Bob Sanchez’ BS

I am upset. Disappointed. Deflated. Betrayed.

My favorite Italian restaurant in Kochi, Trattoria Felice, folded up at the end of December but ten days after the makeshift forget-the-year party I arranged for my school.

It was run by one Japanese man, and my friends and I made him busy every time we climbed the stairs into his small, second-floor dining room. Mr. Felice was an absolute genius with pasta and pizza dough, creating dishes like eggplant and tuna pasta and sesame chicken pizza. His lone waitress was stunningly beautiful and pretended to be very interested in me - and I didn’t even have to tip her!

The first time I ate there, my family was in town to visit and after one day was tired of picking at skimpy Japanese dishes made of fish-n-bones and mountain roots and herbs. I had passed Trattoria Felice several times before and was drawn in by the Ace of Base blasting from the boom box at the bottom of the stairs, so I decided that the time was right and went with my family.

Everyone was able to pick out something filling and delicious for less than ten bucks. Mr. Felice only had enough dough for two small pizzas and whipped both of them up for us. It took a few visits to learn that he was always short on dough, so I took to calling the day before I wanted to eat there to make sure he had some on hand.

After two or three more visits, Mr. Felice informed me of an all-you-can eat deal that he featured: an open-menu, 90-minute free-for-all for $25. A mountain of pizzas, pastas hot and cold, garlic toast, and Japanese side dishes for $25. Let me say that again - I could go eat all of the fantastic food I wanted for $25. This wasn’t Sizzler or HomeTown Buffet. This was going to a fine Italian restaurant and pigging out for $25.

I did it once by myself, picked Mr. Felice up and shook him by the collar to make sure that he was absolutely serious about the deal, and invited friends each and every single time afterward. We ordered dish after dish, pizza after pizza, and Mr. Felice made them all in earnest, each one savory and succulent.

We always remarked that we would pay more for that meal. I was willing to pay $35 but could have been pushed to part with $40. This was the good stuff in an extremely personal setting made by an honestly good guy. Don’t even get me started on the gorgeous waitstaff. Nights at Trattoria Felice were part of the magic of Kochi.

Indeed, it was a rude shock to stride up to the familiar stairwell and come face-to-face with an ugly, gray roll-down door and a handwritten message scribbled on a piece of paper taped to the wall:

To my beloved customers,

This is unexpected and troublesome to you, but as of the end of December, Trattoria Felice will close its doors. I appreciated your business and hope that you can forgive my inconsiderate action.

Love, Mr. Felice

Beneath the heartfelt message, someone had scrawled the following in pencil:

That IS really inconsiderate.

Great, so at least I wasn’t solely responsible for running his business into the ground. I felt like a helpless lab rat whose food supply just got cut off because he pushed the food button too many times. Granted, I had pushed it once a month, but that’s more often than I eat out anywhere because I simply don’t eat out much.

What really stings is that he knew he was closing up as he smiled and served ten teachers and me at our forget-the-year party. It was the best meal I had ever had at Trattoria Felice, just like every other time I ate there, and Mr. Felice and his bodacious busser shone.

I don’t know why Trattoria Felice went down. Maybe Mr. Felice won the lottery and took off to Brazil. Maybe he got tired of cooking such perfect food and needed to be challenged doing something else. Maybe he succumbed to slumping sales unrelated to his fabulous, loss-leading smorgasbord. Business in Kochi stinks regardless of what Americans are doing with their dollars.

Whatever the case, I deeply regret not making it clear to Mr. Felice that I think he should have charged more for his work. The branch of Domino’s Pizza in Kochi offered an all-you-can eat pizza deal for $15, and that was just stupid considering that a medium pizza costs nearly as much here. But Domino’s Pizza is a soulless corporation; it’s fun to take advantage of them. It may take years, but I think I will pay for taking advantage of Mr. Felice.

What is the customer’s responsibility in this situation? What could I have done to keep Trattoria Felice open? I could have offered to pay more, but that’s crossing a very definite line of respect in Japan (this is why there is no tipping). I could have eaten less, but I don’t think I was tipping the scales too far in my favor when I dined there. I could have eaten there more often, but I have to keep myself in business, too.

I ask this question not only because I feel terrible for Mr. Felice (unless he really did win the lottery) but because every restaurant I have found, enjoyed, or otherwise touched has taken a turn for the worse. The only VietNamese restaurant in town didn’t survive the summer, and I would have paid more to eat there, too. Strangely enough, Domino’s skipped town over the New Year holiday as well. Tacos Pamos, barely decent but the only Mexican food restaurant within 35 million yards of Kochi, has begun closing at six in the evening.

Tell me, good people, do I have the touch of death or am I eating out incorrectly? What does a good customer do to keep his favorite entrepreneurs in business?

I need to find out what happened to Mr. Felice. The phone number I dialed to reach him at the restaurant doesn’t go through any more. It’s so sad - I wish that just once more I could get the fax machine before he could answer it, just like old times.

I am prepared to go to City Hall, the Better Business Bureau, or wherever he must have gone to turn in the key to the building in order to find him.

I need to know that he is OK.

I need the recipe for his delectable chicken and corn pizza.

And I need his waitress’ phone number in case she breaks up with her boyfriend.