Moonstone Bistro

It's illegal.
We KNOW it's illegal.
We're going to do it anyway.
So we're outlaws.
(Nothing new)
But we can't leave him.
That would be cruel, and in the world of business it is often a choice of 'bad decision' versus 'worse decision'.
So we pack him up and haul him to work with us.
Health dept will be pi**ed (if they catch us) but that's better than the wrong side of Animal Control.
We build a prison, complete with collapsible baby gate.
Pillows and p*e pads strewn about.
Everything is a chew toy,
Including shoes, pens, ankles, fingers, the occasional wayward bug.
EVERYTHING.
And the p*e!!
Lord...I dont know how parents do it!
It's constant!
At one point he's drinking and p*eing AT THE SAME TIME!!!
Containment is critical here.
This is not something we can unleash on the masses!
Plus, as I may have mentiond....its frowned upon by Environmental Health.
Pretty sure they won't think it's funny.
We get little chewing p*e-monster contained.
To work!
We thought.
But...
We don't see him, but we hear
"Aawwwww...he's so cute"
And
"Can I hold him??"
"I'm so sorry.." I mutter, gathering him up and hauling him back to the office.
Lord. Check the baby gate. Make adjustments.
Back to work.
But....
"Oh, look! He's adorable!"
Back on the floor I go.
Only this time...
I'm chasing him under tables, guests picking up their feet. Everyone laughing and cooing.
"Gotcha!"
Triumphant, I carry him to the office.
He's an attention baby!!! I can see it in his eyes!! He's a people lover!! A clown! This is his calling!
Lord.
I double check the baby gate. I stack pillows. Tanya inspects my work. She nods her approval...
Aaaannddd back to work.
"Awww...look! How cute!"
My head rears up....sure enough!
Little bu**er is an escape artist!
It's a large table of women. Girls lunch.
He's ducking and weaving in between their feet, ears flopping, yipping, skittering about on the floor.
They are laughing, blowing kisses, egging him on.
And then...
We both see it.
A purse.
Sitting on the floor.
It's like a beacon of mayhem.
He lowers his head and bolts straight for it.
Im on the other side of the table, hands and knees bribing with a peice of cheese...
I can't get there in time.
In slow motion I watch as he pounces on the purse.... and p*es.
"........Oh......Oh. No...."
The table is dead silent.
Tanya grabs him.
There's a second of 'Deer in Headlights', then:
Laughter.
The woman who OWNS the purse is not laughing, but her girlfriends are falling about the place, spilling their cocktails just ROARING with laughter.
Miss Purse Owner takes it in stride.
Tanya is apologizing, I'm offering to turn him into a burrito...
She just smiles, waves us away, we clean the piddle.
The Purse is gracious and understanding and cool as a cucumber.
Not a feather ruffled.
Back in confinement goes our little p*e monster.
We go full San Quentin.
2 baby gates, overlapping with a thick blanket.
And that's when the yapping starts.
Shrill, impossible to ignore yips and yaps piercing any semblance of calm.
Oh HELL no!!
That won't work!
My goose is cooked. "Tanya!!" I bellow.
She marches in, scoops him up and just starts PASSING HIM AROUND!
Everybody wants a peice.
He's licking and wagging his butt...happiest thing you've ever seen. As long as his feet don't touch the ground, he doesn't p*e.
So that's the plan.
For the next 8 weeks, we engage in PuppyGate.
He moves from person to person.
We tell the guests if the Health dept shows up, the puppy is THEIRS.
We don't know anything about it.
It takes a village, after all.
You are all outlaws.
Culpable!
The lot of you!
Thank you.

The statute of limitations is up.
I am unshackled.
We are stunned. The amount of money being demanded is more than we have ever made. More than our combined worth.
More than our parents combined worth.
We are threatened with MILLIONS, not counting attorneys fee's.
We're guilty.
Automatically, so says the State of California.
All employers are.
Automatically guilty.
It's called the Private Attorney General Act, or PAGA for short.
It's a law unique to California, which states all employers are automatically guilty of violating labor law and must prove they are innocent.
Further, California passed a law saying that employers must pay the cost of the plaintiffs (employees) attorney, regardless of outcome.
Worse, California stripped Corporate and LLC protections from all employers.
In other words, all your personal assets, regardless of whether they came from the business or where inherited or made somehow else....they are all forfeit.
The best part?
California gets 75% of the recovery.
Any monies recovered in damages, California KEEPS 75%.
But there is MORE.
A PAGA lawsuit can be coupled with a Class-Action lawsuit.
This means you are charged for the same crime TWICE.
"That can't be right" I say.
My attorney explains that it's two different classes...attorney speak...one is for the State of California, one is for the employees, so its not considered Double Jeopardy.
Say what you want...it FEELS like Double Jeopardy.
So we are guilty.
Automatically.
And we don't have the money to fight it.
Their attorney knows this.
You know...the one we are PAYING to SUE us.
It is clear we have to settle.
We don't have the money to fight, and we can't win.
The settlement amount is everything we own, our life savings, Tanya's inheritance, our house, my inheritance, our business, all of its assests, and then, because that doesnt satisfy the debt, all of our future earnings garnished and given to the State.
"No."
The word falls out of my face.
Tanya is shaking. Our entire lives are ruined. Everything we have ever worked for has just been stripped away. We are penniless, homeless, career gone, business gone and we are indentured to the State.
"No."
I say it again.
"You don't have a choice" Says the mediator.
He's wrong.
I call our banker. Right there. In front of our attorney, in front of the mediator for their attorney.
"Sell everything. All of it. Cash out the IRA accounts, don't give a damn about penalties. Sell it ALL. Put everything into $9,000 Cashiers checks. All of it. Everything."
I hang up.
Next call.
"Put our house on the market, today, now. 80% value of appraisal.
First offer gets it."
The phone goes dead.
I look at the man who is mediating the deal.
"Tell them they can demand a million. Tell them they can demand 5 million or 50 million. Doesn't matter. We don't have it. We're going to court, where we will lose. But it won't matter. We won't have anything to take. No money, no property, no assets. They will get a JUDGEMENT. That's all. They won't get a dime. We will never own an asset in our name again.
We're leaving. Right now.
We need to get to Ace Hardware before they close to buy a lock for the restaurant door. Moonstone is closed forever, today, now."
I look at Tanya. She's already on her feet, tears of rage and disbelief.
Her sense of justice is gone. Stripped away.
Both of us. Left raw.
"We're fugitives now."
She nods.
"Yes."
And we leave.
We walk out the door.
Our attorney tries to sway us, to try to keep open, keep working.
We're in our car, blinker on, phone rings.
It's the mediator.
He has a new proposal.
"Trust the process" He says.
Our attorney reiterates.
"Trust the process."
I sign away my Mother's house.
Half of what it appraised for.
We pay.
It's a terrible sum of money.
But at least we don't have to go on the run.
We can keep our house.
We can unwind Moonstone and sell off its assets.
But we are not safe.
It has to be closed for 12 months before that happens.

The man looks at me and laughs.
Sticks out his hand and shakes mine.
"You WALKED OUT??"
"Yeah..."
"Told them you would live life on the RUN?!?"
"Yeah....."
He laughs again, refills my wine glass, and launches into a PAGA lawsuit story that turns my blood cold.
And not one...but THREE of them.
His family built an empire.
I've worked with them, catered at their house, done business with ALL of them. They are brilliant, hard working, and fair. They have been in every type of s**t you can step in.
I have deep respect for the entire family.
Wine glass full, he tells me how many millions they have had to pay out.
How its a shakedown.
They have a legal team specifically for this.
I shudder.
"How do you manage that?"
He looks me in the eye.."its a cost of doing business in this State. Once your on the list, you get hit every four years. Starbucks, Walmart, Target, Safeway...Us. like clockwork."
"There's a LIST??"
I'm wide eyed.
"Oh Yes. And you're on it. Except you did what we can't. Close. We can't do that."
So we cheers, and for the first time in a long time I feel whole. Grateful. Like I made the right move.
Tanya and I laugh, listen to his stories and feel better.
Yes, Moonstone is gone.
Now you know why.
California is not pleasant to its employers. It targets them. Exploits and extorts them.
It's true what they say:
'Heavy is the head that wears the crown.'

He slams the plate glass window.
Leering, he beckons towards me, brandishing a broken golf club and a large fixed blade knife.
It's a Thursday, early evening.
Decent crowd, about 3/4 capacity, so about 40, maybe 50 people in the dining room.
He slams the window again.
My cooks look at me.
One of them says:
"Uhhh...Chef?"
The knife dude starts walking towards the front door to the restaurant.
Funny thing about Chefs, we're not generally afraid of knives. We've been cut, stabbed, poked, sliced...all by our own hand. We've worked with burns, cuts, super glue plastered over the wound, trying to stop the blood while we fuss about.
So knives?
Yeah. We all own them.
Hell, we usually NAME them.
So knife wielding maniac?
Whatever.
There is NO WAY I'm letting him enter my restaurant.
And God love Tanya...she sees the look in my eye and is already moving to my side as I grab a cooks towel and wrap it around my arm.
Dropping wallet, keys, anything in my pockets.
Tanya picking them up and handing them off to the bartender...
Out the door I go.
Tanya dead on my heels.
He stares at me for a split second...and he knows.
I'm going to massacre him.
I.
Am.
PI**ED.
And I KNOW him!!!
He's the bloke who was harassing my crew the other night!
The balls on this guy!!
He decided to make his camp on my back patio!!
Plugged his cell phone (How the HELL does he afford a cell phone much less a plan??) into my outdoor receptical.
When my sweet as pie looks like an Elf server went to her car, he started barking at her!
Like a dog!!
Then, when my dishwasher went out to dump the linen bags, he got mouthy and belligerent!
I got two panicked phone calls back to back and had to high tail it back to work to evict him.
And now he's here.
Metal club and knife in hand.
And I'm going to put him in a godamn soup pot and disappear his ass. I've had enough.
He sees me come through the door.
He sees me not slowing down.
I'm charging at him...and he squeaks, turns and bolts into Starbucks.
In the door he goes, kicking over tables, knocking over chairs...the young girl behind the counter...I'm not sure she's even 18...freezes, then puts her hands over her mouth and moves further away from the counter.
I grab the door, take two steps in and she shouts "NO!"
Maniac Knife Boy kicks one more table then bolts out the side door, across the drive through and down the street.
We stand there a minute.
Sirens in the distance.
911 was called what seems eons ago, but probably no more than 2 minutes.
Tanya appears by my side with my wallet.
"You might need your ID..."
The first Cruiser rolls up...low and behold!!
Maniac Boy is in the backseat!!
But then....
"Are you the one that's been fighting with Edward?"
I blink.
"Sorry?"
"Edward. You've been fighting him "
"He had a knife and a club and was banging my windows and threatened my dishwasher and server and tried to come in my restaurant and...you know his name?!?"
"Oh yeah. We know him well. He's not supposed to be in this shopping center. He's banned. He chased one of the Holiday Market managers through the store with an axe.."
"...!!!!!....WTF?? Why is he on the street??"
I can't get my head around it.
The police know him.
On a first name basis.
He's violent and has a history.
I suddenly feel pretty sheepish.
My bravado is slipping and common sense is starting to break through.
The officer explains that I need to file a report and press charges. That will give the officer the ability to keep him in jail on a 24 hour hold, where he can see a Doctor and get the help he needs.
"Yeah...of course...sure.."
And they are gone.
Just....gone.
I'm incredulous.
I don't know what I expected, but it sure as Hell wasn't THAT.
24 hour hold??
Doctor?
Help that he needs?!?
Uuuuummm...ok?
I guess?
Frazzled and confused, I go back to work.
The court date arrives.
This is the day we (Tanya and I) testify against Edward.
We sit outside side the courtroom waiting to be called.
A bailiff comes out and tells us we are no longer needed.
We can go home.
I'm agog.
"Wait... we haven't testified yet. We haven't done anything! We haven't even signed anything."
He explains that Edward testified that he was afraid of me.
He tells us that the young woman at Starbucks testified that I was chasing Edward and that he ran from me into Starbucks.
"But that's not the whole story! That's not accurate!"
He simply nods his head and says our testimony is not needed.
Edward will be released.
And that's it.
It's over.
And I'll leave this story here.
Because it feels unfinished.
Just like Edward.

"Are you a Crab or a Jellyfish?"
He's the best Chef on the West Coast.
He wants a Michelin Star. Or two...
After winning every award at his restaurant 'Aqua' in SF, he takes the Chef position at One Market Restaurant across from the Ferry Building. He's gunning for a Star and he'll probably get it. Maybe more than one. He's that good.
He's a Cheeta.
And I want to work there.
Its 1996.
Formative years.
If only I knew then what I know now....
He prowls about the kitchen, eating cooks alive. There is never fast enough. Never good enough.
One Market is a spectacular restaurant, open kitchen gleaming with stainless and granite, two different hot lines, a dedicated pastry kitchen, seperate prep lines...it's beautiful...and relentless.
Hundreds of covers per shift.
1,500 person banquet room upstairs, four full turns of the tables every single night...there is no such thing as 'ready'.
There is only 'In The Weeds' and 'Slightly Less In The Weeds'.
And he's always there.
The Cheeta.
Prowling, growling, pacing-
He strikes without warning.
I watch, terrified, as he slams a plate of calamari into one of the cooks chest. The tirade that follows is spectacular.
And then we are short a cook.
Normal. We are Cannon Fodder.
The phone rings.
One Market Restaurant is so large it has (or had in 1996) multiple land line phones through out the restaurant for simple convenience sake.
No one answers the phone in the kitchen.
Not our job.
It rings again.
The Cheeta looks at it, annoyed.
A third ring, and he pounces!
"One Market Restaurant, this is -NAME WITHELD- how can I help you?"
We freeze.
The WHOLE KITCHEN.
All 12 cooks, utterly silent and stock still.
We. Do. NOT. Answer. The. Phone.
Ever!
He's THE CHEF!!
If we DID answer the phone, he would be the LAST person to do it!
Ohhhhshiiitt....
And he just stands there.
Listening.
Then, carefully, slowly, deliberately, he holds the receiver in front of his face and stares at it in disgust.
Then the Cheeta smiles.
He holds the receiver directly under his mouth and bellows:
"Hey Cindy!!! There's some BITCH on the phone that wants to talk to a manager!! Are you a Crab or a Jellyfish??"
And he just stands there, flicking his tail, as Cindy, our Front of House Manager, comes dashing over to put out the dumpster fire the Cheeta has gleefully set.
All grace and poise, perfectly quaffed with impecable manners Cindy immediatly goes into damage control, while The Cheeta stalks the kitchen. Leering, challenging, daring ANYONE to cross him.
Valentines Day.
Jesus.
We have 5 full turns booked in the dining room, two Chef's Tables tasting menus and a 1,400 person catering upstairs.
Its fu***ng bedlam.
Leave at 2 am on the 13, back to work at 6 am on Valentines Day and stay until Midnight.
Let the slaughter begin!
It happens around 6 pm.
In the Heart Of The Rush.
I don't see him.
The Cheeta.
But I HEAR him....and he's in the dining room!!
He's squaring off with a server named Loraine...she's facing him, square shoulders, back straight...and he is YELLING.
Fully shouting in the middle of the floor.
And then it happens.
He calls her the 'C' word.
Correction:
He SHOUTS the 'C' word....in the middle of the Valentines Day Rush.
She stands there for a brief moment.
Then, slowly and with poise (I will forever admire her for this) she untied her apron and hands it to Cindy who has by now arrived at scene.
Cindy says something...I can't tell what...and The Cheeta stops yelling.
The quiet fills the entire restaurant.
Close to 400 guests, an army of cooks, bartenders, servers....
Not a word.
Dead silent.
Loraine speaks first.
"I'm going to finish my check-out and you're going to need a lawyer."
And she leaves.
No running.
No crying (Tears, yes, but crying? Not at all. There's a difference.)
And she's gone.
The cacophony of the restaurant returns, full volume, nearly instantly.
There is a new guest now.
The Spectere of Doom.
We all feel it.
No one more than The Cheeta.
There will be no Michelin Star.
No way.
No food will ever be good enough to overcome this abhorrent display.
We all know it.
So does The Cheeta.
So I wonder...
Is he a Crab...or a Jellyfish?