factory down the street, so high and tasty we called it the mile-high lasagna. We introduced calamare to a people who were at the time squeamish about squid. After building up a coterie of regulars— some seeming more like cult than diners— the restaurant was closed. A city regulation was imposed that went beyond the limit. The building sold for different use. With very little regret I went on to greener pastures.
☞ One question remains. If it really were a divine intervention, who was favored? An entrepreneur planning an honest business, or a nosy inflated preacher who misused holy text for selfish purpose? Granted that alcoholism is a deadly disease, destroying individuals and whole families. Such was an experience I knew personally. But a little distinction, if you will, pastor. And don’t pervert the text.
☞ So this landlord got to turn the spigot off when he chose, after all, and not one further drop of drinking was ever enjoyed again in that enterprise. And I did it my way.
JoCo
