![]() ![]() I made new friends and deepened friendships in those last days, standing a little farther from guests in our now unfamiliar dining room. Each conversation was direct and heartfelt. I stood with friends and neighbors, introduced myself to restaurant owners and tourists. ![]() It felt like most exchanges I had with my team were over the tiny hand-sink in our dish station, scrubbing my raw hands after each table I cleared, each glass I removed, each napkin I grabbed off a chair. Even with half the tables gone, we were busy. It was a confirmation of our decision to stay open, one we were actively making each day.Īt that time, we were running with the slimmest crew we could in order to ensure as few of our team members as possible take public transportation, so those working in the dining room would make the most money under the circumstances. And we were so grateful for every single person who chose to support and dine with us. Guests were grateful for a well-spaced seat, a warm meal, smiles, and being welcomed in by gloved hands. In a matter of two nights, the air went from mildly buoyant-that famous New Yorker brave face, the resilience that has gotten this determined and gritty city through so many hard times-to a tangible grief. We were starting to see neighbors and friends from the industry dining out after closing their restaurants, or having been furloughed or laid off. We started offering farm boxes of vegetables for take-out as well, a nod to the increasing cooking at home we saw on the horizon. We complied, and also began packing bags of fresh vegetables to send home with each guest after their meal. The next day, we launched the take-out operation and were subsequently mandated by the state to remove fifty percent of our tables. Instead, we began discussing take-out-something we’d been saying for months we would never do, but it suddenly seemed like what the neighborhood needed. The day after that, with business dropping further and the news beginning to talk of quarantines and social distancing, we unanimously agreed there was no chance we were opening for brunch service. The following day, as business suddenly slowed overnight, we acquiesced to pushing lunch, but agreed to move forward with brunch. We’d be slow, maybe, but we wanted to do it for the team and for the neighborhood. Pushing it back seemed impossible and we fought in phone calls to move forward with the plan. When we began to see the impact of what would soon be called a pandemic in New York City, we were two weeks from opening for lunch and brunch. Seven-day-week after seven-day-week bled into one another as the team gently and firmly, easily and through tears, in howling laughter and in expletive-laden frustration, built a restaurant and a community in our little corner of the universe. We generally don’t stay home and cook with family or friends-more often than not our most nourishing moment of the day is family meal, sitting with our team, eating out of a quart container.īefore 232 Bleecker shut down, I had taken exactly three days off since the opening of our little restaurant. We steal moments with our loved ones when we can get them on a Tuesday morning or when they stop by before service on a Sunday. I will find a way out tomorrow.Īs anyone who has experienced this work knows, coming out of a restaurant opening, time is a coveted commodity. And I keep putting it in a box, right alongside cleaning out my bathroom cabinet and baking bread. But to speak about my experience-that’s hard. I can repost, I can sign petitions, I can call representatives, I can organize, I can get on calls, I can cook for my neighbors. ![]() In this new world-the one defined by COVID-19-I find myself constantly lost for words. One of my biggest personal changes in the past few weeks is the discovery of the thing so many other people seem to have, something they exercise when they come dine with us and linger over a leisurely meal: time. Editor’s Note: Katie Bell served as the Opening Director of Operations for 232 Bleecker, which opened its doors in New York City’s West Village on December 16. ![]()
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