Crumbs – An Obituary, and more.

"Casual Fine Dining," indeed.

This is an obituary. And an object lesson. It shouldn’t be either of those things. But it has to be.

At the outset, let me confess that I am breaking a rule to which I have held others: “Don’t use death as an object lesson”—whether it’s the elderly great-grandfather who dies in his mid-nineties from lung cancer (“See, kids—this is why you shouldn’t smoke. Cigarettes will kill you!”) or whether it’s the child struck and killed by a drunk driver while playing on the sidewalk near his home (“See, kids—this is why you should always look both ways before crossing the street, or your front yard for that matter.”)

My object lesson and this obituary today relates to the closing of my favorite restaurant: Crumbs—McArthur, California—Travis and Fiona Hickey, proprietors.

Sushi. Really good sushi.

For Context – A bit of my history as a Foodie

It’s not lightly that I label Crumbs as having been my favorite restaurant. Over the past fifty-four years my tastes have changed. But even if some items have been (involuntarily, in some cases) deleted from my menu, there is often so much more than the taste, aroma, service and atmosphere that returns with the mere mention of certain “places to eat.”

I once could afford to be a regular at both Jay’s Bistro and Bisetti’s in Fort Collins, Colorado. Yet I grew up longing for the next meal at Frisch’s Big Boy, Duff’s Smorgasbord, or from Cassano’s Pizza King in Wilmington, Ohio. I have extraordinary, life-altering memories of both specific meals at the Carnelian Room atop the Bank of America building, and wistful reverie at what was once the ever-present fare of Ocean Pizza and El Faro burritos in San Francisco. There are reasons that I smile broadly at the mere sight of the Taprock Northwest Grill in Grants Pass, Oregon. The same thing happens, even with the radical interior remodeling, at The Cliff House—so different, yet the nostalgia remains the same.

Now that I think about it, if I could spare the blood sugar, I might contemplate a ten hour roundtrip to have just one sandwich from Molinari Delicatessen. But I realize, sadly, that it would take time travel at this point to revisit New Pisa, The Owl and Monkey, or Zim’s.

Lamb Lollipops.

And now the same is true for the most excellent “Casual Fine Dining” experience I’ve ever known. We were blessed to enjoy it for five years, and blessed to support it for seven years (more on that in a moment), and not just because we liked the convenience of having top-quality sushi available in the remote community of McArthur (population 338) in the Fall River Valley (population 3,106) of Northern California.

So, because it bears saying again: Crumbs is my favorite restaurant. And now it’s closed.

In Memoriam – A dream-come-true that died

Obituaries are made of times, places, people, and events. Here are the ones that flood my thoughts of Crumbs.

But first, the food: The ribeye, the sirloin, the pork picatta. Chicken fettuccini Alfredo. Lamb lollipops. Salmon alla vodka. Spicy Thai steak bites. House-brined pork chops. Seared ahi tuna. Cheesy chile-verde soup. Tomato-basil soup. Coconut-curry and rice soup. And every other experimental soup that Travis ever put in a bowl. Sweet potato fries, extra crispy with a side of Sriracha to go with the usual chipotle-aioli. Sushi of several varieties—all wonderful. The Blue Juicy. The Hoakie burger. The dinosaur egg. Grilled chocolate brownie ala mode. Vietnamese crepes. Yes, grown-up tater tots. Even the fried pickles. And anything arrabbiata.

Proprietor and chef: Travis Hickey.

The occasions: My son’s and daughter-in-law’s rehearsal dinner. My surprise birthday party. Hearing Joe Choi play guitar for the first time. Being lectured by friends on the relational distance created by insisting on one check. Scores of evenings sitting quietly with my beloved, before hurrying off to Wednesday night Bible study. The Hospice crew being served just after the Community Candlelight Remembrance Service, and just before the power went out—we had our own candle (and iPhone) lit dinner together. The “safe-place, safe-people” necessary to letting children speak aloud the terrible news of unspeakable betrayals. The celebrations of job offers, test results, mortgage approvals, and college acceptance letters. The farewells to good friends with one last meal together before packing their moving truck, or planning their funeral. That last one includes my last meal with my friend and fellow-Elder, Bill Hudson. As I recall, the initial family discussion about his funeral took place over dinner at Crumbs, too.

The people: All of you. Every single one of you. Even the ones who only lasted a short time. Even those who disappeared suddenly. And all the friends who smiled and waved, or came to the table to say hello, or pulled up a chair and joined us. But I am especially grateful to those who not only pushed the rock all the way to the top of the hill, but allowed us to join in, to pray intelligently, in detail, during those first two years. When I say that we supported the five year life of Crumbs for seven years, I should explain the math. For a time, it seemed that the restaurant could never possibly open amidst the “infinite wisdom” (i.e., indecipherable regulations, contradictory advisors, and unavailable inspectors) of those Shasta County bureaucrats whose self-funded careers manufacture just two products: fees and fines. Other businesses have been crippled. Some were virtually still-born. And many have never made it off the drafting table. Crumbs had a five year run in eastern Shasta County—and, for those who understand the business environment here, miraculous is not too strong a word.

"Who could hang a name on you?"

The inside scoops: Available to anyone—sitting at the chef’s table for a front-row seat to more flash, flame, flair and finesse than five teppanyaki grills side-by-side. Available to anyone who asked—knowing who (and why) Drew was. Available to those sitting with a view of the serve-through window—watching the wait-staff balance impossibly towering offenses to gravity all the way (and sometimes only most of the way) to the table. Available to me, and maybe some others—playing Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars with the owners’ son. Drawing a quarter-horse for the owners’ daughter. (Actually, I drew “a quarter of a horse” for her—she was not as amused as I’d hoped.) Still being treated like one of the family even afterward. And being allowed to continue to pray for many other issues, distractions and challenges that allowed me to rejoice and celebrate the answers to those prayers…for the whole seven years of Crumbs’ five-year career.

An Object Lesson – Who knows? Not even those who care most.

For all that I learned in the process of watching (and praying, but carefully watching) from the side-lines of a “dream-come-true” that has died, the object lesson important enough to share, even in violation of my own rule to the contrary, is this:

I don’t know why Crumbs closed. Neither do you.

And I write this, knowing full well that my dear friends Travis and Fiona will likely read this. I still mean it. You may never know why Crumbs closed, just as so many of us couldn’t imagine how Crumbs ever got open in the first place. I can say that the first of these two events was in answer to prayer. But I also believe that the same God who said “Yes” to those of us who wanted to see Crumbs open is the same God who said “No” to us when we asked for it to remain open. Romans 8:28 (“All things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purposes.”) seems to apply in some way. But that’s not the only reason Crumbs opened, or closed.

The moral of this object lesson? My hope is to rebuke myself and the rest of us. We tend to reduce things into simplistic cause-and-effect statements that may have only a tangential relationship to the truth. This isn’t a good idea. In fact, it can be dangerously harmful. We should stop. I’m trying.

I have now been present for a number of discussions about the demise of Crumbs. In these verbal post-mortems there have been a wide variety of opinions shared. The suppositions have ranged from the ignorantly ridiculous to the sublimely hurtful. What they have in common, though, is their opening phrase: “I heard that it closed because….” Those words are invariably followed by some single event, person, economic perspective, social relationship, or other such correlation. “This caused that.” Um…no.

I want to believe that “this caused that” so that’s all the thought I have to give to it. It’s a very human thing to do. Social-psychologist Christena Cleveland calls us “cognitive misers.” We try not to use any more mental energy than we have to. Thus we operate on the basis of stereotypes and prejudices that allow us to say “the riots in Ferguson, Missouri happened because…” or “the September 11 attacks happened because…” or “that family’s kids turned out that way because…” or “I’m the way I am because….”

"In lieu of flowers...?"

While sitting among one particular group of friends who had chosen to dissect a few of their pet theories on the closing of our favorite restaurant (I’m not the only one who’s grieving, of course.), I compiled a list of the contributing factors of which I was aware. Some could be combined under various headings, I found. But at minimum: seven. There are at least seven contributing factors, of which I am aware, that led, each in part, to the decision to close Crumbs. There were, in that discussion and others, at least another seven factors that I happen to know did not lead to the decision to close Crumbs. Some of the more imaginative factors discussed were patently impossible. A few were possible, but patently untrue.

Overcoming the Confidence of Ignorance – Why this lesson is so terribly important to learn

I want to believe that I understand how life (or at least my life, or even just my lawn mower) works…so that when it doesn’t work I can entertain the fantasy that “if I just do this, then that will result.” But the brokenness I encounter regularly teaches me again and again that we are all far more complex than we could ever know. Therefore, whatever wholeness, whatever celebration, whatever months or years of being served in our favorite restaurant we may be granted…it should all be cherished as intensely as possible.

Because the cause(s) of our blessings will always be just as inestimable as we find the cause(s) of our losses.

What was. What will be? In the mean time, we be what is.

I loved my favorite restaurant. It closed. I grieve that loss. I mourn in order to process my grief (through the reminiscences I’ve noted above, along with others). And I accept that in the midst of my ongoing life story, both the wonderful experience of Crumbs and the terrible reality of its closing are equally true and valid influences on me today.

So I don’t worry about finding a “why,” or any combination of “whys.” It’s equally fruitless to focus on the similar issues of “what if.” Whatever might have happened to prevent the closing of Crumbs…it didn’t happen. Therefore, I choose to deal with “what is.” And what is? I was richly blessed to experience many wonderful meals, occasions, and people at Crumbs. Here’s what else is: those experiences will not be repeated.

Moving Forward – Wherever that may be, may it be born and bathed in prayer

Even as I recall so many of my experiences at, with and for Crumbs, I pray for my friends who also grieve their status as patrons. I also pray especially for those whose jobs, investments, and lives were bound up in being part of the inner workings of the restaurant. And I pray ultimately for Travis and Fiona Hickey, (now-former) proprietors. And as I do so, the joy of what the past has held brings a smile for what the future still holds…for me, for you, and for my dear friends whose skills, passion, and love will most certainly get set upon some other blessed diners’ plates again very soon.

Mr. and Mrs. Hickey, thanks for everything (so far, and yet to come).