Friday at Benny’s
Shan and I have been going to Benny’s for months now, and we are heartbroken that it will be closing April 1. How cruel of them!!! Whatever are we going to do with ourselves?!?!
We joke a lot about Benny’s, but one thing that will always hold its place in our hearts is the fact that we had our very first business meetings there. When we write our books about our humble beginnings, well, Benny’s is going to have a mention, because we have always run out of the Veggie Patch and took shelter at the bar. We would solve everything that is wrong with the Patch, and then we’d dream about “when we open our own businesses.” Note that “when,” not “if,” statement. We have kind of set our point for takeoff as the time when Benny’s closes, in homage, in anticipation, in having no more excuses.
Last night was the utopia of business meetings, because she brought her Dad, who’s in from Oregon, to take him on the tour of where everything is beginning.
Over beers, I felt like I was watching a ping-pong match. Not to say that I didn’t have ample opportunity to contribute, but it is just funny, watching those two interact.And when Shan was in the ladies’ room, things were coming out of his mouth that I’ve either heard her say, or I can imagine her saying. It’s like she was FTPing her thoughts out to the table. I was amazed … there is no doubt that those two are cut from the same mold.
Not to say that they agree on everything — you’ve got two obstinate Irish people competing for the floor at all times — but the brainpower at our bar table alone could have powered the space shuttle for a few months. It was kind of an Irish themed night — I’m Irish as well, of course, and so are the bartenders, our beloved Renee and John. I don’t know — something about Bennigan’s and about the luck of the Irish in general just seems right. It’s a wonder we haven’t incorporated that into a name or campaign yet. Eh, give us time. We’ll figure something out!
One epiphany I had — Shan and I continually bitch that the Veggie Patch doesn’t welcome innovation and new ideas. They shrug us off and pop their Prozac and shoo us away, like, “Oh, aren’t you cute. Now go back into your hole where I can’t see you.” I’ve had the opposite thing happen to me, and I realized that a previous situation hurt even worse. When I was working on the E.S. Titanic for three years (a metaphor for a non-profit — I’m not a seaman!), especially after they hired my new superior after leaving me alone in my department forever, I was excited to share all of my ideas and initiatives. It happened at the job before that, come to think of it — I was young and energetic and overflowing with ways to improve efficiency and have fun.
So what happened? My ideas were nixed as being either too outrageous, too expensive or just plain dumb. Again, go play in your little corner, little girl. Bleah. But what would eventually happen is that the figureheads above me would secretly try to put my ideas into motion … without my involvement. And then when the plans would fail (inevitably, no shocker), they would say that I gave them a bad idea. Hah! Let’s suppose that the person who GENERATED the idea should have some involvement with the EXECUTION of the idea. See, I was watching for them to fail and waiting for it. But I wasn’t about to help them — what credit was I going to get? I only got acknowledged for their failure to morph my ideas into reality. When, on rare occasion, they didn’t botch my plans, and they did well, they got promotions and raises. And I played in my little corner till the next great idea hit. But at some point I got smart and started writing down ideas. And throwing them away. But I’ve remembered a lot of them. And wouldn’t it just be poetic justice for me to show all these people that, for all of their stomping on me and turning me into sour grapes, that they stomped hard enough to make a vintage wine?
Mmmm …. wine. …