Earlier this week, we went to an Ethiopian restaurant nearby. Like our last visit two years ago, Shita, an Ethiopian woman in her fifties, greeted us with a warm, soft smile and hurried back into the kitchen. She was the only person working. Taking phone orders, cooking, serving — it was all her.
The chickpea stew, lentils, and spicy mushrooms came out piping hot. As we enjoyed our meal, Shita confided she would likely close the business in the coming months. Rent had increased substantially. The kitchen would flood at times. The landlord was difficult to deal with: he refused to fix the plumbing issues and other damages on the property, and they were in multiple disputes. She fixed some issues on her own and paid for a contractor out of her pocket for other bigger problems, essentially making her work for nothing for days.
Even though the quality of her food was outstanding (4.5+ stars on Google Maps and Yelp with hundreds of reviews)—Shita clearly took pride in her food—business had declined due to covid and inflation. A month ago, a customer stole her iPhone along with a credit card processor when she was working in the kitchen. For the next two days, customers couldn’t reach her (some grew concerned and checked on her in person), and she lost more business.
“I have managed this business alone for eight years,” she said. “I’m tired. I think I’m ready to move on. It’s okay. The worst case is that I will live with less. I have my family. I have no problem being happy. I will figure something out. Maybe I will go back to the farmer’s market.”
It’s rare to get a glimpse of the people working behind a mom-and-pop business. Shita strikes me as someone who believes. She takes risks, works hard when no one else pays attention, and persists even when the outcome is uncertain.
Once I understand the real cost Shita bears to share her food with the world, the price I pay for my lunch is clearly too low.