Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
This is the audio version of my weekly newsletter, Experiential Hospitality, where I share stories and insights to help you craft unforgettable spaces and experiences through design & hospitality.
My first startup ended with a bang.
At the ripe old age of 15, I launched a
craft soda empire from the family kitchen.
It started and ended with a bang.
I'll never forget walking into
what looked like a war zone.
One Monday morning, the yeasty aroma
of over brewed root beer hung thick
in the air sticky brown Ritz streak.
The walls like abstract art and
shards of Amber Glass glittered
like confetti from every surface.
One particularly ambitious bottle had
launched its cap with such force that it
left a permanent dimple in the ceiling,
a crater from a failed space mission.
I clinched my jaw, took a deep
breath, and began cleanup.
If I learned nothing else, those first
few months, I learned to persevere.
After months spent testing sugar
to yeast ratios, dialing in
the perfect aging temperature.
And timing fermentation.
I cracked the code.
I was finally ready to go to market,
or at least the farmer's market.
The soda was perfectly carbonated,
crisp with just enough bite to make
your eyes water in the best way.
I hand painted an old galvanized
wash bin with the words Potlatch soda
company named for the river running
near our home where I'd spend countless
summer afternoons cooling off, and
then I set up shop in front of our
family's cheese booth week after week.
I sold out all hundred
bottles, gone within hours.
Since the bottle caps weren't twist off,
I personally opened each one with the
precision of a bomb disposal technician.
I'd gradually ease each cap off,
holding the bottle low, distracting
customers with cheerful small talk and
silently praying it didn't detonate
mid sale, which did happen on occasion.
Then came this college aged shaggy haired
customer and a faded tie-dye shirt.
He had that confidence swagger
of someone who'd never met a
problem he couldn't handle.
He insisted on opening his own.
I warned him repeatedly, but he
wouldn't listen, bro, I got this.
My stomach nodded as I reluctantly handed
over what I knew was essentially a soda
bomb and muttered some clumsy instructions
about pointing it away from his face.
He sauntered off toward an alley.
I got back to selling, but a sense of
impending doom sat heavy in my chest.
20 or so minutes later, there he
was coming back, hair plastered to
his forehead, like seaweed shirt,
clinging, drenched and dripping.
He kept shaking his head and sputtering
and spitting every few seconds.
He looked like he'd just been in an
epic battle with a garden hose and lost.
I braced myself.
But his grin was absolutely undefeated.
Dude that was sick.
He yelled through the crowd,
pumping his fist in the ear.
I popped it, shoved it in my mouth, and
there were three gushers going at once.
One from each nostril and
one straight outta my mouth.
That's some serious Riz, bro.
I didn't know what Riz was,
but somehow it all made sense.
The word continued to spread and
my little empire was thriving.
Then the family authorities intervened.
The soda business was paused indefinitely
due to a range of concerns, safety,
liability, and the family name among
them, and so the dream was shelved.
My entrepreneurial spirit, however, was
undaunted this summer when I was in Idaho.
I peaked my head into my parents'
storage shed, and there they were,
just how I left them 12 years ago.
Okay.
Boxes of unopened bottles,
waiting patiently for the day.
My 2-year-old Lucas is old enough
to inherit the beverage empire, the
recipe notes, and maybe a helmet.
Have yourself a wonderful week and go
create more beauty wherever you find
yourself, even if all you've got for
now is broken glass and sticky walls.