Generation Chef by Karen Stabiner Page B

committee said no, the applicant had to appeal to the SLA, which meant weeks if not months of waiting for a second chance. Community Board 3, which ruled on applications in the bar-heavy East Village and Lower East Side, had a reputation for being either legendary or notorious, depending on who was talking. Longtime East Village residents looked to the board to protect them fromthe effects of gentrification—franchises that replaced mom-and-pop businesses, wealthy potential residents with gut renovation on their minds, what locals saw as a creeping upscale sameness that threatened one of the last unique neighborhoods in Manhattan. Business owners more often saw the board as obstinate, waging a futile battle against change, as though progress were an act of aggression. But board members were political appointees with no term limits, so diplomacy was essential.
    Jonah knew that the board could be difficult, so he decided to ask only for a beer and wine license, not a full liquor license, because he’d been told that it would improve his odds. His predecessor in the space had a beer and wine license, and his lawyer, Joseph Levey, had warned him that an unproven chef who asked for more would have what he described as “an uphill battle.” The words “dive bar” hovered ominously at the edge of any negotiation that involved alcohol, and neighbors worried that a restaurant would fail and sell all of its assets—including a provisional transfer of the liquor license—to someone whose business attracted loud, late-night drinkers. It wasn’t a serious threat, because the SLA could revoke the license of someone who said they were opening a French bistro to disguise their dive-bar intentions—but it was the kind of concern that people raised at community board meetings, and it could get in the way.
    If somehow the board were to grant a full license to a kid with no experience, it would likely come with too many strings attached, like an early closing time to reduce the chance of rowdiness, in case Jonah had his own secret plan for a late-night bar. Given that possibility, Jonah preferred to ask for a limited license on his terms, which included closing at midnight during the week and one a.m. on the weekends. He wasn’t giving up but being strategic, playing the community board’s game. Better to ask for less up front and come back for an upgrade in six months.
    Jonah and his dad attended the September committee meeting toget some firsthand intelligence, which was not reassuring. The board members looked like they were north of fifty, maybe sixty, and it seemed to Jonah that they felt “assaulted” by newcomers to the neighborhood. A couple of applicants in their twenties wanted to invest their technology riches in a club and restaurant on the Lower East Side, asked for a full liquor license, and got turned down in a fast vote. The project was exactly what the board seemed to fear—people with lots of money and no experience disrupting their neighborhood.
    In the weeks between that meeting and his October appearance, Jonah worked on a tailor-made pitch. “I’m a native New Yorker, very sympathetic,” he intended to say. “Grew up in a building with a restaurant in it, and now I have a very, very contentious relationship with a bar next door to my building” in Williamsburg. He knew the difference between a restaurant that fit in and one that didn’t, though he had to be careful not to sound like he was bragging.
    â€œIf you’re too confident and composed when you speak,” he told himself, “these are people who will think, ‘Cocky kid.’ I’ve got to tread the middle ground. I’m a local guy.”
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    He never got to say so . The lawyer, who specialized in liquor licenses, made it clear: He was to introduce himself, speak very briefly about his plans for Huertas, and turn the