I started cooking out of necessity when I was 5.My mother although 1st generation Italian-American did not cook but she certainly loved to eat. And not just eat, she loved to explore and experience the new the unique and the unusual. She also loved to be the center of attention. Because of this we ate at restaurants every meal every day and that made us "regulars”. We had the special tables, the special food, and the special treatment. I toured the kitchens, stirred the sauces, stood on a crate behind the bar, shook the martinis, and ate the olives, lots of olives. I helped deliver food, refill coffee and take orders. As glamorous as it sounds to most people (those who had Monday meatloaf and Tuesday tacos every week without fail) it was unpredictable and completely dependant on my mother’s whim not our hunger or a schedule. Sometimes we would wait until 10pm for her to come from the bar and get us to go out to eat. On one such night I looked in the cabinet and found nothing but a box of sugar cookie mix. Looking at my brother and sister knowing we couldn't wait to eat I made the first sheet cookie (too much water I think) if only there had been a mall and a kiosk near by I would have been a 5yr old billionaire. From that night on, I would ride my banana yellow banana seat bicycle to the grocery store with money I made doing odd jobs for neighbors and pick up food to make dinner before it was finally time for dinner.
At the same time my Grandparents (Roman and Lily) owned a bar with a banquet hall and we were there nearly everyday. I sold shoulder rubs and conversation for a nickel to play the juke box shuffle board and pool. I played cribbage and yahtsee with men and women in there sixties
By the age of seventeen, I was running my first business (Donati Designs) creating and selling wearable art around the country.
While driving to Key West in 1987 to open a store, I was hit by an eighteen wheeler. I stayed in the burning van to save my friends and to try and save my dogs. Over 50% of my body was burned and I lost everything I owned. After a four month stay in intensive care, I left the hospital in scrubs and bandages without a penny to my name a thousand miles from home.
So, it only made sense that, after having been fed through a tube for four months and losing my first business at the age of nineteen, I would end up opening a restaurant. Everywhere I went I obsessed over the menu, the floor plans, and the decor. I spent hours and sleepless nights scribbling out concepts and plans on scraps of paper and napkins. I spent the next 5 or 6 years looking for a city I could call home knowing that when you open a restaurant you can’t just throw your things in a van and leave. I went to every city I had ever imagined and leaving was what I always did. The same imagination that has gotten me so far in life is the same imagination that always made me leave. I thought it would look, feel and smell a certain way; I thought my life would be a certain way. And when it wasn’t and for all of their good points, I lived and worked in, but eventually left Chicago, New Orleans, Sante Fe, Provincetown and finally Key West. All of them the place of dreams but none of them mine. It was a fluke that brought me to Atlanta without any expectations. Not a single story, not a single picture in my head just no place to go for Christmas and an invitation to a city I had barely heard of.
Driving in I was overwhelmed by how green it was with trees and grass lining every street. It snowed on Christmas morning while I sat reading the Atlanta magazine in front of a fire. I read about little cafes and 4 star restraunts, local music, art and theater, the mountains were close and the ocean only 4hrs away. Atlanta seemed to be everything I had ever wanted which, admittedly, was everything. I didn’t want to settle for one thing or another and in Atlanta I didn’t have to. So I went back to Key West, got my things and came back to set about learning the city and finding my place in it.
After 2yrs of working at The Flying Biscuit, I found “my place” in The Old Fourth Ward-- a hop skip and a jump from Inman Park, at the time absolutely no relation, now ten years later a kissing cousin.
It was a run down building that my landlord had recently bought. After looking at restaurants already open and in far more desirable locations places that, on paper, were perfect but made me feel nothing, here it was. I stood in the middle of what for others would be a nightmare but for me was a dream. No preconceived notions, no mold I had to fit. There were crumbling walls, a collapsed floor, a caved in ceiling and a beam of light that streamed in across the room from a picture window. Looking out on an unobstructed view of the city, the space captured my heart. I felt warm and it felt right. Everyone said I was crazy but I called that day and sold the small annuity I received after my accident and I spent every penny of the $125,000 payout to open.
The Roman Lily Café, named after and dedicated to my grama and grampa, was born.
Roman said, with the little breath he could muster,” It’s a bullshit name and nobody’s gonna come” then he laughed until he cried a little. Within days of opening, I had a 2hr wait every night. I closed at ten and at midnight I was still seating tables, who upon being told we were out of almost everything, replied with” we are just happy to be here”. Ten years later people were still saying” we are just happy to be here” and if it weren’t for the fact that my opening a restaurant tripled the property value (and therefore my rent) by bringing in other new business and home buyers I would still be there.
With my lease up and my new rent unmanageable, I decided it was time to take a break and enjoy a meal at someone else’s table for a change. It was fun for a minute but got old fast. I like to work, I like to feed, and I like to create. One year to the day after getting out I found myself getting back in and I opened Calavino’s.
Unfortunately, I opened without a cushion and just in time for the recession to kick in. After a year of struggling to stay above water and with the end getting closer, I was ready to quit but then Doria reminded me that I never give up. She also told me my pride would be the only thing to get in the way of saving my business. So, in the spirit of never giving up I am swallowing my pride and asking for help.
Please send donations to paypal account:
calavinos@yahoo.com
Or checks payable to:
Calavino Donati
PO Box 5313
Atlanta, Ga 31107
