Page 72 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. “Lead the way, boss.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says with a grin that does dangerous things to my concentration.

The Harbor House sits on a bluff overlooking the harbor, all weathered shingles and wraparound porches that have clearly seen decades of coastal storms. The dining room is exactly what I expected—mismatched furniture that somehow works together, walls covered with local fishing photos, and the kind of authentic atmosphere you can’t fake.

“This is what I want,” Amber says quietly as we wait to be seated. “Not the building necessarily, but this feeling. Like everyone who walks through the door belongs here.”

I look around at the mix of families and couples and obvious locals sharing tables and conversation, and Iunderstand what she means. There’s something genuine about this place that has nothing to do with design trends or marketing strategies.

“Table for two?” The hostess appears to be in her sixties, with the kind of warm smile that suggests she’s been making people feel welcome for decades.

“Please,” Amber says. “And if possible, we’d love to talk to the owner for a few minutes. We’re opening a restaurant in Twin Waves and would appreciate any wisdom they’re willing to share.”

The woman’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful! Joe will be so excited to meet you. He loves talking with other restaurant folks. Let me get you seated first, then I’ll grab him.”

We’re led to a table by the window with a perfect view of the working harbor. Fishing boats coming and going, seagulls diving for scraps, tourists taking pictures of something that’s just daily life for the locals.

“This is what I mean about authentic,” Amber says, settling into her chair. “They’re not trying to be quaint or charming. They just are.”

Before I can respond, a man in his fifties approaches our table with the confident stride of someone who built something from nothing and knows exactly what it’s worth.

“Joe Bradley,” he says, extending a hand. “Amanda tells me you folks are opening a place in Twin Waves. That’s exciting news.”

“Brett Walker. This is Amber Bennett.” I shake his hand, noting the calluses that suggest he still works in his own kitchen. “We’re researching operational models for family-owned coastal restaurants.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Joe says, pulling up a chair. “I love talking about this business, even when my wife says I talk too much about it.”

For the next hour, Joe walks us through everything—supplier relationships, staffing challenges, the delicate balance between serving locals and tourists. He’s generous with information and genuinely enthusiastic about helping other restaurant owners succeed.

“The key,” he says over plates of fish that’s obviously just off the boat, “is remembering you’re part of a community, not just serving one. We hire local, source local, support local. It costs more sometimes, but it’s worth it.”

Amber nods, taking notes. “How do you maintain quality during peak season when you’re running at capacity?”

“Good systems, good people, and knowing your limits. We could probably pack more tables in here, turn them faster, make more money in the short term. But that’s not what we’re about.”

“What are you about?” I ask.

Joe gestures toward the window, where a fishing boat is unloading the day’s catch. “This. This place,these people, this way of life. We’re not trying to get rich. We’re trying to stay relevant.”

I find myself nodding despite my usual skepticism about sentiment over profit margins. There’s something compelling about Joe’s approach, something that makes business sense even if it’s not traditionally aggressive.

“What’s your biggest challenge?” Amber asks.

“Staying true to what we are when everyone wants us to be something else,” Joe says without hesitation. “Food bloggers want us to be more Instagram-worthy. Tourists want us to be more like chain restaurants. Locals want us to never change anything. The trick is knowing who you’re really serving.”

“And who are you serving?” I ask.

“Our community. Always our community. Everything else is just noise.”

After Joe leaves to check on the kitchen, Amber and I sit in comfortable silence, processing what we’ve learned.

“He makes it sound simple,” she says finally.

“Maybe it is simple. Maybe we’ve been overthinking it.”

“You? Overthinking something?” She grins. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Very funny.” But I’m smiling too, because she’s right. I do overthink everything, especially when it matters this much.