by Sean Sherwood | I got a call from an old friend who had a pressing question he felt only I could answer. It seems he’s hell bent on taking his perfect little joint (The District), one of few on The Shore that I can call a “regular” spot, and do the unthinkable with it. He accepted the lease for the next door space and is expanding his entire operation, mostly due to overwhelming success of his existing, tiny footprint.

Needless to say, I’m quite conflicted. I remember planning our expansion at Fiction for the exact same reasons, and the logic was flawless at the time. Busineess was booming, the space had existing washrooms, allowed for a stronger frontage and our kitchen was well oversized for our tiny room. What followed was a complete rebrand and rebuild of the entire business, and while it was successful, I always felt that we’d deviated from our core values to gussy ourselves up for the ball.

As we all say when pressed on our past, I have no regrets. But when I cram myself into a tiny booth at the District to nurse a Belgian and some cheese, I can’t help but get just a little misty-eyed thinking about the good ol’ days of sneaking regulars in through the back door when we were overcapacity, cheek-to-jowl with soon to be new BFFs and everyone needing another drink. Wasn’t that enough? Did we need to host “wrap parties”, have a massive wine cellar and be on the culinary cutting edge? In hindsight, sadly, no. I had this misfired notion that I had to “cure my ambition” by reaching for all I could get, pushing as hard as possible to realize a vision.

A craftsman has a vision and works methodically towards the achievement of that vision. An artist is tormented by their vision, and goes progressively nuts as they strive to bring that vision into reality. I was convinced I was a craftsman (aren’t we all?), but in retrospect I think I had the artist’s madness, and my “crazy” lived there in that idea of a beautiful, perfect moment when a room is filled with nothing but smiles, tastebuds electrified with new sensations, and a fresh summer fling just a properly timed cocktail away. That was my heroin, the dragon I chased and the demon that still haunts me.

This is why I gave Paul Mon-Kau at The District my wholehearted support and proceeded to list off all the challenges and bumps in the road I that endured, so that he might be better prepared. You can’t cure this kind of junkie, only help them along the path, so when they come out on the other side they’re a little less worse for wear.

The worst part of success is the confidence. Ask any restauranteur still wet behind the ears what their plans are, and every single one of them is ready to take the city by storm, opening in every neighbourhood with new concepts, a chain that’s not corporate and crappy, re-inventing the hotdog, and so on. You name it, they’re going to do it. The high is beautiful and peaceful, filled with the almost blissful ignorance of the possibility of failure. Every derelict and forgotten space sings with possibilities and the neighbourhoods around them teem with future regulars. Oh, I know this “crazy”. It’s a beautiful place to be.

One of the chef’s I had taken an astute interest in at the time of our expansion was Kris Barnholden, who had the “crazy” for the business just as I did, and it showed in his stubborn refusal to accept anything less than perfection. He flourished at Lucy Mae Brown under Andrey Durbach and ended up succeeding him. Being a Kitsilano local he jumped at the opportunity to be our opening chef at Fiction.

Throughout those years I saw a true artist, in the craziest, nuttiest and most tormented-by-his-vision kind of way. He rarely slept, worked like a horse and ran the kitchen like a general. It was frankly just fucking beautiful. Sadly, the burnout eventually hit and he ended up moving away to Montreal, hoping to find himself, get a little less liquid, and re-establish his goals.

He’s back, and after spending some time back with Durbach at Parkside he’s found himself some digs on Davie, and it was a welcome phone call when he told me of his plans. I know him to be quite the artist, so the name “Mis Trucos Tapas”, which literally tr anslates to “My Tricks”, is a fit. Having seen some of his tricks firsthand, I think Gord Martin might have found himself a nemesis.

It has becoming increasingly clear that the landscape is being force fed culture by these crazies, these blissfully ignorant optimists, and we’re the ones to benefit. Imagine a city without Wild Rice and Chambar, or a Gastown without Cobre and Boneta. Maybe those are the people who planners should be talking to, to see through the eyes of the crazies for a while, and see what a beautiful city it could be.

All Anticipated Openings

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