It seemed fitting today to take a walk in Chicago’s Graceland Cemetery; what better place to summon new perspective than the final resting spot for thousands of people?
During the passage, a patch of dandelions appeared. My mom always told me that if you rubbed the flower on your skin and it turned yellow, you liked butter. I thought I’d see if her wives tale was still relevant.
I turned over my wrist and rubbed away, noticing the yellow mark and smelling its fragrance. Immediately it took me away to another time and place in the rolling hills of southwest Wisconsin, where dandelions would overtake the landscape on our property seemingly overnight. These tiny flowers always signified the end of dark and cold times and the promise of bright, new springtime beginnings.
It was in this moment of beautiful contemplation that I realized I had briefly forgotten about the current state of affairs, with COVID-19’s current grip on my life and the restaurant industry always looming in my mind. I snapped back into the present moment and moved along, leaving the dandelion smothered behind me on the ground.
I think the dandelions are lying.
My emotions wavered: although eager, restless, and intent on living a life as fully and beautifully as ever before, I feel simultaneously hindered by suspicions that this is only the beginning, and that any vision for my future is only going to slowly fade as our society realizes that this battle will continue for a long, long time.
If the past few months have been a slow burn rather than a sudden death, then the real torture comes from the fact that we don’t know when or how it will end.
A recent poignant article by Gabrielle Hamilton, owner of esteemed Prune restaurant in NYC, came to mind as I walked:
“I, like hundreds of other chefs across the city and thousands around the country, are now staring down the question of what our restaurants, our careers, our lives, might look like if we can even get them back.
Having spent my entire life in the restaurant industry, I’ve been at a loss of words for how to articulate the mourning that myself and colleagues have experienced since the closing of our establishments as we know them.
The restaurant that I’ve spent the past two years in has existed as a beacon of conviviality in the Northshore community and is one of many weathering the storm.
When the owner brought me on board, I reveled in gratitude as regular guests welcomed me to the community. I have been consistently in awe of how similar my current employer is to the dining room where customers witnessed me take my first steps, where employees gave me attention while my mom bustled around the dining room, and where my two year old self would dig into women’s purses on the ground, emptying the contents and smiling up at them as they enjoyed their award-winning meal in my childhood dining room.
The cliche that restaurant employees are like one big family and guests are an extension of that family is fittingly true in my own story, having grown up in one and waited my way through high school, college and beyond in them.
For this reason, it has been especially uncanny to mourn the loss of my job like the loss of a family member. Unable to make sense of the pain and struggle happening around me, I’ve stopped seeking to make sense of it all. There is no sense.
This is a senseless disease, wreaking havoc on an industry built through heartfelt blood, sweat, and tears. Rarely do restauranteurs go into the business for the money. For the thousands of affected humans behind the supply chains and daily operations, personal and professional lives are being tested. In the industry, it’s hard to separate the two sometimes.
I’ve also had a difficult time trying to come up with an authentic piece about Chicago’s restaurant scene as it adapts to the coronavirus. We’re in no shortage of COVID-19 related news articles right now. Everywhere we turn, voices are highlighting the current death toll, the hardest hit industries, and what the COVID closures could eventually mean for our economy and society.
An article from the Tribune features a few of these individual voices:
“In reality, I have no idea what any of this is going to look like in three months, or six months, or a year,” said Scott Worsham, co-owner of Bar Biscay and mfk restaurants. “I’m starting to worry that we may be looking back on this time as a quaint idyll, when we’re all burning our furniture to stay warm and cook rats. My guess? Chicago, and every other city whose small businesses do not receive proper aid, will look like a mega mall, with big corporate chains and not a single local business in sight.”
A worst case scenario. I’m usually not so quick to hop on board a sob story, pity train, or self-indulgent victim mentality, but unprecedented times have me questioning whether my typical overly optimistic rose colored vision of life will maintain as we watch the coming months unfold.
Typically, I’d find consolation in a busy restaurant. I’ve had insatiable urge to find a place to park myself at for a few hours and enjoy a beverage and bite to eat anywhere in the city.
Instead, I’ve found respite in dinners with friends over zoom, Instagram memes, and posts about recent industry innovations with the hope that by sharing only the most positive of stories, maybe I’ll be able to manifest some good news in my own life.
Eating at home has never been so heartfelt.
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