08/30/2026
I’M BUILDING MY WAY OUT OF A RESTAURANT.
That probably sounds strange coming from someone who has spent most of his adult life building them.
Before I explain that, let me clear up two things.
First, Cornerstone is not closing.
There have been rumors that I’m selling Cornerstone, and I guess the most accurate answer is: sort of.
I have a little over a year remaining on my current lease, and rather than wait until the last minute to figure out what comes next, I’m being proactive now.
I’m not interested in just finding someone who can write a check.
If the right person comes along—someone with the restaurant knowledge, energy and character to take over a successful turnkey operation that took nearly 15 years to build—I absolutely want to have that conversation.
Until then, I’m here.
We’re open. We’re busy. We’re improving things. And I have a restaurant full of really good people who deserve my attention and support.
Which brings me to the second thing:
We could use a couple of good, reliable people in our kitchen.
Not an entire new staff. Not because everyone is leaving. And definitely not because we’re closing.
Just a couple good humans who want to work.
And instead of posting another boring HELP WANTED ad, I figured I’d explain what we’re actually trying to build.
I’ve been doing this for more than three decades.
I’ve cooked every station. Managed hundreds of employees. Opened restaurants. Fixed equipment. Bartended. Waited and bussed tables. Washed dishes. Climbed on roofs. Unclogged drains. Written menus. Costed food. Catered hundreds of events. Trained managers. Calmed down angry customers. And helped employees through some really s**tty moments in their lives.
I’ve watched trends come and go, and one thing I’ve always believed is that you don’t have to be in Los Angeles, Nashville or Boston to see what’s coming.
You just have to be willing to look.
For years, I’d study what successful restaurants in bigger markets were doing and ask one simple question:
Can we do that here?
Because here’s the secret.
Most restaurants can buy the same chicken.
We can buy the same steak, the same liquor, the same french fries and probably the same damn ranch dressing.
The difference has never just been what’s on the Sysco truck.
The difference is what you do with it—and how you make people feel while you’re doing it.
Ex*****on matters.
Service matters.
Culture matters.
Community matters.
Knowing people’s names matters.
Taking care of employees matters.
Staying relevant matters.
And being willing to change before you’re forced to matters.
So lately I’ve been trying something different at Cornerstone.
I’m taking everything that’s been stuck in my head for 35 years and slowly getting it out.
Recipes. Menus. Training. Draft cocktails. Ordering. Equipment. Troubleshooting. Promotions. Hiring. Scheduling. Cleaning. Checklists. Coloring pages for kids. How we communicate. How we solve the hundred stupid little problems that happen every day in a restaurant.
And yes, I’m using AI as a part of doing it.
Not to replace people.
To make people’s jobs easier.
I don’t want a server wondering where the kids menus are.
I want them to grab the iPad, hit the right thing, print them and walk down the hall.
Done.
I don’t want knowledge living inside one manager’s head.
I want the next person to be able to find it.
I don’t want someone reinventing a recipe six months from now because the person who knew it left.
It should already be there.
Simple.
Usable.
Repeatable.
I’m essentially trying to take decades of experience, mistakes, successes, scars and ridiculous restaurant knowledge and leave behind a playbook that doesn’t require me standing in the building 70 hours a week.
And strangely enough, while I’ve been trying to build myself out of the operation, I’ve found myself caring more than ever about who I’m building it for.
The labor pool is tough right now.
That’s reality.
Some of the people walking through restaurant doors looking for work today might never have gotten an interview from me 20 years ago.
Maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.
Because I’ve also learned something after managing thousands of people:
Sometimes the résumé isn’t the problem. Sometimes the person just hasn’t landed in the right place yet.
Maybe somebody had a terrible year.
Maybe they’re pi**ed off at their current job.
Maybe nobody ever trained them correctly.
Maybe they’ve never had a boss say thank you.
Maybe they’ve never worked somewhere where their paycheck showed up exactly when it was supposed to, every single week, and they never had to wonder about it.
Maybe they just need somebody to give a s**t.
I’m willing to be that somebody.
I’ll give people chances.
I’ll teach them.
I’ll respect them.
I’ll pay them.
I’ll thank them.
I’ll try not to work them into the ground.
I’ll understand that they’re human beings with lives outside these four walls.
But there’s one thing I need in return.
Be reliable.
Show up.
Do what you said you were going to do.
Treat the person standing next to you with dignity.
Give a s**t.
You don’t have to be perfect.
Neither am I.
But if you give us an honest chance, we’ll give you one right back.
Because maybe rebuilding a restaurant isn’t always about finding better employees.
Maybe sometimes it’s about building a better place for employees to work.
That’s what I’m trying to do at Cornerstone.
And the momentum is starting to feel different.
Someday, someone else is going to run this place.
That’s the goal.
When that happens, I don’t want to hand them the keys and say, “Good luck.”
I want to hand them a restaurant with systems, history, recipes, ideas, technology, community support and—most importantly—a group of human beings who actually give a s**t about one another.
I want them to inherit the lessons without having to earn every scar.
Technology can help me preserve the knowledge.
But people will always be the reason the doors open.
Maybe that’s the future of this little restaurant in Barre, Vermont.
Thirty-five years of old-school restaurant experience.
A little bit of new-school technology.
And a stubborn belief that if you take care of people, they’ll help you take care of everything else.
So this post has two invitations.
If you’re reliable, you give a s**t, and you think you might belong in our kitchen—reach out. Experience is great, but character and reliability will get my attention.
And if you’re an experienced restaurant person who has spent years dreaming about owning your own place, but starting from scratch seems damn near impossible—I’m willing to have that conversation too. With the right person, I’m open to being creative about how we make it possible.
There is no fire sale.
There is no going-out-of-business sale.
And Cornerstone isn’t closing.
I’m simply trying to do something I probably should have started doing years ago:
Build a great restaurant that eventually doesn’t need me.
And when the right person finally gets the keys, I want to know I handed them something worth taking care of.
If you know somebody who should work here—or somebody who someday should own this place—please share this with them.
Respectfully,
Rich
