Food is a central activity of mankind and one of the single most significant trademarks of a culture.
~Mark Kurlansky
“You had a restaurant?” new friends will ask.
I nod. “An international store and café.”
“Wow. Where?” I can see the wheels turning. Had they known it?
“In New England, before we moved cross-country.”
Roots and Wings is no more.
“I’ve dreamed of opening a restaurant,” some say with a faraway look.
We had, too. Sometimes, I’m in awe that we actually did it. A lifetime of experiences led to our decision, but it started with a barn.
It was a venerable old barn with weathered wood siding and an antique weathervane. Long ago, it served as the carriage house for the inn down the road. The first floor featured horse stalls and “rentable” space; the second floor, a hayloft that could double as a ballroom. It stood strong and solid, right next to the little river that ran through our Massachusetts hill town. It almost dwarfed the 1850s brick colonial that came with it. What stories these buildings could tell!
And it was for sale. Could we afford it — not just the financial investment, but also the time and energy? Between work, volunteering and raising our two daughters, life was full.
The barn conjured up visions of a day spa, community center and local artists’ studio. The house offered more practical and immediate possibilities. The previous owners raised three boys downstairs. Upstairs were two apartments: one a writer’s work studio, the other home to two women and their big dog, who, on command, carried a full bag of potatoes up the stairs.
A friend wanted to rent the downstairs for her gourmet popcorn and molded chocolates business. Licensed in songbird rehabilitation, she also hoped to start a bird sanctuary in our back yard. We made an offer. Shortly after we signed the title papers, she chose to move to a bigger town up the road. We wandered around the first floor, getting over our shock, and realized we were falling in love with the space ourselves: the welcoming country kitchen, the broad front porch. An idea began to take shape.
Ever since we met in graduate school in Maine (I, a Midwestern farm girl, my husband just arrived from India), we had shared a keen interest in other cultures. Together, we explored cuisines, languages and music with our international friends in Maine and later in the Midwest. When we returned to New England, we started serving my husband’s popular home-style Indian food at our town’s annual fall festival and at fundraising dinners for our daughters’ school. Sometimes, I taught international vegetarian cooking and nutrition classes, too.
“Let’s open our own place!”
“We’ll sell kits of our favorite recipes with pre-measured spices and staples,” he said.
“And offer fair-trade handicrafts, music and books from around the world,” I said.
“We’ll have a weekend café, and maybe cooking classes.”
“Our guests can explore the world through all their senses,” I added.
Roots and Wings, International Store and Café, was born.
Weekdays, I ran the store and occasionally served lunches while my husband worked his “day job” as an electrical engineer. Weekends, he managed the café — and the stove. I’d come early to start the dal or other time-consuming dishes and open the store. He’d prepare the rest. Our daughters helped us serve when they could. We also catered meditation conferences, yoga retreats, a wedding, and a kosher meal after an adoption-naming ceremony.
The kitchen had a large “island” that opened into the dining area so we could talk to our guests, share cooking techniques, or tell a few jokes as we cooked or plated their food. Picture windows front and back made the room bright and cheery. Guests often invited us to sit with them after their meal, where conversations wove from food and travel to technology like earth-monitoring satellites or science topics like health and climate change.
Even twenty years later, Roots and Wings still conjures up powerful memories. We developed the division of labor we still employ for special events: I manage the baking, breads and lentil soups; my husband handles the specialty dishes and entertainment. We fine-tuned techniques for teaching cooking and catering to people with special needs.
I don’t miss the anxieties: Is there enough food? Will it be ready on time? Or the endless deliberations on what to sell in the store. But I can still smell the cardamom and curry wafting through the air. I see the colorful patterns of Guatemalan fabric, the intricately woven baskets of local artists. I hear the animated conversations, the crunch of crispy potato-stuffed dosas being enjoyed, the exotic instruments and voices lifted in song.
The best memories are of the people. A Peruvian immigrant who designed murals throughout South America created our beautiful Roots and Wings sign, which we still have. Neighbors came with their daughter whom they adopted from India to share our Indian meals. A friend with Filipino heritage frequented the café for food and conversation, sometimes bringing his mother, an expert in Esperanto, the international language. He introduced friends who became regulars as well: she a yoga teacher who studied yoga in India, he a music promoter with a multicultural background. We invited her to teach our yoga classes and often sat late into the night chatting over tea and dessert.
World travelers and those who weren’t came to buy unique gifts or cooking ingredients. One couple claimed “asbestos tongues” and craved the hottest sauces we could find. Others tried their hand at cooking exotic dishes. A family who lived far out in the woods became our only takeout customers. What a surprise to discover we would be moving to the California town where she grew up.
We served mostly Indian vegetarian cuisine with a smattering of Middle Eastern and other Asian foods. Occasionally, we added traditional New England fare like baked beans and Indian pudding with local maple syrup.
A family visiting from Scotland read about us in the local paper. They spent a whole day with us, enjoying a meal, perusing our handicrafts, sharing stories. Neighbors around the corner often came for lunch with their small children. Their jazz band played for our daughter’s high-school graduation party on the café porch. Even the rain didn’t dampen our spirits that day.
One year, we offered a Festivals of Lights dinner celebrating Diwali, Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa and New Year’s. We served traditional foods from all the celebrations, accompanied by holiday music. It was so popular we had to schedule a second evening, which was ushered in by a winter storm. A falling snow-laden tree barely missed one of the cars, but everyone arrived safely, and we were all cozy and warm in our little café.
Roots and Wings earned us little profit, but what we gained in those two-and-a-half years was priceless. It was a bittersweet time when we closed our doors. The long hours and sore feet are distant memories, but the stories will always be treasured. We never had time to do more with the barn. I’m okay with that. It started with a barn, but it became a community.
~Susan Rothrock Deo
