Photo-Illustration: Curbed; Photos: Getty, Sukjong Hong
In this series, “Looking to Settle,” Eddie Huang chronicles his search for a downtown restaurant space. In the previous installment, Huang suggested swapping his West Village pocket listing for a Lower East Side restaurant with a potential business partner, the Dapper Gentleman.
It’s possible for two chefs to arrive at the same dish, I said to myself when I noticed several restaurants serving skate wing in a pool of sauce on a round plate in September. There are only so many combinations that fit the exact price point for a well-priced, chef-driven seafood entrée in any given neighborhood below Houston, so I wasn’t too surprised to see that more than one chef had been inspired to offer a slab of fibrous bottom-feeding fish for under $30.
Not only was it possible, but perhaps even more likely, that more than one chef, broker, or restaurateur would arrive at the exact same location when it came to scouting for a spot at the intersection between Chinatown, the Lower East Side, and Two Bridges. That’s why it didn’t surprise me when Roman mentioned that he was intimately involved with the lease at Casablanca and in fact was the one who got it for the Dapper Gentleman. It actually made sense that all three of us had converged at this exact location.
After exploring Yummy Hive in the East Village and the West Village pocket opportunity, Casablanca felt like a Goldilocks situation. I wouldn’t have to pay the $700,000 dollars or more to gut renovate a location like Yummy Hive, I got to stay in a neighborhood I understood, and the bones were there to do the biggest version of Gazebo as opposed to the West Village location that barely fit 70 people.
The only question left was whether I wanted to work with the Dapper Gentleman or not. While his restaurants were my aesthetic favorites and I enjoyed the crowds he attracted, there was an Amy Winehouse–Ghostface Killah “You Know I’m No Good” feeling to our relationship after all the false starts.
Why you acting like you more trouble than Tony Starks, n’
You need to just ‘walk away’ like Kelly Clarkson!
I wasn’t sure whether he was busy, subconsciously curving me, or actively misleading me, but it didn’t feel good.
About ten days after speaking about the restaurant swap, his offer came in via email. The price to buy out the LLC holding the Casablanca lease was $500,000, plus equity for the Dapper Gentleman as my partner in the new venture.
“Oof, 500 is high,” Noah immediately said.
“Five hundred is less than 700,” I responded like the driest martini.
“Sure, it’s less than building out your own restaurant custom, but the key money is high for this location.”
Noah wasn’t wrong. We’d seen several properties in the East Village and Lower East Side that were 2,000 to 2,500 square feet (comparable to Casablanca) with key money deals in the range of $150,000 to $250,000 tops. But price aside, I had a very specific vision for the dining room of Gazebo and this exact restaurant had been on the mood board.
“This is the only location we’ve seen where I wouldn’t have to touch a thing and could open Gazebo right away,” I said.
“You wouldn’t renovate this at all?”
“This is literally my favorite restaurant interior besides Le Veau d’Or and the Russian Tea Room.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“I just like what this guy does.”
“Have you given any more thought to whether you want to partner with him?”
“I’m not sure. I like being the No. 1 option in someone’s life.” And I knew that for the Dapper Gentleman, that wasn’t me.
That weekend, Natashia and I took our son, Senna, to get a slice at Scarr’s. Living in Murray Hill, he eats a lot of chicken Caesar salad slices from NYC Pizza Kitchen and we figured it was time he had a more elegant slice.
We pulled up to Scarr’s, which already had a line outside with someone yelling that dine-in was for full pies only. It made sense, but the little man in me simply didn’t like being yelled at or told I couldn’t do something like eat in the dining room so I convinced Natashia that it would be more enjoyable to eat on a Nissan Altima parked outside anyway.
Senna went crazy for the pepperonis on each slice so we fed him most of them, then ate what was left over. If you told 15-year-old me that I would be dining like this at the age of 43, I may have jumped off a bridge. But now that I have arrived at this point, I can honestly say these are the best moments of my life: giving someone else my pepperoni, satisfied to eat the cold leftover vehicle it came on as if it was a Nissan Altima.
I started thinking about it: While putting my wife and family first delights me, the opposite was true at work. I’m happy to do the most, pitch in where I can, and, many times, even do peoples’ jobs for them, but it pisses me off when it’s not reciprocated. Considering that the Dapper Gentleman and I were in the “dating” phase of our business relationship, I had to acknowledge the red flags.
All of these thoughts percolated in my mind as Natashia wiped Senna’s hands and prepared him for the long march north to Murray Hill. After I buckled Senna back into his stroller, I stood up and saw Regina’s in the background with Roman’s family photos in the window. I felt the desire to believe everything Regina’s was selling but stopped myself. I’d watched so many people use the immigrant narrative or a vintage sign to sell everything from jarred sauce to tinned fish and knew not to believe the hype.
The family photos on the wall at Regina’s.
Photo: Sukjong Hong
We started to walk up Orchard Street as that thought began to dissipate, and who did I see two blocks later outside MixedIn with his son in his arms?
Roman, actually living what he was selling.
I pulled up with my son and introduced the kids. The boys pointed and poked at each other’s dinosaur stickers.
“Your kid like dinos?” I asked.
“Obsessed.”
“Yeah, Senna wakes up and immediately gotta line up all the dinos.”
“Same!”
Neither of us was vulgar enough to talk business on Sunday with our kids there. We shook hands, and I headed up to Murray Hill with the knowledge that what I saw at Regina’s was true.
Yo, get the bath and body works, pumpkin and spice creams
Together like Cheech and Chong, we make nice dreams.
I knew in that moment that I wouldn’t be partnering with the Dapper Gentleman and told Noah. I just wanted Casablanca.
“Final answer?”
“Final answer — $325K for the lease, security stays with us, so it’s really $250K to him.”
“Understood. Do you want to make the offer or would you like us to?”
This was the moment of truth.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
The right thing to do would be to call the Dapper Gentleman and tell him myself: I wanted his restaurant but not him. It should have been an easy call: Pay my respects, close the loop, and tell him I was moving in another direction. Especially after meeting Roman, I could’ve just said the same thing so many people have said before me: “I met somebody else.”
But something was holding me back. Deep down, I wanted to work with him, but I also knew that he would hurt my feelings, as corny as that is to admit to yourself as a 43-year-old man.
I started looking for an excuse, so one afternoon while walking around the Lower East Side, I went to see a fishmonger who also happened to supply Casablanca.
“Ay, how’s it going?” I said.
“Good, good. I saw your article in New York Magazine. You find a location yet?” he asked.
“Honestly, I have, but I’m not sure I want to work with the guy. I think you know him.”
“Who is it?”
“The location is Casablanca.”
“Ahhhh,” he said. I could tell he was holding back.
“What?”
“No, nothing, that’s the perfect location.”
“You know the guy?”
“I don’t know the guy; I know the chef.”
He really didn’t want to talk, but I pressed him.
“What happened?”
“Ahhh, man, I don’t know. I don’t want to get involved, but you should reach out to the chef. He works at ____________________ now.”
“I don’t wanna bother the chef. They didn’t get along though, huh?”
The fishmonger shook his head.
“Appreciate you, bro,” I said, giving him a fist bump instead of a hand shake since he had fish hands.
Hearing this gave me a false pretext for not calling the Dapper Gentleman myself. In my petty lizard brain, I rationalized that if other people were salty with him, I could be too.
I walked out, put in my wired headphones, and called Noah.
“Yo, you go ahead with the offer. It’s business, not personal,” I told him.
After several nights out talking business together, I knew I should have called the Dapper Gentleman myself. I probably should have met him in person with my chin up, back straight, and done it with a hand shake, but I didn’t.
Instead, I turned my back on everything my dad had taught me at Better Homes Furniture and served the Dapper Gentleman the same bottom-feeding skate wing he’d been serving me since mid-March.
Why?
’Cause I ain’t shit either.
I cheated myself
Like I knew I would.
I told you I was trouble,
You know that I’m no good
Sign Up for the Curbed Newsletter
A daily mix of stories about cities, city life, and our always evolving neighborhoods and skylines.
Vox Media, LLC Terms and Privacy Notice