My Korean Deli: Risking It All for a Convenience Store (14 page)

“Actually, I think you should hold off,” I say, my throat tightening, “for now.”
Why can’t I be forthright? No stomach for conflict! No backbone! Stop being so polite for once in your life and say what you really want to say!

Willy Loman knows what’s up, though, and refuses to acknowledge it.

“Oh?” he says nonchalantly. “Would you prefer something else? I’ll just make it Donut Blend instead.” Without missing a beat, he scratches out what he just wrote on the clipboard and scribbles, “Donut Blend … six boxes.”

“No, wait,” I say, growing desperate. I can feel Gab watching a few feet away. “It’s not the blend,” I continue. “It’s … I think we’re going to make a change.”
There, I said it
.

Willy Loman puts down his pen.

“Change?” he says. “People don’t like change.”

“Yes, I know. But sometimes it’s necessary.”

Willy Loman stares at me, his expression hard but neither as angry nor as disappointed as I had feared. He simply looks determined. He has sized me up and knows what I amount to, and I realize then that he won’t go without a fight.

“I get it,” he says, “you don’t have to explain. But may I ask you something?”

I nod, bracing myself.

“Is the coffee not selling?”

“No, it sells.” This is the truth. CaféAmerica makes money.

“Well, then why change? Why change if you’ve got a winner?”

Now it’s time for the speech, which I spent considerable time preparing. Without insulting CaféAmerica or demeaning those who enjoy it, I simply try to tell him what I perceive to be the truth: when it comes to coffee, people’s tastes are changing. And they don’t want Donut Blend or Brown Gold anymore. Unfortunately, I’m too worked up to speak coherently, and Willy Loman has the good sense to just stand there listening as I exhaust myself flailing around. Finally, when I’m done, he says:

“Okay, let me ask you something else. Are you looking for something higher in quality?”

“Yes,” I answer truthfully, and it feels so good to say that, because I think that maybe Willy Loman understands after all, and we can part amicably. “If that’s what all this is about,” I imagine him saying, “why didn’t you say so? Our coffee is terrible! Everyone knows that!”

“Then maybe you want to try our gourmet blend,” he says instead, pulling a brochure smoothly out of his breast pocket. My spirits plummet again.

“You have a gourmet blend?” I ask. “What’s it called?”

“Gourmet Blend. That’s its name. It’s made from all imported beans. Highest quality, roasted professionally. I’ll just put you down for four boxes and you can decide for yourself if you prefer it or Donut Blend.” At that point Willy Loman hands me his clipboard and smiles professionally. “See?” he says. “That was painless.”

At this point, seeing me about to cave, Gab comes over.

“How’s it going?” she asks cheerfully. Willy looks at her as if a snake has just slithered in.

“Give us a second, wouldya, honey?” he says, muscling a thin smile around bared teeth. “We’ll be done in a second.” It’s his first slipup in an otherwise flawless performance, calling Gab “honey,” and Gab, I can tell from experience, has just decided that she is now fully licensed to extract Willy Loman’s heart and feed it to him.

“Can I see that?” she asks, taking the clipboard from my hands. “Okay now, let’s see here. Hmm, interesting, sixteen-month contract, binding. Hmm, interesting, eight boxes a month, about twice as much as we need. Hmm. Can I see that pen?” She starts drawing big X’s though the first paragraphs in the contract, then through the middle ones as well, then finally through the entire document, leaving only a pathetic little clause at the very end entitling CaféAmerica to give us a single complimentary box of Gourmet Blend.

“Here you go,” she says, handing the clipboard back and looking at me. “Sign away.”

Willy Loman looks at me furiously and departs in a huff. We never see him or CaféAmerica again.

A FEW DAYS
later, the first delivery of Houston Brothers arrives, along with a brand-new coffee machine and some new coffeepots. Suddenly I’m nervous. What if the neighborhood
hates
Houston Brothers? What if they don’t think it’s tasty enough or eco-friendly enough or loaded with enough caffeine?
Change, change, change—
why change if you’ve got a winner?
Indeed, why? Are we visionaries or merely stupid and greedy? Adding to my anxiety is the fact that other changes are taking place at the store. For example, Kay recently decided to stop selling Colt 45 after deciding that it wasn’t worth the trouble. In addition to the tiny profit margin, it was our most frequently stolen beer, and the people who tended to steal it were usually so addled that they tried to run away with it stuffed in their pants, meaning sooner or later there was going to be a horrific accident involving malt liquor and a severed femoral artery.

However, she also decided to reduce the amount of meat Dwayne could put on sandwiches from .37 pounds to .14, and ended a long-standing policy of delivering sandwiches to customers’ homes. In addition, despite their excellent names, about half the scratch-off lottery tickets have been eliminated—there will be no more “Cash-word,” “Cash in a Flash,” “Cash City” or “Stacks of Cash.” Also, no more “Set for Life,” “Stinkin’ Rich” or “Money Tree.” And on top of that, we have resolved one of the most controversial business issues of our time: there will be no television in the store, mainly because of the distraction it creates for workers. Oh, and one other thing: Kay has, as stealthily as possible, started raising some of our prices, mainly on things that people don’t buy very often, like aluminum foil and playing cards.

With all this in mind, I decide that the best strategy is to ease the new coffee in as subtly as possible and hope that no one notices.

Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as subtle with the new coffee. Houston Brothers smells like it has the power to stain walls. No coffee brewed in this deli has ever had an aroma this powerful.
Should I open the door? Throw it down the drain? Run the air conditioner? This is too strong. Go away, coffee smell! You smell too good!

Just then I see Andre, the dishwasher at the prison, standing across the street and waiting for the light to change.

Oh no. Not Andre. Not now. Why him of all people?
Andre
probably drinks eight cups of coffee a day. I don’t know how he sleeps.

“So, did you hear what the mayor said?” he asks as he walks in. The store is empty.

“No. What?”

“He said New York is a luxury item, like something you would buy at Tiffany’s. It’s not something you’d find at Wal-Mart or Costco.”

“He said that?”

“It’s here in the paper, look.”

I take the
Daily News
from Andre’s hands and nonchalantly pass him his coffee, which I’ve already prepared the way I know he likes it, with five spoonfuls of sugar. As I pretend to read the article, he takes a sip.

Then he puts the coffee down on the checkout counter.

“Is that the regular coffee?” he asks. “It tastes strong. Did you put in too many packets or something?”

I come clean immediately and explain that we have started brewing a new brand, while Andre stares at me emptily. Meanwhile, the cup sits there on the counter, getting cold.

Finally he takes another sip and says, after a nail-biting wait:

“Tastes a little like dirt. Is that what they call ‘earthy’? But I like it. It’s not bad.” He takes another sip. “I can get used to this.”

Massive relief
. My first convert. As a show of appreciation, I tell Andre it’s on the house, which prompts him to salute me with a kind of mock toast before going outside, lighting a cigarette and heading back to the detention center.

Strange, isn’t it, how easy some things turn out to be.

THE NEXT DAY
as I’m looking through the window I again see Andre coming toward the store, only this time with a decidedly different expression.

“You changed the price of coffee!” he seethes as he bursts through the door, wagging his finger and practically quivering with rage.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. We raised the price of a small cup by ten cents.” I’m caught off guard. Customers are in the store, watching. This looks as if it could get ugly.

“Ten cents?” Andre sputters. “Ten cents!” A vein in his temple is pulsing as if there’s an angry worm inside, and his eyes are blinking madly.

“Yes, ten cents. A dime. I don’t want to sound insensitive, but what’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t you know,” Andre bristles, “that the price of a cup of coffee in New York is sixty-five cents?”

This is brilliant. Why? Because it’s ridiculous. There’s no set price for a small coffee in New York any more than there’s a quota for the amount of meat on a sandwich, or a law stating that quote-unquote regular coffee means two spoonfuls of sugar and a dollop of half-and-half (something I’ve been told with absolute conviction innumerable times since we took over the store). Nevertheless, Andre has effectively staked out the position of The Real New Yorker, leaving me to look like some hapless tourist bumbling around Times Square staring up at buildings with my jaw open, asking if the Statue of Liberty is nearby.

“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.

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 distant. Uncharacteristically, she downs her first cocktail in three unladylike gulps and promptly orders a second.

“Something to eat, too?” the waiter asks.

“Just the drink for now,” she says.

I order a cheeseburger, which I find myself looking forward to with disquieting enthusiasm.
How diminished I’ve become
. Rarely in my life have I worked as hard as I have the last few weeks, and rarely have I deserved to be rewarded more richly. Yet there’s nothing I want in the world right now except a cheeseburger, my own second cocktail and a long night of uninterrupted sleep, preferably without anyone counting money in the same room or trying to steal my blanket.

Neither of us has the energy to celebrate. Nevertheless, we have to wring some joy out of the anniversary, do we not? It’s great to have longevity as a couple, but what does it matter if you can’t enjoy an occasion as significant as this?

“Do you remember our first date?” I ask.

Gab smiles weakly, wincing at the thought. She and I had met as underclassmen at Chicago. We were in our “decadent” phase—that is, both of us were trying desperately to act like depraved college students. But it was a struggle to sustain. We had both been drawn to the University of Chicago (voted that year by
Maxim
magazine “the least fun school in the entire country”) for the same reason: pain. We wanted misery and suffering, which the U of C, with its unofficial motto, “Hell Does Freeze Over,” was more than happy to provide. What the U of C famously did to its undergrads was work them to death, burying them beneath suffocating, elective-free workloads filled with the Great Books. The school didn’t apologize for its lack of fun. It took pride in its reputation as an old-fashioned, heavy-handed, almost monastic sort of place, and therefore attracted a lot of people who took themselves rather seriously, like me and Gab.