My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [47]
“That’s crazy,” I say, rising eagerly to the bait. “Haven’t you ever been to Manhattan?”
Idiot. Manhattan? Why not use Europe as a reference? Have you not tasted the espresso in the cafés of Copenhagen? I’m really not good on my feet.
“I don’t go to Manhattan,” says Andre, “and if somebody tried to serve me a cup of coffee that cost more than sixty-five cents, I’d pour it in the gutter.”
“Okay, well, what about a Starbucks? Do you know how much they charge for a small coffee?” This could be seen a mile away, of course. Brooklyn has a couple of Starbucks, but I’d be stunned if Andre has ever ordered a “short.” However, he’s so mad now he’s shaking, and he decides to step out for a smoke. When he returns he seems to have calmed down.
First he looks at me for a long time. Then he says:
“I’ll tell you what pisses me off. Salim was in this store ten years, and he hardly changed his prices once. You come in here and start doing it the first month.”
Then he leaves, although unlike Mr. Chow or Willy Loman, not for good. Andre still comes into the store every once in a while after that, but not to hang out or for coffee. He comes in and buys cigarettes or a lottery ticket, and barely says anything at all.
LABOR WANTS TO BE FREE
I KNOW THREE RULES FOR RUNNING A BUSINESS. ONE, NEVER go into business with family. Two, never consume your own product. And three, always start out with enough money to get through a rocky period at the start.
It’s pretty obvious that whoever coined these rules didn’t work in the deli business. The reason people buy delis is because they don’t have money; their capital is their own labor and willingness for self-sacrifice (plus the labor and self-sacrifice of family members). That’s what makes it a great stepping-stone for people with large, close-knit families and an impatience for success—that is, immigrants. If deli owners had more money when they started out, they’d go into a less taxing line of work.
As our first month as deli owners ends, the toll on us is becoming obvious. For a few weeks we all got by on adrenaline, but now there’s no life in Kay’s house. We’re a family of zombies shuttling back and forth on an endless conveyor belt between our beds and the checkout counter. Kay still hasn’t been able to find any decent workers, Edward is still laboring around the clock, and I’m still trudging into the Review as often as I can. This level of fatigue is undoubtedly dangerous, both for personal health and for making sound business decisions.
Nevertheless, tonight Gab and I have a long-standing engagement to go out and enjoy ourselves like a regular couple. The occasion: the tenth anniversary of our first date. Gab and I have been together for an entire decade, which of all the things I’ve accomplished in life is pretty much the only one that unequivocally qualifies me as an adult. Thus we have the night off from the deli and dinner reservations in Manhattan, even if it means spending fifty dollars to come home all the way from the city in a taxi.
But then at the last second we decide that we’re too tired to go all that way, and end up at a bar serving buffalo wings and onion blossoms near the Staten Island Ferry.
At the bar, maybe it’s just the ambience of year-round Christmas lights and a flickering neon Bud sign, but Gab looks as worn out as I’ve ever seen her, including during her time at the law firm. She spent her entire day doing accounting for the store and practically has the lines of an Excel spreadsheet imprinted on her cheeks. More than just tired, though, she seems preoccupied and