Food, Home and Style

The Local Joint That Was

The bistro was called Beato—an Italian word meaning “blessed” or “happy”—which is how I felt when it opened in my Seattle neighborhood during December 2006. The owner, a local returning to the Northwest after a New York finance career and a round of culinary training, brought generous backing, an extensive wine collection, a great chef, white tablecloths, and cool servers into what was otherwise a big-screen brewpub neighborhood.

As a work-at-home type, coffee joints, lunch spots, drink spots and gathering places are crucial to my well-being. Beato was my favorite neighborhood escape spot, with its generous top-off tendency and servers who sense when to chat and when to leave you to your New Yorker. Dining there wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it when I could splurge. The chef proffered nibbles, took us on kitchen tours, and always said hello when we spotted him at the farmer’s market. When we brought a group to Beato for dinner, the owner would send over a free round of dessert.

Beato was where I’d go on cold, dark winter afternoons for a snack of fennel-studded charcuterie and crusty bread to escape the house and treat myself after making a deadline. In spring, my husband and I would end evening walks with a Beato stop for a glass of lusty (and local) Fall Line cabernet for me ($10) or a California microbrew for him ($5). During summer 2007, we celebrated our engagement there with a meal, and, months later, took our 10-year old best man there so he could practice his good table manners and get the hang of his new monkey suit.

We never guessed it wouldn’t last forever.

All around America, restaurants, boutiques, and service businesses that serve as “third places” for area neighbors are folding. It’s not just independent bistros like Beato that cater to foodies and DINKS, but also corner stores and coffee shops. (Starbucks announced last summer that it would shutter 600 stores, or 5% of its US presence.) For people who depend on their daily visits to a beloved bakery or coffee shop, their nightcaps at a neighborhood enoteca, these closures and disappearances feel like subtle deaths—like that friend who, one day, stops returning e-mails and calls. Life goes on, but something is missing. It’s sad to walk by and see a familiar place rendered strange, converted to a piece of vacant property—the way a home, once vacated and boarded up, swiftly forecloses.

The recession not only disorients displaced workers who must find employment elsewhere—but it also disorients those of us who loved the sense of place we found among them at these neighborhood joints that bind us together.

As 2008 wore on and the economic skies darkened, Beato remained busy on weekends but appeared a little emptier on weeknights—closing on the early side now and then. The manager cut some staffers’ hours. The sommelier moved on to a larger restaurant. The staff, our pals, admitted things were slowing. Then, we learned on our neighborhood blog that Beato was closing, a casualty of the economy. Over nightcaps later that week, we were as glum as the staff. Apparently the owner had decided to quit while he was still ahead and could give the workers severance.

On November 14, 2008, our favorite place folded with an amazing, packed party. Then it was over. Up went the commercial real estate sign. Our friends have moved on to new jobs and new gigs, and we can go dine in those spots. But it wouldn’t be the same.

I don’t blame Brandon, the owner, for closing his upscale restaurant in a downscale economy, or see any illogic in my coffee shop cutting hours. I blame the recession for giving him—and so many other small business operators—no other choice.

Tags: business, community, eating, economy