Open an Inn and You’re Playing With Fire

Open an Inn and You’re Playing With Fire

By John Sherman

This is a recall—-or the best I can make of it—-of a rather chaotic opening of the Ashby Inn one Thanksgiving almost forty years ago. I confess to adding a pinch or two of artistry to thicken the tale.

We got into the restaurant business by reckless necessity.

Our plan was to get our feet wet, before thinking about opening a restaurant. Smart.

We had six rooms. So we only took guests Friday and Saturday nights, which included a fixed dinner menu and a full English breakfast. Maximum twelve.

Roma had never cooked in a commercial kitchen, and still kept a couple of advertising clients. (“You’re a great cook; you should open an inn.”) I was still commuting into Capitol Hill. Whatever I knew about restaurants I picked up from behind a white starched table cloth—-dining around Washington on someone else’s dime. (“He’s good with people.” A half-truth.)

Of course, we should open an inn.

A natural.

Our best friends filled the rooms the first Saturday. We rented three tables. The only chairs we could find on short notice came out of an Indian restaurant—red velvet with gold finials. The second weekend five friends came. The plan seemed to be working. The third week we got two, with no prospects ahead.

It was a mid-November morning when Roma picked up the ringing phone. I was just passing by.

“No, we’re just open for guests.” Pause. “Well, I don’t know. We don’t have many tables.” Pause. “Just the standard Thanksgiving dinner with turkey.” Pause. “I don’t know, how about one o’clock?”

Are you kidding? It was doubtful we could beg more capital from the Middleburg Bank. We knew no ready backers. The decision was alarmingly obvious.

One of my favorite restaurants at the time was Marco Polo. Its owner, Michele Brotomo, and I became food friends. I mentioned that we were about to be become a restaurant. Having started in the business as a teenager in Naples, he just shook his head. Then he asked for reservations for his family of eight.

The traditional path for new restaurants is to begin with a “soft” opening, where friends fill the tables, giving the owner a chance to catch any misfirings in the kitchen and the front of house—an impresario watching his actors perform.

The day broke, as they say. Roma was in the kitchen by herself, with a dishwasher, Nancy Smith. Reservations came to twenty. We knew we were in for a very hard opening. Unable to find a server, the job fell to me. But first, I was the bar man.

“Mister Boston,” the bible of mixology, was at hand. We had three wines: red, white, rose. I could handle those. I could pour booze, which completed my repertoire. Taking and filling orders was not.

The arriving guests drifted down to the cozy taproom where a fire burned, horse brasses shined and a dartboard hung. The first orders trickled in, mostly white wines for the women and bourbon for the men. I dutifully wrote the orders on a pad and filled them. The pace quickened as more guests came down.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to mix a Harvey Wallbanger…Jeez, I have no cherries for a Manhattan.”

Beyond being totally over my head, the worst awaited. I had failed to write names on the order slips. Instead I scribbled “red tie” or “fat bald.” It didn’t take long for the festive, forgiving crowd to turn a bit sour as they waited twenty minutes for a drink. Michele and family arrived, he in a classy mohair suit.

Forget that I’d failed to make up a list of prices; the final disaster was struggling with the manual credit card machine.

Michele went up to see how Roma was faring in the kitchen. He quickly returned and whispered, “You in trouble.”

I passed the last glass to an unsmiling guest and headed for the kitchen. Every dish had been prepped: French onion soup with crouton and Gruyere cheese. Whole turkeys with sausage dressing, mashed potatoes, carrots, creamed onions. Store-bought pumpkin pies for dessert.

I suggested people find a table; some were not happy to share. Michele hung his jacket on a rack and returned to the kitchen, where Roma was about to put the soup bowls under the broiler. “You got no time,” he said, punching the crouton and cheese down into the hot broth. I followed him to the upper dining room with a tray of soup, which he dispatched with the aplomb of a waiter he once was.

Roma was carving the turkeys, I was awkwardly filling the plates which Michelle—-two plates on each arm—-carried them up to the dining room. On his third trip, applause broke out. They got it. Cheer returned, if not complete forgiveness. He later hugged Roma, kissed her on both cheeks and welcomed her into the ranks of professional chefs. I thought he was going to blood her with a cross of soup on the forehead.

The last credit card was submitted and the one inn guest settled in the Fireplace Room on the second landing. Roma and I headed for the taproom to get hammered. Suddenly, the fire alarm screamed.

White smoke was leaking from under the door. I pounded. The door opened. A woman of stunning height with white hair and draped with a gold lame gown stood there, enveloped in smoke. She stared at me as if I had lit the fire. Her husband lay on the bed with a hangdog look.

My father’s prophetic warning suddenly echoed back. “Why the hell would you let perfect strangers light fires in your house?’’ I remember him shaking his head, as if talking to a six year-old.

I got to the fireplace, grabbed the poker, rolled out a flaming log—-and pulled down the flue. I moved them to a room with no fireplace. It was my first of many effusive apologies to come over the next couple of decades. Then I returned to the taproom where Roma awaited with an open bottle.

The couple ate breakfast in silence, smelling faintly of smoke. The next day I ripped out all the flues.