THE LAST DAYS of Nathans were chaotic but not a blur. My memories of them are indelible. I put away all the aggravations, frustrations, and anger, and instead focused on making the closure as special as possible for the bar’s loving fans and loyal staff. In the end, as with all bars and restaurants, it was about the customers. They had made it, they had loved it, and they deserved the opportunity to say good-bye. That’s what guided Jon and me as we made our decisions about when and how to close and when we’d make the fact public.
Even though Nathans’ problems were long-term and complicated, its fate was in sync with the times. In spring 2009, Wall Street was on the ropes and the national economy was in turmoil. Home foreclosures and the closing of small businesses were becoming routine news. While Brendan and his law partner Stephen Sorensen were in the last stages of peaceably negotiating me out of any liabilities to the landlords, the Halkias family had their new real estate lawyer file an eviction action. It was exasperating. I mean, why? We were so close. For a week I dodged the process server, literally—sometimes in disguises, sometimes with him pounding on my front door—but he finally gave up and delivered the papers to Williams and Connolly. Brendan and Stephen were able to head off the eviction and finish the settlement, in which I agreed to pay a load of back property taxes—tens of thousands of dollars—and an assortment of debts that attached to me personally. I never paid any of the $800,000 back-rent claim, however. Brendan was good for his word on that. Getting out of Nathans cost me about $250,000, which I covered with a mortgage on my home. Thank God I owned it free and clear; using a mortgage made sense.
Typically when restaurants close, it’s at midnight and a surprise to everyone: customers, staff, vendors, the bank. Again, because of the history of the place, and the customers and the staff, I didn’t want to go out that way. It didn’t feel right. Jon warned me there were risks in announcing in advance that we would close. “Everybody we owe money to will be pounding on the door.” So what’s new? We put the word out on Nathans’ website two weeks before the scheduled closing date. Fortunately it got picked up quickly by the media, and word spread far and wide. That was important. I wanted everyone in the Washington area to know that now was the time to come in for that last beer, shot, plate of fresh fettuccine Alfredo, or basket of the great house-made potato chips—all those folks who had met at the bar, had their first date over a burger, or got engaged in the dining room. Or, for that matter, partied after hours till the sun came up.
What Jon had feared came true. Our bold public announcement got the attention of the District of Columbia’s tax and revenue office. Did they freak out? Yes, they did. Nathans had an outstanding sales tax debt of $26,000, which we planned to pay promptly after closing with the enhanced profits we expected from the last two weeks. The tax office would not wait. They wanted the money, or they would close us down immediately. My mortgage had not gone through yet and there was no way to get our hands on that much money. When I mentioned the crisis in my daily blog, a reader suggested I ask for contributions of $100. “If 260 people each give you $100, which is not outlandish, you will have the money.” I posted his message on the website and, in a scenario out of It’s a Wonderful Life, customers began to pour through the front door with checks for $100. They even stopped Jon or me on the street to hand us checks. They mailed them from distant cities, sometimes with little notes mentioning how much Nathans had meant to them “back in the day.” One very generous customer sent a check for $5,000, another sent one for $3,000, several others sent checks for $1,000, and quite a few contributed $500. The money came in so fast it was all Jon could do to get it across the street and into the bank account. The tax office granted us a brief stay of execution to see what we could raise. Within a few days we’d raised the $26,000, paid the tax, and got the reprieve that would keep the place open till its last “last call.”
The final day and night, Sunday, July 12, 2009, Nathans was packed like it was New Year’s Eve. Earlier that morning, in the wee hours, someone had driven a Ducati motorcycle into the bar, parked it, posed on it, and put the pictures on Facebook. Many of the barstools had walked out in the hands of souvenir hunters, along with all the menus. It was that kind of last day. Local television crews and newspaper and Web reporters were part of the throng that filled the bar. Spencer and I sat at the round table in the back dining room with his girlfriend, Courtney Prillaman, her parents, Martha, and a dear old friend and fellow widow, Sally Hosta. We sipped martinis and dug into our last baskets of chips and plates of pasta. I turned the music up loud, like the old days, when Howard would be the life of the after-hours party, whirling around with his sleeves rolled up, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. His was only one of the ghosts dancing in the back room that night, preparing to say good-bye.
Jon Moss and his girlfriend kept an eye on everyone, though not without savoring the moment. Jon and I were the only ones there who knew the remarkable series of events—and the hurdles crossed—that had got us to this night. I could see the relief in his eyes, too. The police came by but not to bother us. They presented me with an honorary Metropolitan Police badge. They looked at the crowd and said, “Have at it.” Three bartenders hustled to slap fresh cocktails into the many outstretched hands, pouring down the inventory, eventually making drinks out of whatever was left on the shelves. For old times’ sake, a few men defied the no-smoking law and lit up cigars. The jukebox was up as loud as it could go, but its hours were numbered. The rental company arrived before closing and pulled it off the wall. With and without music, couples danced in the middle of the barroom, at least as best they could in the crush. Several members of the staff circled around me with a tray of drinks and asked me to do a shot with them. “C’mon, Carol.” It would be my last drink at Nathans. On its final night, Nathans was as it had been on its best nights—the most crowded, loudest, and wildest party in town.
Nathans wouldn’t close until two o’clock Monday morning, but at midnight, like Cinderella, I headed for the door. With a few friends in tow, I walked from Nathans’ front door out into the pleasant summer night. When the light turned green I crossed the iconic Washington intersection of Wisconsin and M, looked back, then turned and walked up the hill toward home.