26. THE RUTGER RESTAURANT

AS MERSIHA DROVE around Utica delivering cakes, she kept an eye out for buildings for sale. She checked out a downtown warehouse that turned out to be too pricey. A restaurant in East Utica that needed a lot of work, and had no parking lot. And a decrepit lawyer’s office.

She noticed small changes downtown: A few new ethnic restaurants.

And there were glints of color: Mosaic trash cans had replaced the old metal ones.

Around this time, I noticed something mysterious. A beautiful handmade kite, with green feathers, was tucked in a grate by the new Delta Hotel. A cobalt blue and yellow fish kite leaned against the Utica clock. A few hours later, they were gone.

Mersiha heard that the Rutger Restaurant, an old restaurant and catering hall where she and Hajrudin married 20 years ago, was on the market. In recent years, they had delivered cakes there for customers’ weddings. It was far from what they had in mind, but they decided to take a look.

Mersiha’s heart quickened as they turned onto Rutger, driving down the wide, venerable street, with its stately Victorian houses.

The restaurant was almost at the end, set among small frame houses, near Proctor Park. It looked incongruous—a sprawling 1950s-era building with a big black and red sign.

The owner—a Bosnian who had been running the place for 12 years—did not waste any time: He was having health problems, he told the couple; he had just had a stent put in and was anxious to sell.

Mersiha wandered around: The interior of the restaurant was dark and run-down—but enormous, over 10,000 square feet. There was a large bar area. A big, industrial kitchen. A small, neglected party room that could hold 80 people. The ballroom—where they had their reception—was big enough for 300.

A new image began to replace the homey mom-and-pop café she had been picturing for 10 years.

“I realized the potential of the place,” she said.

They could turn the bar area into a café. And they could renovate the party room quickly, so they could start catering baby showers and anniversary parties. Later—after they had made some money—they could tackle the ballroom.

Mersiha was not overwhelmed. “I felt we could do this because we’re good at this.”

Hajrudin also saw the possibilities; he was quiet, walking around.

Then Mersiha noticed something: “I smell mold,” she told the owner.

“No!” he said laughing. “The place is just old—there’s no mold!”

He wanted $245,000.

“I will give you everything,” he said: A walk-in freezer, two pizza ovens, a 10-burner stove. Hundreds of plates, mugs, and cups. Also, there was an apartment—with a good tenant—above the restaurant. So, they would have an extra $800 a month income.

Mersiha and Hajrudin conferred: The restaurant was completely down-at-the-heels. They would need to redo the walls, change the flooring, add their own tables, chairs, and sofas. But they were both excited.

They came back the next day.

“How about $165,000?” Mersiha blurted out.

“That seems too low,” Hajrudin said, taken aback. Mersiha shot him a dirty look.

“$225,000,” the owner said.

They settled on $200,000.

The couple felt it was a good deal: If they took out a mortgage for $60,000, and collected $800 from the tenant, then their monthly mortgage would be only $800 a month. Eventually, they would renovate the apartment and move in.

Mersiha had taken a wild leap, just like her hero, the Cake Boss. And Hajrudin had followed. But over the next few weeks, he would wake up at night, his heart pounding.

He did not like change—and there would be plenty of it ahead. He would have to quit his job, which he loved. He thought of the dozens of things that could go wrong as he renovated the restaurant.

Mersiha, in contrast, felt unleashed: She pored over the websites of popular cafés in Europe and Japan, studying what they did with lighting, glassware, and furniture.

“All Utica cafes have wooden chairs and rustic things,” Mersiha said. “I want my café to be different, to look like other parts of the world.”

Always in the background was the couple’s anxiety about getting their mortgage application approved. But their loan officer treated them like a relative.

Every day, Mersiha looked forward to 6 p.m., when she called her with an update.