6 Years of Foodhisattva—Or Has It Been 11 (or More)?

This week marks six years since our little shop opened its doors. But the story starts long before that.

Frances and I met in the old co-op kitchen, cooking for Food Not Bombs—a scrappy collective that turned discarded grocery store produce into hot meals for anyone who needed one. I ran the stir-fry station. Frances handled the salads. Between chopping and cleaning, we dreamed of a Cleveland vegan restaurant that was ethical, handcrafted, and delicious.

At the time, vegan food here meant chalky hummus, soggy veggie burgers, and iceberg lettuce dressed in disappointment.

We were broke students with no idea how to start a business. But we were determined to keep cooking.

After the co-op shut down in 2011 (thanks, Whole Foods) and our chapter of Food Not Bombs faded, we hosted potlucks, fundraisers—anything to keep that spirit alive. When a vegan chocolate shop in Lyndhurst hit a slow patch, we pitched a pop-up to fill the gaps. I had a few pizza recipes. We made flyers, posted online, and hoped for the best.

We expected a handful of curious eaters. It was, after all, a last-minute event on a random Sunday in 2014. Instead, we opened the doors to a long line of hungry, smiling strangers. The chocolate shop had its busiest day ever, so we kept going—pizza, then burgers, then soul food and Taiwanese eats. Between classes and work, we popped up whenever we could, hoping to show Cleveland how good compassionate cuisine could actually be.

Then we almost opened a cafe on Lee Road. Almost. Our would-be partners switched the contract last minute, demanding most of the profits for considerably less work. We walked. It hurt, but we kept looking.

Years later, we found a space in Asiatown. We sketched floorplans, negotiated the lease, planned the menu—but just before signing, the landlord ghosted us. Months later we learned they found another tenant, one who didn’t need to build it out. We were crushed. We gave Foodhisattva a rest.

One night, I was at BottleHouse, poking at a sad salad of iceberg and hummus. I gave the bartender an earful.

“We’re a brewery, not chefs,” they said.

“Then get a chef. This is embarrassing.”

“Know anyone?”

“It's complicated,” I said. “I strive to know thyself, but I don't think I’ll figure it out this go-around.”

So we brought Foodhisattva back. We made the food, they poured the drinks. It worked.

We became the vegan event on Cleveland’s East Side when little else existed. Then came brunches, markets, and collaborations. We hosted Cleveland's first independent vegan market, supported other vegan pop-ups, and raised funds for local animal rights causes. We were proud to see the city shift, and did what we could to nurture that growth.

By the time we packed up our Prius C for the last pop-up, vegan options were finally taking root in Cleveland. Still, one question followed us everywhere:

“When are you opening a restaurant?”

We’d laugh. “When we find the time, the money, and the space.”

We had none of those. (Honestly, we still don’t but what else am I going to do? Work for Jeff Bozo. I'd rather choke on that iceberg lettuce.)

One day, scootering home, I passed a dark little restaurant around the corner from our Cleveland Heights apartment. The sign was gone. I did some digging, found the landlord, and toured the place.

It was a wreck—filthy floors, rotting produce, broken fridges, walls patched with poster board. But it was affordable. We signed a lease, rolled up our sleeves, and got to work.

On June 15, 2019, Foodhisattva opened.

A family of four waited outside our freshly painted door that afternoon. They hadn’t been to the pop-ups. But like that first night in Lyndhurst, we were met with new faces—and more came as the days went on.

That first year was a blur. Somehow, we almost broke even. It was exhausting and exhilarating. We gained regulars—people who became our friends and chosen family. But we also lost most of the business community we’d built during the pop-up days. Some closed, others drifted. I remember asking one vendor, “How’s business?”

They said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you—you’re my competition.”

That hit hard. I never thought of us as competition. “We’re part of a movement,” right?

I’ve aged decades in the last six years. That's how hard it is to keep a small restaurant alive. And I’ve lost a lot of friends over the years. Some of the business buds just stopped showing up. I don’t have the resources they need anymore. The information, the funds, the events. It's a bummer but I've got a prep list and orders to attend to. 

But the ones who stuck around—it’s a joy to reminisce with them. The scene might not have been as big back then, and it certainly wasn’t as corporate, but it was better. It was a community—and a compassionate one at that.

That family who waited outside six years ago? They still eat here every Saturday. I’ve watched their daughters grow into smart, hilarious, independent people.

There’s the guy who came in with his girlfriend. Then his fiancée. Then his ex. Then just him, after my shift, sharing dinners and heartbreak. Now he’s with someone new, and despite his painfully tight pants, she’s crazy about him.

Our neighbors—most of them aren’t vegan—but they love the tacos, the burgers, the desserts, and banter. We trade stories, support each other, vent about the landlords, and roll our eyes at that guy saying crazy shit outside. He tried to stab me once, but that's a different story. 

And the staff. Some absolute nightmares, sure—this isn’t a fairytale. But some? Family.

We joke that Frances and I are the captains trying to hold a dysfunctional crew together. We’ve had plenty of failures, a few big wins, and somehow this crew—our band of goofy, stubborn pirates—keeps the ship afloat.

There’s the dishies who roll in like waves—some crashing, some riding high. My brother, who drives me bonkers-as brothers do, but shows up every week regardless of what went down during the previous day's chaotic rush. The cold line cook who shoulders rage to deliver joy. He's hilarious and moreso when annoyed by a ticket's "special instructions." And, of course, our server and baking assistant who’s a twisted improv assassin and yet, kindness falls from them without ceremony.

We keep this ship from sinking together. With hands, hearts, and the occasional pun.

Running Foodhisattva hasn’t been easy. It’s been a long, steep road—pandemics, inflation, repairs, losses, and more. But we’ve shared meals and stories. We’ve watched kids grow, seen friends fall in love, and tried—imperfectly, persistently—to hold this space for each other.

Foodhisattva isn’t just a restaurant.

It’s a home.

Messy, chaotic, stubborn—but full of love.

Thank you for weathering the storm with us. Six years, eleven, or more—we’re just glad to still be here with you.