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.

Ali’s journey continues. Ali had the opportunity to cook his second hibachi table. This time it was a table for two — a mother and daughter celebrating the daughter’s 12th birthday. Moments like this are special in their own way. A birthday dinner, a simple celebration, and for Ali another step forward in learning the craft. No pressure, no rush — just the opportunity to slow down, cook with care, present the food well, and enjoy the moment with the guests. The grill sizzled, the conversation flowed, and Ali did exactly what we hope our chefs learn to do — take pride in the food and the experience. As the meal was wrapping up, I stopped by the table to check on them. I asked the mother how the food and service were. She smiled and said, “The food was excellent… and the service was just as good.” Moments like that mean a lot — especially for a young chef still finding his rhythm at the grill. But what made the night even better was the teamwork around the table. Our chef Lee stepped in with a little extra magic. He pulled out his harmonica and played a birthday tune, and then even did a quick drawing of the birthday girl to celebrate the occasion. At Sumo, we believe the experience is never about just one person behind the grill. It’s about the team working together to make someone’s day a little more memorable. Because sometimes the best part of a restaurant isn’t just the food. It’s the moment you create for someone else. And for Ali, it was another step in the journey.

Ali’s journey continues. From a quiet table for one… to a birthday table for two… and now, a full table for eight. Last night, Ali stepped into his first full hibachi table. Eight guests. Eight meals. Eight expectations. For most people, it just looks like dinner. But behind the grill, it’s something more. It’s timing. It’s pressure. It’s composure when all eyes are on you. I remember just days ago watching him cook his first table — simple, quiet, controlled. Then his second, finding a rhythm, starting to settle in, beginning to understand not just the cooking… but the presence. And now this. A full table. You could feel the moment. Not loud. Not dramatic. But real. The kind of moment where growth shows up quietly — in the way he moves, the way he handles the food, the way he stays locked in even when everything around him speeds up. It hasn’t been easy for him. Learning to manage a table, control the pace, cook multiple meals at once, while still engaging with guests — that’s not something you learn overnight. But that’s the process. And it’s a lot like life. At first, even the smallest things feel overwhelming. You question yourself. You hesitate. You wonder if you’re ready. Then you show up again. And again. And again. And somewhere along the way, what once felt difficult becomes natural. Confidence replaces doubt. Composure replaces pressure. Growth replaces fear. That’s what I saw last night. Not perfection. But progress. And that’s what matters. Because this isn’t just about learning how to cook. It’s about stepping into the arena — one table at a time. And Ali is well on his way.