03/05/2026
Most Important Table in the Restaurant Only Has One Guest
A few nights ago, on a slower evening, we were training a new hibachi chef—Ali. Thurston and Kevin, two of our senior chefs, have been slowly working with him on composure and confidence, teaching him what it truly takes to be a hibachi chef.
Yes, hibachi is fairly easy to learn in theory. Cooking food is one thing. But everything changes when you have to cook for someone sitting right in front of you. It becomes intimidating—especially when you’re working alongside chefs with years of experience who have mastered the craft of performing at the grill in front of full tables.
I often joke with our hibachi chefs about our #1 rule:
The first guest to complain at the table gets to take over as the chef behind the grill.
At the end of that night, I was reminded of the beautiful words from Theodore Roosevelt’s poem, “The Man in the Arena.”
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…”
Those words always resonate deeply in places like a kitchen. Because every chef who steps behind that grill is stepping into their own arena.
We don’t often get solo guests, but I love when we do. There’s something admirable about it—the quiet confidence, the emotional strength it takes to go out and enjoy a meal alone. And at a Japanese steakhouse, sitting at a teppanyaki table, it’s an even bigger hooray.
At other restaurants you can sit at the bar if you want conversation, strike up a chat with the bartender, or simply sit at a table and people-watch. But the hibachi table is different. It’s meant for groups, for celebration, for shared laughter around the grill.
That night, after practicing all evening, an opportunity presented itself.
Ali would cook his first live table.
No flash.
No flair.
Just honest cooking.
One guest at the table. The quiet sizzle of the grill. A little small talk. A simple dinner shared between two people enjoying the moment.
Halfway through the meal I walked over to check on the guest. I noticed the plate first—hibachi chicken, well plated, perfectly cooked rice, vegetables done just right.
I asked the gentleman how his meal was.
He smiled and said, “Excellent. Delicious.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better response.
Moments like that remind me that running a restaurant is bigger than food and bigger than the building itself. For me, owning a restaurant has always been an extension of something deeper—the chance to help people grow.
And sometimes it’s a thankless job.
The gratitude is quiet. Often overshadowed by complaints, tired staff, unrealistic expectations, or guests trying to negotiate a discount. Sometimes our team comes in carrying the weight of life—family struggles, financial stress, personal battles.
For many cooks, the kitchen becomes a kind of therapy. A place to focus. A place to escape.
But the problems of life don’t always clock out when you clock in.
Ali is only twenty years old. He’s Micronesian, and you can tell he’s already had to take on more adulthood than most people his age. About a year ago he worked with us as a busser. Even then I could see the spark—he loved watching the chefs cook.
Especially the hibachi chefs.
He left for Myrtle Beach for a while, chasing an opportunity to cook in the back kitchen as a line cook at another hibachi restaurant. When he came back, I could see the difference. More maturity. More confidence. More experience.
What he didn’t have yet was time on the hibachi tables.
So now we’re training him.
Once Ali becomes a full hibachi chef, his earning potential will likely double—maybe even triple someday if he moves to a bigger city where demand is high.
And that’s the beauty of it.
Sometimes the real reward of a restaurant isn’t the food or the money.
Sometimes it’s watching someone step into the arena for the first time.
And as Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons once sang:
“Oh, what a night.”
Thanks for reading.
God Bless.
