Category: Entrepreneur (page 4 of 7)

December 13, 2018

Second Story

Originally published in the December 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

There’s no perfect formula for connecting artists and audiences, much to the dismay of musicians, promoters, and the fans they fail to rope into their orbit. But if there were one, the secret ingredient that distinguishes nuisance from noise would probably be the venue itself.

Maybe that’s why mindful musicians and their faithful followers are driving in droves to a former furniture store out in Newark for craft beer and cocktails before settling in for shows that defy expectations at any decibel.

Unlike an aging arena or basement bar, Thirty One West was built for music, back in the days when Newark was known as “Little Chicago” for its robust theater scene. But after decades of decline, like most medium-sized Midwest towns, the satellite city has been torn between playing second fiddle to a tempting metropolis just over the horizon or forging its own destination identity. The dance hall days are over. Fire claimed some, neglect got the rest — all but this one that happened to find a second life as a low-frills furniture store waiting to be rediscovered.

“During construction, we did a series called the Ballroom Revival Sessions. We wanted to share with folks where we were in the process and were eager to have music in the space and hear how it sounded,” explained Tom Atha, champion of Newark’s own larger revival and a familiar face for anyone who’s ever been to Thirty One West.

The Church Street “project” as it became locally known includes a barbecue joint, a yoga studio, a play café, and an art space featuring Atha’s alma mater Denison University. But the second story live concert venue and street level bar are the jewels in this downtown crown of urban renewal. Atha also operates Earthwork Recording Studio down the block, so creating a small space feel despite the enormity of the undertaking was always a priority.

“We started inviting friends in to perform, but also offer an update on construction. It allowed us to do some interviews and gather insights from artists on what they look for in a venue,” he recalled. “With someone like Sean Rowe, we were really curious about his interest in house shows, and how could a larger venue still capture the intimacy of a house show. It helped us share what we were doing and get some music out there before we even had the doors open.”

It didn’t take long for word to get out that there was something special about the acoustical street cred of their quirky old ballroom with a bar in both the basement and the balcony. That’s why acts that could play anywhere are reconnecting with their roots at a venue that brings artists and audiences together. From the growling blues of Taj Mahal to the jazz-funk fusion of Spyro Gyra, performers seeking something kindred in a place that is both old and new have taken notice.

“For me, the biggest part of choosing a venue is whether the audience can hear the show as we intend it. You don’t want it loud, and reverberant, and noisy. I really prefer to have a listening environment,” revealed Steven Page, who played his first gig at Thirty One West in October. The former front man for Barenaked Ladies knows what makes a room and an audience both hum. “I’m pretty aware of the fact that my audience isn’t 22 anymore. They’re not going to want to come see me and stand on a concrete floor for five hours.”

Many musicians often have only rudimentary information about a venue before playing there for the first time — city, capacity, and little else. Bookers and promoters schedule the shows. One delivers the talent, the other the audience. But when artists are impressed by the right place, or turned off, everyone tends to hear about it.

“Lots of artists compare notes, especially the horror stories. You’ll always remember the really terrible ones. But if there’s a new venue opening up in town, or one that’s developing a new reputation, you automatically share those experiences with other musicians,” Page noted. “I’ll go to my agent and say I really want to play there again. And that helps get more acts booked there as well.”

Every venue has a different vibe, and Thirty One West seems to occupy the fabled Goldilocks zone right in the middle, large enough to achieve critical mass, yet small enough for the shared experience not to get lost.

“If a room is acoustically dead, some songs won’t have the same kind of expansive feeling they would in a more lively room. And if a venue is really noisy, it’s harder for us to hear ourselves onstage. If notes go out and wash around the room, we may have to choose songs that require less precision. The strokes are broader,” Page explained. “There’s a song that we do some nights, an old Barenaked Ladies song called Break Your Heart. If the room feels right and sounds right, and the audience is engaged, it becomes this perfect storm. I’ll do it incredibly intimately, if I feel like my voice is going to carry in that room. I’d like to do it every night, but I’d blow my voice out. So it’s the kind of performance you only get if the room can support it.”

The ballroom doesn’t necessarily look like what you might expect from that moniker. There aren’t velvet curtains or a punch bowl at the end of the room for thirsty wallflowers. Instead, there’s an expansive wooden dance floor that resonates with each note with a mix of modest tables and chairs. Yet the room is so tuned in, there’s actually a sign in balcony warning patrons to mind their voices, as the acoustics carry conversations all the way down to the stage.

“Sometimes we’ll play in a place that’s really ornate, like an old church, or a venue that seems really dressy, and you can tell an audience is intimidated by that. They aren’t as expressive right off the bat, so you have to work a little harder for them to feel less self-conscious, let go, and enjoy the show. I like those challenges. Honestly, I like having to work for every bit of applause. It’s easy to take it for granted,” explained Page. “If the room is right, the audience is at ease. That’s when unpredictable things happen. We have the freedom to mix up of the set list, or an encore. Someone may shout out a request we haven’t prepared or played as a trio, and we’ll try it out anyway.”

This is where Thirty One West really ups the ante on venues, and is a credible threat for the predictable digs folks are used to in Columbus. They know the room so artists are also at ease, tuning their tech like the whole building was one giant instrument instead of turning everything up to 11 and hoping for the best.

“The folks at Thirty One West told us it was the first time for a lot of people there at the show, so hopefully connecting with a new clientele will help build that core audience. For us, the staff and crew were great, easy to work with from the monitors to the PAs. They were helpful and hands on and really knew how to work their equipment,” Page revealed. “That’s a big difference. Sometimes you go into a place and that’s not the case. But when you work with people who know the room, it makes our job so much easier, knowing we can go on stage relaxed and that the audience will hear the show as it should be.”

Even so, old habits are tough to break with some tours that tend to look past smaller shows or locales, despite the increased attention from performers and their patrons.

“It could be daunting initially to attract acts that are used to playing right in Columbus. We thought it was a really beautiful building, aesthetically and acoustically. That’s what’s going to win them over. It’s such a great listening room — without being precious about it,” Page opined. “I remember playing a couple of gigs over the years, places where they actually shush people if they talk. I feel I have to earn people’s quiet. But if it’s a talky room, maybe it’s because audiences can’t hear us as well. Everyone here was relaxed, enthusiastic, and into the show. That’s what the right venue can do. It’s not just the building, it’s the audience it attracts.”

However, the ballroom is only part of what distinguishes Thirty One West from your typical concert hall. It’s about building that elusive connection between artists and audiences into something that doesn’t fade away after the encore.

“We started the 31 Club when we launched, which is our $100 membership. The idea was to embrace our core audience, get feedback, offer some cool perks, and create a relationship and a dialogue to know how we were doing. We do member appreciation shows, there are discounts at our bar, discounts on our merch, we open access to ticket sales early, and give away tickets via lottery,” Atha explained. “This past year, we extended our memberships to include a Season Pass at the $500 level. That includes two general admission tickets to every show for the calendar year. You still get all of the perks of the 31 Club, plus a couple of tickets to each show.”

Imagine buying concert tickets like Netflix instead of going to Blockbuster back in the day. Instead of only going to see the bands you know, you’re more likely to discover new ones — and that’s kind of the point.

“Folks were coming out to shows they never would have otherwise. If we have enough members who do that, we can take bigger risks as a music venue, and do a better job curating, if we know there is a core audience to support it,” Atha revealed.

Thirty One West also created the Stereogram Sessions, bringing two musicians into the studio separately, laying down four or five tracks, pressing each session to a side, and hosting a vinyl release party featuring both of the artists.

“It marries both of my endeavors in downtown Newark together. But there was another challenge we were also trying to solve. We’ve had success bringing in national talent, but we’ve had a harder time booking acts from Columbus because audiences can see them there anytime,” Atha explained. “So that’s where the idea was born, let’s give Columbus audiences an excuse to come here to see a Columbus act by offering a different experience. We’re a listening room, so we appreciate when music is valued in a focused way. Vinyl accomplishes that in a way digital streaming can’t and ties our performances at Thirty One West to a permanent product.”

Luckily, you don’t have to wait for the next show or a vinyl release to stop by the street-level bar below the ballroom

“The Bootlegger was created and branded as its own space, because it’s open whether or not there is a concert,” Atha explained. “We never charge admission for events at the Bootlegger. It gives us a connection to the community and a great place to vet talent as potential openers for future shows.”

Locals are still discovering Thirty One West, but so are folks from surrounding cities and states, slowly building that loyal base of patrons and supporters competing venues will surely envy.

“We still have first timers coming through our doors all the time, but we’re starting to build that core audience we’ve always wanted. But people are still coming here to see the bands, so we do everything we can to treat them well,” Atha noted. “That feedback that makes it back to the booking agencies or management is what sets us apart. It’s why we get calls for shows routing through Ohio wanting to try someplace new. It’s still a hard pitch, but it’s why artist feedback on what we do differently is essential — and we try to knock it out of the park with every show.” ▩

For details on upcoming shows at Thirty One West, or to see their Ballroom Revival Sessions, visit thirtyone-west.com

November 10, 2018

Game On

Originally published in the 2018 issue of (614) FAMILY

Game nights are increasingly popping up at bars and breweries, and not just trivia. Old school board games and their modern-day descendants tap into the social necessity for competition. But parents are left out of the intersection of beer and board games as much as their kids—unless you head to Tabletop Game Cafe in Clintonville, a place that finally brings pints and half pints together.

With more than 500 games in their enviable inventory, offering the opportunity to “try before you buy”, owner and parent Aaron Brown wanted to create a destination for families as well as adults. But it’s not always about competition.

“We have more than 20 cooperative games where everyone is on the same team playing against the game. I recommend those to a lot of families with mixed-age kids,” he explained. “That way the kids aren’t playing each other on an uneven field. With cooperative games, they’re all working together.”

Imagine a play cafe, but for older kids, their peers, and parents. It’s genuinely multigenerational, which lots of so-called “family” activities really aren’t. Most relegate adults to simply a supervisory role. Tabletop is analog and interactive for everyone. It’s about disconnecting, and reconnecting.

For a minimum purchase of $6 per adult between food, beverage, and retail sales, you can pull up a stool and get your game on. Kids under 13 are even included with a grownup. Food options are fresh and better than your average bar fare, from hot sandwiches and espresso drinks to sweet and savory empanadas. There are also three dozen local and regional beers from which to choose between drafts, bottles, and cans, also a better selection than most bars.

“I love Argentinian empanadas because they’re the perfect gaming food. They’re small enough to hold in one hand and eat while you play,” he explained. “We started with those, but added deli sandwiches and some more snacks over time.”

Just because beer and board games go together, that doesn’t mean there isn’t any bureaucracy. Tabletop opened in September of 2016, but couldn’t add alcohol sales until the following February.

“Because Clintonville is a local option area, I had to collect signatures for a liquor license—twice. The first time, they discounted about 20 signatures and we ended up seven short. So I had to do it all again six months later to get on the ballot,” he recalled. “We had plenty of support once there was a vote. People understand Clintonville isn’t going to turn into campus anytime soon.”

Board games aren’t always about skill. There’s still a lot of luck, and the same is true of most businesses, occasionally serving a surprise clientele.

“We have tons of families who come in, including grandparents. But an unexpected demographic that we really appeal to is divorced parents who have weekend visitation with their kids—particularly dads and daughters,” Brown noted. “Board games don’t really have a presumed gender like a lot of activities. If you ask people what mothers and daughters do together, or what fathers and sons do together, you’re going to get a long list. But I didn’t realize how effective games are at crossing a multigenerational gender divide. We have regulars who come in on the weekends, with the time they have together, and they bond over board games.”

Games offer academic and developmental benefits, more tangible and tacit than the scholarly abstractions of game theorists. From math and science to history and geography, games can stretch the brain—tapping into popular culture, without becoming a monoculture. (Though it doesn’t hurt to have Stranger Things introduce a new generation to Dungeons & Dragons.)

“We have two kids who are academically doing great, and I attribute a lot of that to the board games we play, and how much they played growing up,” he opined. “It’s a learning experience, but they’re having fun. Homework can be a chore, but you can incorporate many of the same skills into a game, and all of a sudden kids want to do it.”

Board games also create opportunities for children and young adults who may struggle with sports or other common adolescent activities due to mobility challenges and disabilities which aren’t always obvious.

“We have several groups of kids on the (autism) spectrum who come here, and I love sharing games with that community. For kids who have trouble figuring out social cues, they often understand games really well because it’s a strict rule set,” he revealed. “These kids can interact with each other over a game and they have a great time. I think it’s important for them to have an opportunity to succeed and show their strengths to each other.”

Like any new pursuit, there’s always some apprehension. Brown doesn’t expect his staff to know the minutia of every game, just have a good grasp of a handful of go-to options for first-time families or those who may need a nudge in the right direction.

“On a Saturday night, there are groups of people, cracking up, and having a good time. One roll changes the whole game, and the table explodes,” Brown explained. “We have couples and families who come here to meet up with friends and try something new, who then become regulars. It’s an energy and an atmosphere you’re not going to get just playing at home.” ▩

For a complete list of games available and upcoming events, visit tabletopgamecafe.com

WHAT MAKES A PERFECT GAME NIGHT?

Aaron Brown isn’t just a guy who love games. He understands what makes a great game night and what makes a game great, having become a frequent source of insight for would-be game creators as they refine their ideas and seek investors.

Board games, not bored games

“I love games in which every turn you have to make a decision, there is something to do, you can make some mistakes early and recover later, and games you can teach in about 15 minutes and finish in about an hour.”

It’s okay to keep it simple

“I don’t need a super complicated game. I like to have several games over a game night. If you play one game for six hours, you probably only have one winner. But if you play three or four games, you can have multiple victors, and everyone gets to figure out what kind of games they like.”

Something for everyone

“If you play just one game and someone doesn’t like it, that’s their whole night. If everyone loves a game, you can always play it again. If not, you can try something new. Everyone isn’t going to like every game, so having different kinds of games increases the odds that everyone will find one they really enjoy.”

October 4, 2018

Dare to Scare

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Keith Newsom, aka Snappy the Clown, has been performing at local haunts for years
Photo by Brian Kaiser

No one plans months in advance what to wear to a Christmas party. That’s why Halloween has quickly become the favorite holiday for those tired of turkey and averse to eggnog. The trend is more than seasonal—it’s cultural.

Horror movies are hotter than ever, and Netflix and Amazon are clamoring to greenlight projects that once would have withered. Originally an outlier, AMC’s The Walking Dead routinely draws more viewers than all NFL games combined. Even Jo-Ann starts stocking shelves in July with spiders and skulls long before the last of the fireworks fade.

Despite your costume cred, stitch witchery, and amateur pumpkin craft, haunted house operators are way ahead of you. For a few weeks a year, their long lines and theatrical thrills pack them in. But what goes on behind the scenes has largely remained an industry mystery—until now.

The indie documentary SCARE rips the mask off “haunted attractions,” the technical term for live performance venues that defy your sense of reality, and occasionally control of your bladder. Columbus filmmaker Don Patterson “shot and chopped” the project over more than a decade, culminating with the final season of a local landmark of terror, the ScareAtorium.

“There’s so much more to this than just building a haunted house. You’ve got actor training, and make-up artists, and scene decorators,” explained Kelly Collins. He and his wife Neena founded the Midwest Haunters Convention, the country’s largest gathering for operators and enthusiasts, bringing standards and insight to the industry. “There’s more to a haunted house than handing someone a mask and saying, ‘Here, go scream at people.’”

For those who still tremble from memories of Terror Park at the old Cooper Stadium, Frightmore Manor in Dublin, and The Northland Asylum and RIP’s 3D Funhouse—now better known collectively as the ScareAtorium—you can thank Kelly and Neena, whose fitting 13-year run is practically unprecedented.

“When Kelly and I first got together, I had no idea there was such a thing as the haunted attraction industry,” she confessed. “Don has footage in the documentary going all the way back to Terror Park. He’s been capturing it since the very beginning.”

Ask any performer whether screen or stage acting is more challenging and rewarding, and most would agree on latter. And there’s definitely evidence of that in the ranks of haunted attractions. From the high school goths who maybe never fit in to theater folk looking for a novel outlet for select skills, there’s a tribe here that starts to resemble more of a family from one year to the next.

“I got my start as the general manager of a campground, and every Saturday at noon I’d get on the tractor, take everyone up into the woods, circle this big tree and come back,” he recalled. “One day a bunch of kids hid behind the tree and jumped out and scared everyone.”

Instead of scolding them, Kelly recruited them—keeping the standard hayride by day, but creating a spooky hayride at night that proved wildly popular. That’s when he was approached by the local Jaycees to turn it into something more. They’d recently lost the lease on their haunted house and partnered with Kelly to create a haunted hayride. He was hooked.

“The Jaycees are credited with creating the haunted house industry,” he explained. “Many of the oldest haunts in the country were started or still operated by the Jaycees.”

Short for “Junior Chamber,” the Jaycees, like many long-standing service organizations, have struggled in recent years to attract younger members. But for decades, they operated haunted houses as both a fundraiser and a recruiting effort. Even I didn’t know the Jaycees created the concept of the haunted house, and I used to volunteer throughout high school at one they operated in my hometown in the storage barn of a creepy old train depot.

Ohio actually leads the nation in the number of haunted attractions. Lower lease and land costs are part of it, but so is the Midwestern work ethic and entrepreneurial spirit. But it’s still a business.

“Even though we’re only open in October, Neena ran the business year-round. A lot of people who make the jump from home haunt to a professional haunt don’t last long,” he revealed. “Whether they decorated the backyard, garage, or basement, you can’t go to a bank to borrow that kind of money for a seasonal business that’s only open 20 days a year.”

That was the impetus for the Midwest Haunters Convention. Unlike private trade shows that mostly showcase cheap eeks and pricey props, the couple started a public convention to bridge the transition from passion project to profitability, offering classes on the business and art of haunted attractions.

“People sometimes get into it thinking they’re going to make money, but it typically takes three years to break even. They often fail for lack of knowledge, like not understanding fire codes,” Kelly noted, sharing the story of a haunt in an old school building that had to put $150,000 upfront into a sprinkler system before they could even open.

“Code standards are higher for haunted houses than they are for schools,” chided Neena. “People often ask us what it takes to run a million-dollar haunt and I tell them about $3 million.”

Neighbors can also be a nightmare if you don’t know what you’re doing. Germain Amphitheater closed for lots of reasons. Competition, controversy, and crowd control killed it long before an invasion of Scandinavian furniture. But noise and traffic complaints from nearby homeowners were probably the final nail in the coffin.

“Having a haunted house in a former funeral home sounds great, until you consider the parking problem. There just aren’t enough spaces,” he explained. “We had three great locations, but with 10,000 people coming through a year, even we had to keep moving.”

Upping the adrenaline also requires keeping things fresh, which for the Collins required replacing roughly a third of the attraction each year, with construction on new rooms starting as early as March.

Fortunately, their rate of staff return provided the continuity many haunts lack and envy. They fostered talent with an audition process and informal mentoring from actors and artisans who quickly became more than just part-time employees.

“When we’d break for meals, I’d make everyone put their phones away. I was a dad like that to everyone,” Kelly confessed. “Of the 150 or so staff, we had about 85 percent return year after year. It really became more of a family. We cherished it,” Neena noted.

The Collins recently sold their creepy creation to Thirteenth Floor, the nation’s premiere haunted house operator. Though the two are technically retired, and their haunt lives on under new management and through the documentary, it may not be the last we see of them.

“Kelly will still be consulting with the Midwest Haunters Convention and he may be doing some work with Shadowbox Live in Columbus,” Neena revealed. “Even in retirement, he’s busier than ever.” ▩

13th Floor Haunted House, still Columbus’s largest haunted attraction, is located at 2605 Northland Plaza. For open dates, tickets, and group rates, visit 13thfloorcolumbus.com.

To view a trailer for SCARE, visit youtu.be/teo0UHkCldY.

October 4, 2018

Local Haunts

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

The Columbus spirit scene is legendary, and not just for the intriguing elixirs your corner bartender conjures. No, there’s a less celebrated set of spirits you don’t always hear about from those behind the taps and bar tops, and they do much more than go bump in the night.

Anyone who has ever worked a closing shift alone has probably been a little freaked out at least once. Silence invites suspicion, and empty restaurants and bars only amplify it. Whether it’s the creaky floor in the kitchen or fear of the guy you cut off earlier lurking in the parking lot, our imaginations easily get the better of us.

But sometimes, maybe, it’s something more.

Cue Bucky Cutright, preeminent authority on local haunts, the places where we eat, drink, and frequent everyday with strange histories and supernatural happenings seldom spoken.

“I was a bit gloomy in my adolescence, and the stories coworkers would relate about mysterious noises emanating from empty banquet rooms or unexplained shadows and figures encountered in darkened hallways really stuck with me,” Cutright recalled, having worked in restaurants and bars himself since his teens. “After that, it wasn’t too far of a line between being fascinated with the experiences people were telling me about and connecting them with the historical record.”

That macabre convergence of history and mystery, coupled with Cutright’s passion and penchant for storytelling, were the inspiration for Columbus Ghost Tours. From seasonal Spirit Strolls and the more family-friendly Creepy Columbus, by far the most popular is Booze & Boos, a bus tour of our otherworldly underbelly.

“Before I knew it, I was plotting a narrative and a corresponding course through the downtown area while, honing my knowledge of the city’s dark past,” he explained. Initial tours were just meant for friends. Everywhere we went people would ask for business cards and want to know how they could sign up. It’s more like the business choose me than the other way around.”

Cutright’s costumed stagecraft and curatorial credibility aren’t ancillary. He confessed he had his own brush with the unexplained about a decade ago in the basement of certain Short North establishment where employees have reported more ominous encounters, like the sensation of being shoved or having their hair pulled.

“I was sitting in this room the bar closed with a friend after and we were discussing the building’s hauntings. As we were talking, the fluorescent lights in the corner of the office began to flicker. This, in itself, wasn’t anything out of the ordinary,” he explained. “It was when the flickering began to be accompanied by the sound of something clacking its nails and scratching down the wall that things became unnerving. We were both sitting within a few feet of this sound and could see that the corner was clear of anything that could make such a noise.”

The basement walls were solid stone so the sound wasn’t coming from the other side. But with abandoned drains and old pipes connecting several building in the area, Cutright rationalized the sound away as perhaps a rodent that must have become trapped. He even wrote a note for the owner, hoping to help free the poor creature stuck inside—until a closer look revealed otherwise.

“I inspected the corner and discovered it wasn’t a drainage pipe at all, but a support beam that was sealed off at both ends,” he said. “There was no squirrel or mouse in the pipe. The sound of claws scratching down the wall was coming from something else. When I realized this, all my hair stood on end as an eerie sensation overtook me and I quickly fled the basement.”

Cutright isn’t alone in his unease, and the bartenders at Char Bar—often the first stop on the tour—have stories that could scare you sober.

Built near a graveyard that was relocated to Green Lawn Cemetery, unmarked graves and decomposed bodies still turn up periodically amid perpetual Short North construction. Char Bar’s basement seems to be the center of unrest, once a funeral parlor that was on the first floor, later buried below street level when the road was raised to cross over the railroad tracks of the old Union Station. Rumor has it even Lincoln’s remains were there briefly. Following weeks of travel by train after his assassination to let a grieving nation bid farewell, even “Honest Abe” needed a little touch up.

“It was Christmas Eve and I was the only one closing up. I grabbed the padlock out of the cabinet for the back door and the remote for the TV and put them on the end of the bar like I do every night,” explained Zack Price. “Earlier in the evening, a few people asked me about the strange experiences some customers have had in the basement.”

Price gets those questions a lot, but was always a polite skeptic—before that night. While checking the bathrooms downstairs he felt a rush of air as he passed the dilapidated antique piano, like someone breathing into his ear. He chalked it up as only in his head, but when he got to the top of the stairs, the lock and the remote were gone.

“I know I put them on the bar. But after checking to make sure no one else was there, I found the lock back in the cabinet, and the remote on the counter,” he said. “I locked up fast and got out of there.”

Bartender Erin McIntyre’s experience was directly with the piano, which some say they still hear playing upstairs, even when no one is in the basement.

“As I was coming out of the restroom, the piano made a huge noise and seemed to move away from the wall a little,” McIntyre recalled. “I ran up the stairs and after a few minutes talked myself into going back down, even though I was alone. I’d only seen it move out of the corner of my eye, so I dismissed it and didn’t tell anyone.”

The next night, two terrified patrons, in separate incidents, also came running up the stairs swearing they too had seen the piano move away from the wall. The bartender on duty credited the spirits—not “the spirits”—until McIntyre arrived and shared her similar tale from the previous evening.

“There were three of us, who didn’t know each other, and we all saw the same thing,” she said emphatically. “At this point, the piano was a few feet away from the wall, and it took five people to move it back. That’s not anyone’s imagination.” ▩

For details on the Booze & Boos Bus Tour, visit columbusghosttours.com

Char Bar – 439 N High Street – is far from the only haunt near downtown with a creepy pedigree. You can also grab a bite and fright at these three eerie eateries. (Well two, until the “oldest bar in Columbus” claims its next victim.)

Elevator Brewery & Draught House – 161 N High Street

Patrons report seeing footprints fade into freshly fallen snow, allegedly left by a scorned lover of Colonel Randolph Pritchard, stabbed in 1909 as he left the former Botts Brothers Saloon. The old clock out front seemed to stop at the moment of his death. Bartender Geoff Bommer said all of the staff know or have experienced unusual events. “We have radiator heat that pings and clangs, but people also say they’ve seen shadowy figures or flashes of light. Some even have pictures of it.

Schmidt’s Sausage Haus – 240 E Kossuth Street

The cobblestone streets aren’t the only strange rumblings at this German Village destination for sauerkraut and cream puffs. A seemingly benign spirit is rumored to roam the restaurant at night, rearranging chairs and brushing up against unsuspecting employees. Allegedly appearing once in a mirror, it’s presumed to be the former owner. Closing staff have all heard the stories, but patron encounters are limited. That extra Bahama Mama is probably more likely to haunt you later.

Blind Lady Tavern/1831 Tavern/The Jury Room – 22 E. Mound Street

Sometimes an establishment is both haunted and cursed. The future of the venerated venue remains as elusive as it’s perennial paranormal guests. Reportedly a well-known brothel for a longer stretch than it was more recently a meatball joint for a blink called “Balls Bar,” staff for decades have reported apparitions attributed to a murder that took place on the premises. Even the Travel Channel series The Dead Files filmed an episode there fittingly titled “Blood in the Bordello”.

October 3, 2018

Candid Cameron

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Let’s be honest. You’re probably better off not knowing what happens behind the scenes in most restaurants. But sometimes you should. And that’s the case with Cameron Mitchell Restaurants, whose bona fide empire of Columbus-based brands has arguably enhanced our culinary scene’s national credibility.

From Cap City to The Pearl, Marcella’s to Molly Woo’s—on the surface, their concepts couldn’t be more different. The thread that binds them together is their training, and not just the kind you get in the kitchen or on the house floor.

Between colossal chains and dinky diners, the American restaurant industry is absolutely inordinate, racking up more in annual sales than airlines, agriculture, and the movie industry combined. Nearly half of us have worked in food service at some point. Often it’s our first job, something on the side when times are tight, or just enough hours in retirement to stay active and connected to our community.

But for others, it’s a first calling, or a passion stumbled into on the way to something else. And if that’s you, Cameron Mitchell might be the best mentor in Columbus—maybe anywhere—because he’s been there.

There’s a fine line between corporate culture and a corporate cult, and I have to confess as an outsider slipping into the second story ballroom at The Joseph among the new staff of the then pending Harvey & Ed’s, I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. I’d paid my dues decades ago on both sides of the grill, but never in posh digs like these. I presumed it would be all about teambuilding and imbuing everyone with a shared purpose. But it was much more intimate and illuminating than I ever anticipated.

Cameron Mitchell Restaurants fosters legendary loyalty, with most leadership promoted from within. But how they build that fierce following has always been behind a curtain. Would it go too far and get weird? Should I be ready for some trust falls or prepare for a trunk full of kitsch and delusional enthusiasm like those leaving an Amway seminar?

Fortunately, this wasn’t either of those scenarios, far from it. And it was surely no canned college orientation either, though the sense of camaraderie was pretty close. No, that loyalty starts with the guy whose name is on every paycheck—Cameron Mitchell, the headliner and head honcho all rolled into one.

With a brand that has become locally synonymous with fine dining, Cameron Mitchell wasn’t supposed to succeed by every empirical predictor. He didn’t have the grades, the money, or the work ethic to keep a job, much less create them. (His restaurant ranks now top 4,000 employees and counting.)

It’s an unlikely story, but one he shares with a surprising honesty and humility with those just starting out in the industry he’s helped to innovate, despite his early struggles and shortcomings, personal and professional.

“I remember coming home from school when I was nine and asking my mom when my dad was coming home, and she said, ‘He’s not’,” Mitchell recalled. “That’s how I learned my parents were splitting up.”

He saw less and less of his father over time before fading from the picture entirely, and the stress of the situation often put him at odds with his mother. School wasn’t a priority and by junior high he’d already fallen in with the wrong crowd—smoking, drinking, and worse.

“I was spiraling downward. My mom and I were fighting constantly. I came home one day and she said, ‘Tomorrow we have a meeting with Franklin County Childrens Services; we’re going to straighten you out,’” he revealed. “I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but I didn’t like it. So when she left for work the next morning, I took everything I could and moved out.”

Mitchell settled in a tiny apartment near campus that was a flophouse for runaways, over-occupied to keep everyone’s share of the rent low. He was only 15-years-old, and on his own.

“I’d work odd jobs, mow lawns. I stole and sold drugs,” he confessed. “At one point, I hadn’t eaten for a few days, so bought a 27-cent box of macaroni and cheese and made it without any milk or butter, just water. I was a troubled kid, on the run.”

Out of money and options, Mitchell eventually returned and reconciled with his mother. He went back to school the following day, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, the only clothes he’d left behind, having come home with only jeans and the t-shirt on his back.

“My mom was an administrative assistant, and my dad had quit sending any child support, so she literally couldn’t afford to send me lunch money,” he admitted. “For a while, I worked in the school cafeteria just to earn enough to eat there.”

He picked up a part-time job after school washing dishes at a local steakhouse, but his grades still suffered. He failed the same English composition course three times and wasn’t able to walk for graduation, only barely earning a diploma after summer school.

“I graduated 592nd out of 597 in my class with a GPA of 1.05; only because I got one C—in public speaking,” he chided. “That’s when I went to work at Max & Erma’s as a fry cook.”

Back in 1981, Max & Erma’s wasn’t the struggling shadow of its former self that it is today. Some nights they’d serve upwards of 1,000 guests on a weekend. It was bustling and brisk, with an energy Mitchell ultimately embraced after his friends mostly left for college or better jobs elsewhere.

“I was working a double shift, an AM cook and a PM host, on a Friday afternoon. The place was about half full at 4 p.m. during the shift change, and the bar was already packed. There was pandemonium in the kitchen. The managers were barking orders, and I looked out across the line and time froze,” he recalled. “I decided this was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I wanted to be in the restaurant business.”

The “laziest guy in the kitchen,” by his own admission, had finally found his calling and wasted no time. At the end of his shift, he went home and mapped out the next decade of his life on paper, as well as the goals it would take to get there, from executive chef to president of a restaurant company.

After picking up a couple of classes at Columbus State, he was accepted at the Culinary Institute of America in New York after an initial rejection due to his lackluster high school performance. Returning to Columbus, he landed a new job at 55 at Crosswoods, the restaurant group’s second location, which at the time was among the premiere white tablecloth restaurants in the city. From sous chef to executive chef by age 23, general manager a year later, and an operations executive by 28, his unlikely rise reached a hard and sudden stop.

“I started hitting my head on the ceiling. I knew my boss wasn’t going anywhere, and it was a hip-pocket business for a group of investors who really didn’t care about the restaurants,” he explained. “I was waiting on a friend for drinks watching patrons and employees pass by when I had another epiphany. If I wanted to become president of a restaurant group, I should start my own.”

Mitchell tapped into the insight of his younger self, this time mapping out the future of the company that would ultimately bear his name. Though most won’t believe it, Cameron Mitchell Restaurants was started out of an apartment at The Continent with a few thousands dollars in savings and a yellow legal pad.

Now with industry connections and a proven track record, he pulled together a business plan and the financing needed to make his destiny a reality. But it nearly fell apart, twice.

“It was never my goal to open just one restaurant. This was the start of something bigger. I found a space near the North Market and put a deal together,” he revealed. “I’d raised $600k for the project, and we were ready to sign the lease. Then the landlord went silent on me.”

Mitchell was bootstrapping the project with every dime he could scrape together just as his fears were confirmed. The building’s owner was filing for bankruptcy. The bank was taking it over and had no interest in assuming any further risk with a first-time restaurateur still shy of 30.

The setback was crushing, worse by having come so close. Mitchell started sending investors back their checks. He’d put everything into the project, even moving back into his mother’s condo, but practically living at Kinko’s. There was another space in Worthington he’d initially discounted when he couldn’t pull the financing together fast enough. But because of the legalities of creating a company, he essentially had to start over from scratch.

“I’d already dismissed it, but then their tenant fell through. I met with the landlord, who took a liking to me and decided to take a chance,” he admitted. “I was rolling change on my mother’s dining room table to have enough money for groceries. It was do or die.”

Enough investors still had faith in the restaurant concept to get close to the necessary funding to move forward. But the change in location and way the previous deal collapsed forced some to sit this one out. Mitchell was still short and scrambled to schedule one final meeting with a prospective investor to close the gap the day before the financing was due.

“He asked me how much. I told him I only needed $30k, hoping I might get half of it and have enough to buy some more time to raise the rest,” he confessed. “He wrote me a personal check for $30k and told me to buy more stock in the company for myself. That’s when I knew I’d get my start.”

Cameron Mitchell Restaurants was born, and that first project that nearly never happened, is Cameron’s American Bistro, celebrating its 25th anniversary this October.

Since then, new concepts have become part of the family, as well as a catering company and their own restaurant construction business. Rusty Bucket Restaurant and Tavern and Ocean Prime have expanded the brand nationwide.

“I think it’s important to know the history of the company, one based on people. Associates come first. Associates take care of the guests, guests take care of the company,” he explained. “That’s the key, a company built on culture and values—not on me—one that I hope will survive long after I’m gone.” ▩

October 2, 2018

Free Sample

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Microgreens are the original petite cuisine. Dainty and delicate atop any dish, served at some of the most revered restaurants in Columbus, the highfalutin alternative to salad or sprouts might have an unlikely source.

Drew Sample supplies a select set of chefs throughout Central Ohio, eager to acquire his premium small-scale produce, from an equally small-scale farm he operates on a tiny lot in North Linden—a neighborhood hardly known as a hotbed of horticulture.

“For me, urban farming really was a political act, it’s showing what you’re about instead of what you’re against,” he explained. “Decentralizing the food system and helping to create a different relationship between people and what they eat is essential.”

An intriguing addition to an otherwise sanguine salad, those diminutive doses of arugula, mustard, and cilantro aren’t meant to make your plate pretty. Microgreens have all of the nutrient density and flavor intensity destined to become a mature plant, just harvested in days or a couple of weeks instead of months.

“They’re more than an upscale garnish, but sometimes folks don’t know where to begin beyond salad. I think burgers are the way to go,” he explained, noting how he tries to help chefs get creative. “They add so much color and texture. My dad surprised me by putting micro-radish on mashed potatoes, it’s peppery. So now I’ve converted several people to microgreens with this photo he sent me of his mashed potatoes.”

Hailing from Toledo, with family roots in Kentucky, Sample returned to Columbus in his late 20s, having spent a stretch of his formative years here from adolescence to early adulthood. But a soul-crushing corporate sales job and suburbia never quite fit his free spirit or sense of purpose.

“I learned something from every job I’ve had that helped me go into business for myself. But most of the time, it seemed like I was just getting paid to deal with irate customers,” he revealed. “I was looking for a business to fall back on and farming was something I knew I could do.”

Sample’s inspiration and knowledge of farming came firsthand from his grandfather, a farmer who left Appalachia looking for the promise of urban life, only to find a different kind of struggle. It’s a work ethic that rubbed off from an early age, and when the opportunity arrived, it was seed money from his grandfather that helped him start Capital City Gardens.

“I harvested yesterday and I’m going to deliver everything today. That’s my edge over bigger companies that charge more for a lower quality product,” he explained. “A lot of farmers charge a delivery fee. I live in the city, so I don’t have to—and if chefs let me know they need something I happen to have, I can add it to the delivery.”

There are no slick brochures or advertising budget. Capital City Gardens is as organic as marketing gets. Clients vary widely, but his business is built almost exclusively on personal referrals, from the Refectory and the Ohio State Faculty Club, to The Guild House, M at Miranova, and Cameron’s American Bistro. A couple of breweries also round out the list, but he’s always looking for customers, with a soft pitch and a smile.

“I picked up The Little Kitchen food truck at a farmers market,” he explained. “I just asked her where she got her microgreens, offered her some of mine, and she started buying.”

Sample originally started by volunteering with a community farm on the south side of the city, harvesting and working the farmers market on the weekends. You’ll still find him lending a hand at the Westgate Farmers Market, even beyond operating his own booth.

“Farmers markets are built on ground-up innovation. For me, it’s easy to just set up and not worry about how to take SNAP. I can just tell people I accept anything you have for food,” he explained. “You go where you’re deserved, not simply where you’re needed. It’s why I’m happy to donate my produce and time to people who hustle and work hard to improve their own communities.”

But once-weekly markets alone weren’t enough to build a business, and by the end of his first summer, economic realities started to set in.

“Last season, most of my income was coming from farmers markets. So when it ended, I was in a lot of trouble,” he admitted, even working at a pizza joint as a side gig while growing his roster of restaurants. Now they’re the majority of his business, and OH Pizza and Brew is a client. “Restaurants have to pick and choose what they buy locally, so I work with chefs to understand what they want before I plant.”

His margins are lower, and so is his surplus, growing just enough to sell or share with family, friends, and neighbors—who’ve all become less suspicious and skeptical of his unlikely grow operation. Spoilage is so low, he doesn’t even bother trying to write it off on his taxes, or carry crop insurance, the safety net standard for most farms. Worms turn what little is left into the next crop of greens.

Capital City Gardens isn’t entirely a one-man operation. Sample still gets his hands dirty, but credits his farm manager Rich Fraztel with allowing him more time to focus on building customer relationships while keeping the growing pains of expansion to a minimum.

“People who go into business for themselves focus too much on the money. Success comes from building relationships,” he opined. “If you take care of your customers, the money will be there. That’s what makes the difference.”

Once the weather worsens, Capital City Gardens transforms exclusively to an indoor endeavor. The converted basement allows for tight control of light, temperature, and humidity with crops on rolling racks rotated for consistent quality and maximum yield. While the rest of the world waits for enough private investment and government subsidies for vertical farming to finally take off, Sample is just making it work by intuition and necessity.

Urban farming isn’t Sample’s only political passion project, nor is his pioneer persona tethered to the terrestrial. He also hosts The Sample Hour, a prolific podcast started on a whim back in 2012 to chronicle the conversations he and his friends were already having on topics profound and obscure. From self-reliance to permaculture, Thomas Sowell to topsoil, it now attracts guest interviews from Mike Michalowicz, former Wall Street Journal small business columnist and folk hero for would-be entrepreneurs everywhere, to Thaddeus Russell, the disavowed academic whose A Renegade History of the United States was published as a response to being tossed off the faculty of Barnard College.

His podcast churns opinions and electrons as easily as he turns the earth, and for the same reason—daring to cultivate something novel in the age of ordinary.

Sample’s pivot from microgreens to macroeconomics comes naturally, an approachable iconoclast who thinks labels are for canned vegetables and rhetoric, not people or ideas. It’s another trait he inherited from his grandfather, who passed away recently, but whose grounding influence and relationship with the land lives on in Capital City Gardens.

“Toward the end, we’d sit and I’d read him excerpts from Wendell Berry I knew he’d appreciate. It was invigorating for both of us,” Sample revealed. “Like any farm, it would be nearly impossible if I couldn’t do it on my own land. He’s the one who allowed me to do this. This is his legacy.” ▩

For more on Sample’s podcast, visit samplehour.com

October 2, 2018

To-May-To, To-Mah-To

Originally published in the October 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Few foods are as fabled or fickle as the tomato.

Too much water and they spot, too much sun and they rot, and the ones in the grocery store always pale in comparison to those you buy off a tailgate or on the side of the road.

That’s where you’ll find Dick Capuano most days from late April to early September. His homegrown tomato stand adorned in traditional Italian green, white, and red is on the same stretch of land his ancestors settled more than a century ago.

“I grew up here. Mom and Dad always had a garden, so I always had a rototiller in my hands,” he recalled. “I love tomatoes, and once people have a homegrown one, they keep coming back for them.”

You won’t find San Margherita on every map, and if you drive through too fast, you might miss it entirely. The tiny unincorporated village, just west of the Scioto River, was founded by Italian immigrants who toiled in the nearby quarry. They eventually built homes and planted gardens along the edge of what is now Trabue Road. Most of the original settlers had ties to the same province in the old country, whose patron Saint Margaret inspired the name of their new community.

“Everyone who lived here between the two tracks grew something, and maybe had chickens, a hog, or a cow. It’s how they got by and survived,” Capuano explained. “It’s how San Margherita stayed San Margherita. Everyone had their own grapes and made their own wine, they grew plenty of vegetables, and they all had plenty to eat.”

Development is slowly swallowing those plots of land and the heritage of those who once lived there. There are only a handful of descendants of the first families still living or working in San Margherita. Some of the land remains idle, and still supports farms like Capuano’s, where his better years have boasted upwards of nearly 2,000 plants. Most of these are varieties of tomatoes, but various peppers and signature grapes are always in high demand.

“My time is up October 15, which is after the end of the season,” he explained, hoping that the land’s new owners might let him keep planting depending on their timeline for development. “I really don’t know what’s going to happen next year.”

It’s not the first time Capuano has faced such uncertainty and seeming futility. During his tour in Vietnam, it was his responsibility to remove roadside mines and clear the way for convoys, only to do the same thing the following day after fresh mines were planted under the cloak of night. A firefight earned him a Purple Heart, but he’s put more than his share of blood and sweat into his tomato stand only to see it threatened by another invisible enemy.

“I used to sell out of the garage,” he recalled. “But in 2005 I moved closer to the road and the stand has been here ever since.”

Capuano keeps it simple and predictable. Crops grow on the same soil year after year. He turns under the plants to go back into the soil over the winter and repeats the process the following spring, planting fresh tomato plants entirely by hand.

Only tomato enthusiasts can truly appreciate the depth of his bench, like baseball cards lined up on a giant table waiting to be discovered by a new generation of loyal fans. From contemporary classics like Early Girls and Carolina Gold to vintage heirloom varieties like Kellogg’s Breakfast and Gigantesque, if you can’t find the perfect taste and texture of tomato, you’re just not looking.

“I pull them before they get too big and start to split, then let them ripen the rest of the way on my porch before bringing them to the stand,” he explained. “But the rain we’ve had the past couple of weeks combined with the heat means this is the last of them.”

Don’t count Capuano out too soon. His cousin Joe still has a plot of land just down the road, and though it’s increasingly hard for anyone his age to plan too far ahead, one year at a time is as good a plan as any. He’s technically been retired as a carpenter for nearly three decades already, and despite the long hours and hot days in the field and at the stand, he’s not quite willing to let it go just yet.

“When I retired, I decided to go into my garden as my little hobby, and it just kept growing,” he said. “It’s hard work in the field, but it’s also peaceful here in the shade. I guess you could call it my man cave.” ▩

August 31, 2018

Craft Beer’s New Groove

Originally published in the September 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Why would anyone in their right mind open another neighborhood bar or record joint in a city already brimming with both?

Ask Troy Stacy, the owner of Craft & Vinyl, an endeavor that is deliberately neither, nor does it pretend to be. Yet it combines the essential elements of each into an entirely new experience fine-tuned for local beer aficionados and audiophiles alike.

It’s not a bar that sells LPs, nor a record store that serves beer. It’s a kindred cultural convergence that combines a craft beer counter, new and used vinyl, and a recording studio conveniently under one roof.

“There wasn’t a place that brought all three of these ideas together,” explained Stacy, whose inspiration was well informed by a career in marketing and the music industry. “We live in a digital universe, but there is still a craving for something tactile.”

Vinyl is visceral. Even as records have emerged as the fastest growing segment of music sales, capturing the charm of a record store without the musty smell and dingy décor that are almost synonymous was no easy feat. But tip too far in the opposite direction and you end up with the vintage vibe of a deservedly defunct Sam Goody.

Stacy had the right idea. He just needed to find the right place and the right space.

“I had four or five target areas, but Grandview was always my first choice,” he recalled. “But I almost leased the space that became Brewdog in the Short North. They got it right out from under me.”

Music folklore is full of happy accidents, and losing that spot for something better could be among them. The former consignment shop that was once home to an old hardware store offered weathered floors, high ceilings, and instant credibility.

“We built it to look and feel more like an art gallery. People who collect vinyl also collect it for the cover art,” Stacy said. “It’s not just a music medium.”

The “Mosaic Wall” stretches 30 feet and five records high with classic and contemporary albums, many 180-gram pressings or “heavy vinyl,” preferred by collectors for durability and fidelity. Here you’ll find seminal releases from The Stones to The Stooges and everything in-between.

Used inventory fills the “Vinyl Salon” in oversized wooden bins complemented by a lounge with a couple of leather sofas at the end and a long, bar-height table in the middle with enough stools and space to make the experience equal parts shopping and social. Flipping through stacks searching for those hidden gems is a two-handed job. That’s why you’ll find cleverly placed cup holders spaced every few feet to park your pint.

“The idea came from a very practical place. I was stocking the bins, holding a beer, and had nowhere to put it,” he confessed. “They’re actually just RV cup holders, but everyone gets a kick out of them.” (Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention would surely approve.)

Despite their resurgence in popularity, selecting the right records to sell has become evermore crucial in the age of eBay and Amazon. Stacy was smart and thankful to enlist veteran vinyl proprietor Mike “Pepe” Depew as a mentor, whose experience at Ace in the Hole Music Exchange and the Record Connection dates back decades.

“I started buying records from Pep when I was 15,” Stacy revealed. “Anytime you start a business there are bumps in the road and painful learning. He took me under his wing and helped me avoid a lot of those mistakes.”

Extending the gallery metaphor are concert posters and handbills designed by prolific local artist Mike Martin, whose limited edition screen printing and illustration style echo an earlier era, and the depth and breadth of Craft & Vinyl’s selection. From folk to funk and soul to swing, add the black and yellow punches of color to the warm wooden accents, and Jack White would feel right at home. Even the pinball machines are on-brand for a place that seems like one giant analog anachronism defiant of all things digital—with one deft exception.

“Lots of musicians go to record stores and hang out. That’s often where collaborations first come together,” he explained. “I wanted to create a place where that inspiration isn’t lost by having a recording studio just steps away. There’s nothing like it in Columbus.”

In addition to hourly studio rental—including a collection of guitars, basses, vocal microphones, and a drum kit—Stacy offers monthly packages for musicians interested in more frequent access, one of several subscription options that distinguish Craft & Vinyl as a place where music is played and made.

“One of the ideas we’re working on is a ‘Flight School’ where once a month you’ll come in to try four to six beers from a specific brewer paired with a classic album listening experience and a new album listening experience,” he noted.

Though the smallest section of the store in square footage, that craft beer counter right as you walk through the door is definitely the social glue that binds the whole operation together, and the most unique draw for foot traffic and local buzz. The novel mix of stacks of wax and craft on draft was enough to intrigue distributors before they even opened.

“The relationship with Great Lakes Brewing was really interesting because they reached out to us,” Stacy recalled. “They approached us and said they wanted to serve their Turntable Pils here. That eventually turned into a conversation about doing a collaborative vinyl album together.”

Also available as event space, new ideas continue to surface now that more folks can take it in and suggest additional opportunities and potential. The concept was always considered an evolving prototype for future locations.

“People tend to tell you what they want,” Stacy explained. “I’m here to listen.” ▩

August 2, 2018

Back in Time

Originally published in the August 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Scott Mulhollen stared at the screen in silent disbelief. With only an hour notice, he’d received a tip on an eBay auction too good to be true. As the clock ticked away with only seconds to spare, he made his first and only bid.

He took a moment to let the win sink in, then he picked up the phone to confirm it was all really happening. The stranger who answered seemed somber, then his wife got on the line and was clearly confused. She didn’t even know her husband was selling it.

“Who is this?” she asked again, to which he politely replied, “I’m Scott, the guy who just bought your DeLorean.”

Graciously offering to back out of the sale, Mulhollen learned the car was the couple’s first purchase together when they were wed in 1982 and had been meticulously maintained ever since. But now retired and downsizing, it was time to move on.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell them what I was going to do to their car. You never know how someone is going to react,” he recalled. “So I chose to respect their memories, assuring them I was going to take care of it as lovingly as they had, that it wasn’t going to a chop shop or flipper.”

Mulhollen wasn’t kidding. He loves the car, and has his whole life. But he’s no classic car aficionado or broker of automotive ephemera intent on turning a quick buck.

“You rarely find a car this pristine and well preserved, and never at this price,” Mulhollen explained, whose bid was well above the $28,500 he actually paid. “The guy who owned it before me was an electrical engineer and stripped the entire car and rewired it, because DeLoreans were known for sometimes catching on fire. Collectors want everything original, so I was the only bidder.”

That was hardly the end of the upgrades. It’s taken nearly 30 years and a small fortune to realize the vision of his adolescence. But after months of delays and painstaking modifications, Scott Mulhollen is now the owner of a bona fide time machine.

“I remember sitting in the theater as a kid watching Back to the Future and dreaming about someday owning ‘that car,’” he confessed.

Mulhollen now runs his own self-defense school, which often requires connecting with kids who aren’t always easy to reach. A long-time collector of iconic ’80s memorabilia, his office is more of a museum dedicated to his childhood, from Garfield to Ghostbusters. Not just trinkets either — everything from autographed animation cells to a legit proton pack. Even his martial arts background and enthusiasm for teaching grew out of his own experience with bullying. He was an actual Karate Kid who defied more than a few naysayers and turned a calling into a career. “When kids come here, it helps to let them know I was just like them,” he explained. “But there was still that one big dream that remained out of reach.”

For those of a certain age, it’s almost impossible to overstate how beloved Back to the Future is as both a personal and pop cultural milestone. I was an exchange student to Japan in the summer of ’86 and my host brother had a bootleg recording of just the audio from Back to the Future he’d played on his Walkman nearly nonstop for a year before I arrived. It’s essentially how he learned English. We’re still in touch, and can still exchange every line of dialogue even decades later.

“When I was initially considering all of this, I knew it had to be a business to make sense, but one that enabled me to share this passion with others and make a positive impact,” he recalled. “With the right combination of private rentals and charity events, I knew I could make it work.”

It cost nearly twice as much to convert the car as he’d paid for it, and it shows. It looks handmade, which it is and as it should. There’s a delicate balance to creating cinematic replicas. Too stingy and it feels cheap. Too polished and it feels mass-produced. Perhaps only the Batmobile is as indelible down to the most exacting detail. Complete with lighting and sound effects, diodes and doodads, Marty McFly himself couldn’t tell the difference.

“When the film’s prop makers were designing the car, they wanted it to look like something Doc Brown could have made in his garage,” he explained. “It took the builder seven months, and even then, he’d have taken another month or two if I let him.”

Once you get past the heavy price tag, the sticker shock gives way to immediate envy. Plenty of people spend as much or more on a midlife crisis car that no one wants to have over for their birthday party or private gathering. You could have just another Tesla, or you could have a time machine and folks will gladly pay you to come hang out for a few hours.

“My goal is three years to pay off the car, a few big gigs and we’ll get there,” he noted. “The car isn’t really an expense; it’s an investment that holds its value. I could sell it tomorrow and still make money on the deal.”

Delays in the conversion pushed the debut until just after Ready Player One’s premiere — which was unfortunate, but not tragic. Summer commitments like Ohio Comic Con and a recent al fresco screening of Back to the Future at the Gateway Film Center were already booked, and events to raise funds for children’s charities and Parkinson’s research were also in the works. But blockbuster blowouts aren’t the only option to get up close and personal with a piece of the past, or the future.

“I have a woman coming down today from Toledo with her husband to see the car, and he has no idea. Those are the reactions that are priceless,” Mulhollen said. “People get emotional, they get overwhelmed. I’ve had people cry before, whether you’re a CEO or the guy who operates the forklift. They may be in their forties, but when they sit in this car, suddenly they’re 10 again. It really is a time machine.” ▩

For scheduled events and private rental details, visit ohiotimemachinerental.com

August 2, 2018

Cocktail Curiosity

Originally published in the August 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Chad White doesn’t look like what you’d probably expect from the founder of the Ohio Rum Society. He lacks the sailor’s swagger and pirate’s pedigree some mistakenly associate with the world’s most versatile and diverse distilled spirit. Also absent is the alienating ego that easily identifies pretentious experts in elixirs as unmistakably as a parrot, an eye patch, or a peg leg.

Instead, you’ll find the modest charm and Midwestern demeanor of a kid from Toledo, captured by the allure of Columbus more than a decade ago, who carved out his own corner of the local craft cocktail scene in a category that stretches far past the fabled shores of the Caribbean.

“I was the victim of really great niche marketing,” White confessed of his college years at Ohio University and an early affinity for rum. “It wasn’t until I ordered a flight of premium rums with a friend at a rum bar in Cleveland that I realized there was more out there.”

The most familiar names in American rum aren’t awful, but aren’t exactly transparent either. Adulterated by artificial flavoring and coloring, many are more like alcoholic soda pop than true spirits. Luckily, White and his future wife’s shared love of travel afforded him the opportunity to collect interesting bottles from exotic locations, a hobby that quickly escalated, perhaps out of hand.

“It wasn’t long before my suitcases were coming back filled with rum,” he chided. “My wife told me I either had to drink it or share it—not just the rum, but my passion for it.”

Columbus has a knack for finding or following the next new thing. From coffee and cocktails to breweries and barbecue, White knew he couldn’t be the only one in town experimenting at home with his spirit of choice. What started as just another Facebook group to exchange articles and opinions on the emerging rum scene didn’t stay there long.

“That online conversation soon evolved into inviting friends to my house for tastings,” he recalled. “If there were a bunch of bourbon drinkers, I’d start out with something dry and well-balanced, but with a little weight, obviously aged, with bold flavors.”

Further reinforcing the notion that everyone already seems to know everyone else in Columbus, that first formal gathering at Grass Skirt Tiki Room quickly grew to connections and subsequent soirées at Curio, Denmark on High, Blind Lady Tavern, and The Light of Seven Matchsticks. It turned out there was quite a bit of quiet dabbling behind local bars as well, substituting rum for traditional base spirits.

“It connected me with all of these underground rum geeks—bartenders, proprietors, but also curious cocktailers—people who love brown spirits like bourbon, or white spirits like tequila. People who love the craft of fermentation and distillation.”

White is a recruiter for the tech sector by day, a knack that clearly extends beyond his keyboard. Unlike similar ‘societies’ that simply need to usher a readymade community into the same room, White had to educate and elevate rum among the masses while roping everyone into the same orbit.

Two years in, there’s no slowdown in sight, with meetings nearly monthly, an updated membership program, and a new name—recognizing the greater geographic reach and influence of his growing group of self-described ‘rumheads.’

“We began as the Central Ohio Rum Society, but soon started pulling in members from around the state for our tastings. So we’re now the Ohio Rum Society, even though our interest is really international.”

Themed meetings from “January in Jamaica” to “Rum, Beer, and Revolution” tap into the convergence of history and chemistry, as well as practical and tactical conversations, like getting rum into the country a little easier by flying back through Puerto Rico for a less onerous trip through U.S. Customs.

“I have three bottles of rum I ordered from Europe that have been waiting for weeks in Customs in Chicago,” he explained. “Importers are still figuring out if there is enough interest in the States to distribute here. So that’s part of the hunt.”

Speaking of flights, no conversation about rum would be complete without one. Like most, I know what I like even if I lack the keen palette or industry jargon to put it into words. But that’s where White and his fellow rumheads earn their reputation as approachable connoisseurs, not another class of liquor snobs. Chad carefully curated a collection based on my beer and bourbon background. In fact, he could easily spot each style and brand at a glance, an impressive feat after more than an hour of cocktails and chit-chat in a deliberately dim tiki bar.

He described the origin and attributes of each as I sipped and swished, noting the time and terroir evident in the sweet heat and woody finish of the aged rums before moving up to the bright bite and botanical nuances of the rhum agricole, made from distilled cane juice, not fermented molasses. The journey from 60 proof to 120 was dangerously delicious, and it’s a flight that might require a copilot to get home.

“Rum is a shapeshifter,” he explained. “That’s what we love about it.”

Obsession over such subtleties may sound like the musings of wine wonks. But as an admitted rum amateur, the flavor profiles actually fit right in line with my inner coffee geek—sometimes spicy, earthy, or even floral, but never one note.

We wrapped up with shots from his personal stash (a rare bottle from Barbados actually signed by the distiller) and a couple more classic cocktails, further burnishing the depth and breadth the right rum can bring to nearly any glass—not just those with a garish garnish or bawdy boat drinks in your buddy’s basement.

“None of these rums were available in Ohio when I started,” he revealed, noting the reach of the Ohio Rum Society in creating demand from restaurants to retail. “It’s why rum is still so shrouded in mystery for most, past the major brands. But that’s why we’re here. Columbus is a trendsetter, and we’re fundamentally changing the way people think about rum.” ▩

For more on the Ohio Rum Society, find them on Facebook.