Of hunger

Our hours are FULL, but at the end of the day, we are emptier than before.

Counters gleaming. Check.  Shelves freshly stocked. Check. Menu board updated. Check. Tables and chairs set up on the deck. Check. Aprons washed and hanging on their nail. Check.

I look around the quiet kitchen of our little restaurant and envision the bustle that will soon fill it as we kick off our summer season.

Tomorrow at 5 PM, I'll unlock the doors of the Monday Tuesday Grill and hang the open flag.  Delicious smells will fill the air as cars begin to pull in.  Burgers will sizzle while voices mingle.  I'll hug people I didn't even know a year and a half ago.  Tables will fill with happy chatter as townsfolk share stories and photos from their spring adventures.

Right now, I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve ... tingling from all of the preparation and anticipation.  Not quite sure what tomorrow holds, but knowing it will be magical!

I thought today might be a good time to tell the story of how I became an "accidental" restaurant owner.

"It all began on a hungry Monday ..."

That's how I usually begin the story.  Although I've come to realize that the story began a long time ago.

This is a story of HUNGER.

***
The Monday Tuesday Grill began on a Monday in August which is peak season here in the Adirondacks.  Every inn in town was full including our two.  Trailheads were jammed with cars and hikers wearing enormous backpacks walked the sides of the roads - returning from their day's adventures.  

My adventure?  

Cleaning.  All day.  

And now I was famished.  Wayne was working late that night so I was on my own for dinner.

Opening the fridge, I stared at the bleak array of options.  Peak season means we spend our days taking care of guests and often forget little details like buying food for ourselves! 

I was about to reach for peanut butter and jelly when I had a thought.

It's Monday!

Our local coffee shop did Taco Mondays each week. My mouth began to water as I grabbed my keys.  Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than a taco.  In fact, I told myself as I  backed the car down the driveway, I DESERVED a taco!

Five minutes later, I stood at the counter smelling the spicy aroma and trying to decide if I wanted carne asada or chipotle chicken or garlic lime black bean...

"Can I help you," the young cashier asked.

"Yes! I'm excited to try your tacos!  I'm SOOO HUNGRY! I think I'd like one of each ..." 

And that, dear reader, is where my Monday evening fell apart.

"Did you pre-order?" she asked in a chipper tone.

"Nooooo .... I didn't know I needed to ...."

"We are sold out."

I watched staff scurrying in and out of the kitchen with platters of tacos.  

"Can I get just ONE taco?  I'm really hungry."  I was pleading now.

"No ... Our tacos are pre-order only and all of our order slots are full."

"Not even one ....??"

I made my way back down the steps and stood in the parking lot assessing the situation while my stomach growled its frustration.

Across the street, the diner was closed.  Just up the block, the grocery store was closed.  A little further, the only other restaurant and the farm market were closed.  I could drive to the next town where one restaurant was open, but I knew it was impossible to get in without a reservation ...

Yep ... it was Monday night. The night when (almost) all the hard-working restaurant owners take their "weekend" break.

I drove home feeling "crestfallen."  I'm not even sure what my crest is, but it had definitely fallen.

Five minutes later, I stood at my kitchen counter munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thinking.  I remembered many guests who arrived tired and hungry after a long drive.  I thought of ravenous hikers returning from the trails. I pictured the Ironman athlete who swore at me last summer when I told him his best option was gas station pizza ....

This is ridiculous!!  People are HUNGRY!  I thought.

(There is a very thin line between hungry and HANGRY and right then, I was the latter.)

What happened next can only be described as an instantaneous "download."

In an instant, I saw Wayne flipping burgers while I dished up my "famous" peach whiskey BBQ chicken.   I saw guests strolling across the lawn toward mouth-watering smells.  I saw people laughing around tables. I saw a line out the door.

Before I knew I'd dialed his number, I heard myself breathlessly announcing to Wayne...

"We're opening a restaurant!"

He laughed.  (And rightfully so since our days were already packed from morning to night.)

"No ... I'm serious! We'll only be open on Monday and Tuesday nights when everyone else is closed.  We'll do burgers and BBQ chicken and broccoli salad ... just our simple family recipes.  It will be FUN and it's NEEDED!"

Wayne is a wise man so he knew better than to shoot down a hungry woman's idea.  He promised to call the health department and ask some questions, reminding me that "these things take a long time."

But as the old saying goes, "Nothing can stand against the idea whose time has come."

The health inspector just happened to be in our area the very next day.  He walked around the commercial kitchen we'd only used to fry eggs for guests' breakfasts.  He looked at the dining room that had been sitting empty since the pandemic.  He read the simple menu I'd jotted down.

And then he said, "I don't see any reason why this wouldn't work!"

We opened the very next Monday. 

A simple sign by the road announced $10 burgers. I'd placed one small note on our town's news site figuring that maybe a few locals would be hungry on Monday and Tuesday too.

At 5 pm, we fired up the grill, unlocked the door, and waited ...

At 5:10 pm, a car pulled in.  A woman who lived just up the road popped her head in the door, "You have FOOD here??"

This is a story of HUNGER.

 A story of how the cars kept coming.  How pandemic-isolated locals gathered in our cozy dining room, hugging each other and exclaiming, "I haven't seen you in forever."  How an inn staff member peeked in the kitchen to see how we were doing and wound up filling orders for two hours.

A story of how I found it hard to sleep for weeks - laying awake in the dark, smiling and planning menus.  How much I'd missed making my favorite meals since the kids all grew up. How I told the stories of our recipes and people began to tell me their stories.  How one man asked me, "How does it feel to be a genius?!"

A story of how we built a beautiful deck so that more people could come.  How 84 people came one hot summer night and the line stretched out the door just like I'd seen it.  How my sister who was visiting jumped in to help and saw "little Amy" with new respect.  How my friend offered to help for a week or so and never left because she was having "too much fun."

A story of how the group that comes every Monday night fills the room with laughter.  How the little girl with curls loves our mashed potatoes.   How people have "their table." How locals and tourists pull up chairs at each other's tables to swap tips and tales.

And if we talked long enough...

I'd tell you the story of how lonely I'd been. How I'd lived in a town for 16 years and hardly knew anyone.  How I met people and finally connected names and faces.  How they ask about the kids and grandkids.  How they tease me when I make the wrong change. How I know their drink orders.  How the "regulars" feel like family now.

I'd tell you how much fun we have in that little kitchen.  How hard our staff works, how crazy it can get, and how none of us have laughed this much in a long time.  How we discovered that we were ALL lonely.  How we pause to listen to the clanking of dishes, the murmur of voices, the soft jazz woven through laughter.  How we high-five each other with JOY.

I'd tell you how MAGICAL it is to nourish a community with love.

It all began on a hungry Monday ... but I know now that this hunger is as old as time.

Within each of us lives a hunger for purpose, connection, community, and joy. We need to see another person's face light up when they see us. We crave the satisfaction of doing work that matters, that doesn't suck our soul.  We long to offer our gifts in a way that heals our small part of the world.

Instead, we are offered cheap snacks to silence our hunger.  Watch this. Drink this.  Buy this.  Chase this.  Scroll this.  

Our hours are FULL,  but at the end of the day, we are more empty than before.

If we are brave enough to listen ... to allow the growling from within to tell us what it needs, we find that hunger itself holds the answer to nourishing our soul.

I call myself an "accidental" restaurant owner because this life chapter wasn't planned.  But when I see the joy on my face in this photo, I know that this was no accident.  A power higher than myself knew exactly what I needed.  It knew what my tiny town needed.

And on a hungry Monday, it created something beautiful for all of us.

***

How about you, my friend?  What hungers rumble under the hustle and bustle of your life?  What longings are you afraid to admit - even to yourself?

What is your own HUNGRY MONDAY?  

What makes you say, "This is ridiculous!"?

I dare you to allow your hunger and the needs around you to have a little chat ...

You might "accidentally" launch one of your life's greatest blessings!

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