Six months later, we opened Marisol in Culver City. Twenty-eight seats, a tiny kitchen, and a menu that featured things like chile-braised short rib ravioli, mole negro risotto, carnitas arancini. Mexican-Italian fusion done right.
We almost died in the first three months. The rent was too high. The labor costs were killing us. We couldn’t get enough customers through the door. But then Jonathan Gold reviewed us.
“Marisol is a revelation,” he wrote. “Chef Maya Torres takes the best of her Mexican heritage and the Italian techniques she’s mastered and creates something entirely new. This is not fusion for fusion’s sake. This is thoughtful, delicious, important cooking.”
After that review, we had a two-month waitlist. We started turning a profit in month six. By the end of year one, we had done $890,000 in revenue.
Roberto wanted to expand.
“We should open a second location,” he said. “Santa Monica. Bigger space, more covers.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“You’re ready, Maya. You’re one of the most talented chefs I’ve worked with, and you’re a better businessperson than you think. Let’s do this.”
We opened Marisol Santa Monica eighteen months after the first location. Then came Marisol Downtown, then Marisol Pasadena. By year four, I had seven restaurants across Southern California. We were doing $8.3 million in annual revenue. By year six, I had twelve restaurants. We had expanded to San Diego and Orange County. Revenue hit $18 million.
I was twenty-nine years old.
My father never called. Not once in those six years.
My mother did occasionally. She told me about Casa Torres, how business was steady, how my father had hired a new line cook, how Javier was thinking about opening a second location in Westwood. She never asked about my restaurants. I think it was too painful for her to acknowledge that I had succeeded without them.
In year seven, I got a call from a commercial real estate broker named Susan Park.
“Miss Torres, I have a property that might interest you. A restaurant space in East LA. The current owner is looking to sell.”
“I’m not looking to expand into East LA.”
“It’s Casa Torres.”
I froze. “What?”
“Casa Torres. The Mexican restaurant on Fourth Street. The owner is looking to retire. He’s asking $2.1 million for the business, property, and all assets.”
My heart was pounding. “Why is he selling?”
“He’s getting older. Business has been declining for the past few years. Competition in the area has increased. He wants to sell while he still can.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“Eduardo Torres. I believe he’s your father.”
Silence hung on the other end.
“I see,” Susan finally said. “This might be complicated.”
“Does he know you’re calling me?”
“No. I’m calling every restaurant operator in Southern California. Your company came up because of your expansion success. I had no idea about the family connection.”
I sat back in my chair.
Casa Torres. The restaurant where I had learned to cook. Where I had been humiliated. Where I had been fired. The restaurant my father loved more than he had ever loved me.
“Send me the financials,” I said.
The numbers were worse than I had expected. Revenue had dropped thirty-five percent over the past three years. The property needed significant repairs. The equipment was outdated. They were barely breaking even. But the location was prime. The building itself was worth at least $1.4 million. The business, even struggling, had name recognition and a loyal customer base.
It was worth buying.
But more than that, and I wasn’t proud of this, I wanted it. I wanted to own the place my father had chosen over me. I wanted him to know that the daughter he had called useless had become successful enough to buy his entire legacy.
It was petty. It was vindictive. I didn’t care.
“Make an offer,” I told my lawyer, Richard Chin, Roberto’s cousin. “$1.8 million, all cash, thirty-day close.”
“That’s $300,000 under asking.”
“Their financials are a mess. They’ll take it.”
Three days later, Susan called back.
“They accepted, but Eduardo wants to meet the buyer before he signs.”
“No.”
“Miss Torres, it’s a reasonable request.”