Trials and tribulations of a fast-casual independent operator

It's 3:35 p.m. and Mary Wallace is late for a 3:30 interview.

 

"I'll be with you in a minute," yells Wallace, the owner of Order's Up.

 

I can hardly hear her southern drawl over the rumbling of pots and pans and a loud box fan. "Just need to finish up in the kitchen," says the independent operator.

 

In the dining room, there's a friendly worker wiping down tables. She spots a hunk of potato salad near the plastic salad bar on wheels. "Oops," she says in a motherly tone. "Now how did that get there?" She wipes the yellow glob off the floor and smiles at me. "There we go. The floor looks much better. Can I get you anything, dear?"

 

I order coffee and a BLT: a scrumptious sandwich that distracts me from my tardy source. When Wallace finally enters the dining room, it is 4:05.

 

"Sorry about that," she says. "Busy lunch rush."   

 

Wallace's maroon apron is covered in food stains. She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes and runs her hands through her short brown hair. Although Wallace does not appear stressed, she definitely looks tired.

 

"Long day?" I ask.

 

"Yeah, we've had some deaths in the family," she responds. "It's been a hard couple of days."

 

It will be a hard week on Order's Up's cash register, too. Since most of Wallace's crew is family or close friends, the restaurant must close for the week. "Who's going to run the store while I'm gone?" she asks. "Almost everybody will be at a funeral. I'd rather it be closed than a diner be disappointed with the service."

 

At the counter, there's a sign informing patrons of the restaurant's sudden but temporary closure, one of the few signs in sight. Unlike the competition down the street, a Quiznos, there's very little in-store marketing here. Perhaps the most prominent wall decorations are a rack of designer plates and a quilt hanging near the salad bar. Order's Up posters and napkins aren't Wallace's immediate concerns, however.

 

"My biggest problem is getting people in the door. That's truly a challenge," Wallace says. "I don't feel so bad, though, when I see Quiznos has the same problem."

 

But Quiznos has a national advertising budget and brand recognition. Order's Up has no ad budget and is only 2 years old.

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"The last two years my income has been at the poverty level," Wallace says.

 

Several years ago, Wallace quit her full-time catering gig and went in with four partners to start a restaurant. She actually considered signing a franchise agreement with a local pizza chain, but "they wanted too much money up front. A friend handed me a phone book and said, 'I'll help you find recipes. You don't need to fork over that kind of money.' So we opened Order's Up, and I still love that name."

 

Wallace loves everything about her restaurant. From the menu board purchased used at an Au Bon Pain auction to the mismatched oak chairs in the dining room, Wallace says everything in here is symbolic of her will to succeed.

 

"It was a great risk, but we thought this would be a great area to start," she says with a smile. Order's Up is located in the middle of a developing industrial park. The road leading into the restaurant is busy with construction crews and business workers. There's a Kroger distribution plant nearby and a major insurance company headquarters. Even more businesses are expected to open up in the area, which means potentially more customers.

 

For now, Order's Up is busiest during lunch. Breakfast sales are decent, but it's closed for dinner. Wallace says the average check is a hair under $6 and comparable-store sales are in the negatives. "I really wish we could bring it (average check) up a dollar or two."

 

But not all the numbers are negative.

 

Other than $11-per-square-foot rent, everything in the store is paid for. "We don't owe anybody money," Wallace says. "I just wish everything worked consistently."

 

Wallace doesn't have service contracts on her kitchen equipment. Her refrigerator lasted a month before giving out. "I would love to have service contracts. We looked at buying a POS system, too, but it just didn't fit into our budget." Wallace's costliest piece of equipment is the sign out front. "That set us back $1,600, and I'm still not sure if ... ."  Wallace's colleague interrupts with a tap on the shoulder; she's holding a telephone and said the call "sounds important."

 

Wallace pats my hand and says, "I'm sorry. I've got to take this." Normally, I'm annoyed by interview interruptions. This time is different.

 

The interrupter, the same woman who greeted me earlier, offers me a free cookie.

 

"We give free cookies to first timers," she says.

 

Wallace employs 11 workers, all of whom she knows personally. I've been to Order's Up at least a dozen times, and I have never seen an employee frown. They're always cheerful and ever upselling: "Would you like a bag of chips with that Reuben? Want gravy on your biscuits?"

 

Although I declined the free cookie, the worker made me remember why I wanted to write a story on Order's Up. It wasn't the five- to six-minute order times or the artisan breads or dynamite breakfast menu that draws me there. It's the people: their smiles, their regular inquiries about my day.

 

This independently owned restaurant is filled with genuine folks, who truly care about me and not just the $10 in my wallet. But that's not by accident. It's by design.

 

When Wallace ends her phone call, I ask why her employees are so kind.

 

"Because I look for people who have a servant's heart," she says.

 

Wallace looks at her watch. It's a busy day for her. She has a funeral to plan and relatives to call. She's also got a few more duties to complete in the kitchen. This interview probably set her back a few hours. I don't want to take up much more of her time, so I snap her picture and as I am about to leave, she hollers, "Are you sure you don't want a cookie?"