I do breakfast

I often ask myself where I found the strength, courage and, above all, the expertise to manage a business. How did I give birth to so many suns spread across the country? I really don’t know where this strange destiny came from. My dad was a travelling salesman for a big company. Week after week, he’d leave with his suitcase of samples to show local shop owners around Gaspésie. He’d take their orders and send them on to the head office, in Toronto. That’s how he provided for us, summer and winter, his two hands on the wheel and his big heart heavy with sorrow. It may seem strange to mention this, but as I write these lines, I remember that my favourite past-time as a little girl was to play general store manager. I’d place lightly polished pebbles, bird feathers, beautiful shells, birch bark, clover leaves—anything that I could find in nature—on a table and sell them for a few pennies. I’d collect milk bottle caps that I used as change, and I was glad when I made 5 or 6 pennies for the afternoon. Much later, when I wanted to pursue classical studies, my parents tried to dissuade me by telling me that “folks like us should be content with just a few slices of bread.” Much later, when I was invited to speak at conferences, I elicited thunderous laughter from the audience by ending my story with “Thankfully, I had the idea of making toast with my few slices of bread. That’s right, toast saved my life!” As a new business owner and business apprentice, I held tight to the railing while torrents of water flowed under the bridges. I was afraid, constantly afraid, of not being good enough, as I had no schooling in the restaurant business, no family role model and no one to support me. My parents had passed without leaving a penny behind. In 1987, I started with close to nothing: I paid $20,000 for a small diner using the money from the sale of our modest house. I was poor, afraid, but I had my three kids: a priceless treasure and the best motivation in the world. My first restaurant taught me how to be a good cook. I quickly discovered my creativity and my ambitious desire to reinvent Canadians’ first meal of the day. I created the breakfast restaurant concept. In the 1980s, families didn’t go out to enjoy breakfast at a restaurant. Special occasions might be celebrated on Sunday at a hotel serving egg dishes, charcuteries, salads and likely a tempting array of desserts. Then there were the neighbourhood diners that opened early to serve eggs, bacon, sausages and ham to workers. Before we came along, no one had seen beautifully cut fruit alongside egg, omelette or crêpe dishes. When we started, no one stuffed their crêpes with fresh strawberries, bananas and other fruit covered in a delicious homemade custard. We rapidly became very popular by doing things differently. Thanks to my staff, our expertise was transmitted from one restaurant to the next; the cooks from the first restaurant trained the staff at the second location, and so on. Slowly but surely, a large chain of Cora restaurants was born. The more restaurants there were, the more my brain trembled. Would I be up to the challenge? Would I be able to learn fast enough? Every night, every single spare moment I had, I read everything I needed to know. I delved into the biographies of the great builders, those behind McDonald’s, Starbucks, Tim Hortons, Subway and many others. I read the great blue book of franchising, all the monthly magazines published by Harvard Business School and many business newspapers. Hungry for knowledge and expertise, my primary mission was to surround myself with talented and competent people. I’ve often thought that I became an entrepreneur because a force outside of me decided to make me an entrepreneur. As unbelievable as it may be, it seems that people are often bothered by our efforts. Sometimes it feels like they are there keeping an eye on us, waiting for us to close up shop. As if their neighbour’s failure would absolve them of their own lack of accomplishments. But we must continue, work hard, pray and finally let go. We must give the best of ourselves and believe that it will not be for naught. That’s what I did. Not because I understood all this from the start, but because I had no choice. I persisted and, through hard work, I discovered how much I loved my work. It’s this love for what one does that strengthens resolve. And perseverance is like a constant desire to learn more. Driven by my passion for the restaurateur’s work, I continued to open restaurants until I realized that I was able to teach others how to do it. That’s the very principle of franchising: teaching others your winning formula. I had finally found a way to serve as many customers as possible, as often as possible, in as many places as possible. I, who thought of myself as a poet, ended up learning the language of numbers. I know that most people think I was lucky, but I was serious and focused. I always believed in kind fairies who took good care of me. I’m proud to have created work for hundreds of people. I enjoy looking back on my wins, and yet, at noon today, I quickly turn off my tablet, grab my notepads and dash out the door. Above, a procession of wild geese crosses the pinkish blue sky. They’re majestic with their grey and white wings, like angels on a southern pilgrimage. Will I also be en route to the final destination one day? Who knows the address of my next life? Who knows how long eternity is? Sitting and watching the wild geese dance, the sun warms me. Cora ❤️

I write my letters like I used to pick berries in the summer. I delighted in filling up a large bowl and offering them to Mom. She in turn took delight in baking us a delicious upside-down fruit cake for dinner. Today, I examine each word the same way I used to select each strawberry or raspberry; I touch it, pamper it and coddle it until I am convinced that it deserves a place in a sentence. I’ve always loved darkening pages with words and sinking my teeth into a well-written sentence that makes me think. I gather the drafts in piles until my work starts to simmer. This morning, I’m contemplating a dark-grey sky, dotted with large clouds, through my window. Suddenly, I feel like it’s swallowing all the mysteries of the vast sky: God, diseases, death, war, devastating tornadoes, Bhopal, Chernobyl and the senseless murders happening all across the planet. Sometimes, I look towards the celestial ceiling and make myself believe that it’s one huge jumble of misunderstandings. Maybe I’m wrong to think this way. My mind looks like an ant that doesn’t know what to do alongside her capable colony workers. I try to remember the old philosophers whose truths I’ve studied, but my head gets lost in the vast fields of forgetfulness. I get lost in conjectures and wait for the sky to clear up. This may explain my incessant need for fantasy, imagination and for the huge, magical birds that agree to carry my body over the oceans. Occasionally, my friends the crows strike up a conversation with me, an eagle sends me a letter, a wolf enters my kitchen and frogs croak to lull me to sleep. I tell myself that here on Earth, in this big world, there’s enough room for all humans to live in peace. And yet, somewhere in the minds of belligerent men, war satisfies their burning desire to constantly expand their territory. For as long as the world has existed, these so-called powerful lords kill so they can enjoy their possessions in even greater luxury. They used to burn women they called witches and, today, we continue to eliminate them for no reason. Where is the world headed? Am I the only one who’s feeling low? Is the ecosystem rebelling or is progress losing its mind? Another one of my philosophical questions for which I don’t have an answer. I only have words in my bag, tons of words to offer you for entertainment. Life can be long and tortuous, sprinkled with questions that are hard to answer. I live in a library-house that contains thousands of books that no longer offer answers to my current worries. I often quiz Google, who’s extremely knowledgeable but soulless. Apparently, the future of artificial intelligence will be equipped with emotions. Where is the world headed? Shall we consider AI like a menace or an opportunity for humankind? Will AI become sufficiently brilliant to introduce me to the man of my dreams one day? A soulmate endowed with an intelligence compatible with mine? I think I’ve once crossed paths with my soulmate. In April 2016, I was visiting the country of the Rising Sun and I’d already photographed the cherry trees in bloom, each one more beautiful than the other. I was dazzled! Then the guide announced our activity for the next day and promised us something more spectacular: a bamboo grove. While on route to this promising destination, I crossed paths with my soulmate. It lived in the body of a handsome Japanese man whom I walked through the Arashiyama giant bamboo grove with. I remember it as if I were still there! In the tour bus, I was seated next to a tremendously gorgeous Japanese man. I couldn’t ignore him. My heart jumped like a small bird on the branch of a cherry tree. My eyes wanted to take root in his. We crossed the countryside and villages, which must have seemed breathtaking to other travellers, but I only had eyes for the handsome man by my side. He smelled so good; his exotic aroma was bringing all my senses to life. His hands were resting on his right thigh, one atop the other, like in prayer. I tried in vain to see the name on the tag affixed to his jacket. Then, the guide announced that we’d soon reach our destination. The handsome man and I had kept silent for the entire bus ride—some two hours of sighs tumbling into the bumpy void of my heart. On our way, we stopped twice and, each time, the man exited before and held out his hand to help me get off the bus. I could barely look at him because I was so attracted to his face, his self-control. When we reached the bamboo grove, we were each served a nice box of sushi that we enjoyed in silence together. The moment for our stroll through the forest finally came. We made our way at a tortoise’s pace without even seeing what was in front of us since our eyes were fixated on the sky and the tall bamboos pointing like arrows directly into the heart of the clouds. My heart purred with happiness. And while I contemplated the delicate rustling of the air between the bamboos, the man disappeared. Like a feather in the wind, the hope of any intimacy evaporated. Did he run away, get lost, hide? I still ask myself the question. When the guide finally walked up to me, she pronounced two words that revealed the name of my charming travelling companion: Watanabe Isamu. If only this encounter had been a dream so I could continue to cherish it. It’s a true story, however, that occurred on April 17, 2016, in the Arashiyama bamboo grove, just west of Kyoto. During those few moments, I believed I’d met my soulmate. Seated by his side in silence for two beautiful hours, I had plenty of time to imagine myself with him for the rest of my days. Once more, I allowed the chatterbox in my head to conjure up a fabulous, unimaginable happiness, as glorious as the aura of that man who existed for only a day. Cora ♥️

Opened on May 27, 1987, the day I turned 40, Cora restaurants celebrated their 38th anniversary this year. As a divorced mother raising three teens, I had no idea that when I opened that tiny restaurant, I would receive the best gift in the world: the key that would open the door to an incredible future. After a divorce with no alimony, I worked in the restaurant business 6 to 7 days a week for 7 years until my mind was crippled by a severe burnout. My father once said I was a force of nature; “strong as a horse,” he would say. Both my parents were already dead when burnout smothered my spirit. They didn’t have to witness this small mouse, trapped and frozen in fear. I had been working nonstop when suddenly, without warning, exhaustion took over my whole body; I became unable to cook soup for my children, unable to think, unable to respond. I spent two long months lying flat out on the couch in the living room not knowing who I was or where I was going; it was as if my energy had fled my body. Fortunately, one day someone told my eldest about a doctor who might be able to help. I still remember that meeting. He was a very old man who resembled more of an ancient toga-clad philosopher than a modern-day doctor. The treatment he prescribed was simple: There is no medicine to cure extreme fatigue, just rest, lots of rest. “Burnout,” he concluded, “can be cured by doing what you love!” I was completely confused. How was I going to do what I love? I was unable to think about it. Since dropping out of school to get married because I was pregnant, I had endured 13 years of daily misery. Then I had to work like a madwoman to provide for my children’s needs. And yet it was they, these precious teenagers, who found the solution, the magic remedy to cure me: – “Mom, why not write? You loved it so much when we were little. You even wrote in secret most of the time so Dad wouldn’t know. Why not try it now? I’ll give you my ring binder,” said the older boy. – “Please, Mom, I’ll lend you my pens,” said his sister. And so line after line, very quietly, two or three short paragraphs a day, the pen’s ink told the story of a bad marriage, the death of the beautiful girl I had been and the hardship that followed. Day by day, my body came back to life, as if the pieces of a puzzle were putting themselves together in my mind. The children put little dishes on the living room table, they made me thermoses of coffee that I drank with increasing satisfaction. Then one morning the pen dried up. Suddenly I had nothing to say. My body and head were getting better. They wanted to get up, go outside, see the sun and walk in the grass. Wearing a long nightgown and slippers, I started by taking the vacuum out of the closet and removing all the breadcrumbs and bits of biscuit that had fallen on the carpet as I ate. On the coffee table, three empty coffee cups were waiting to be collected. And I felt like doing it, cleaning up my makeshift camp and putting away my sad stories somewhere. Had I managed to melt the mountain of sorrows I had carried to that moment? The old doctor-philosopher was right: DOING WHAT YOU LOVE HEALS YOU. He had prescribed 3½ months of rest, but a miracle happened before I even had time to count the days, an extraordinary miracle, a thousand times bigger than spring’s first daffodil. I was fine and started to look for a place in the neighbourhood to have a coffee and write. And, the day after, I drove my Renaud 5 for the first time after my eldest boy announced that I had to take him downtown for an interview because there was a bus strike. I said YES immediately, happy at last to be useful to this big, capable boy. I still remember putting on lipstick on and braiding my hair into a crown on my head. It was a good sign. As I was crossing Côte-Vertu Blvd., in Montreal, a RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign on the first floor of a small, rather run-down building caught my eye. I will never forget that moment. I knew something was going on in my head. A turn of events that would later remind me of Saint Paul falling off his horse on the road to Damascus. I stared at the sign and promised myself that after I dropped off my son, I would stop by and inquire. After 7 years in a very large and popular restaurant, I had acquired an excellent reputation, a management position and a generous salary. And all the staff, bosses and loyal customers were looking forward to my return. I had it on good authority. And now, in a single moment, a little abandoned restaurant I had come across by total fluke, closed for two long years, entered my mind as if it were the most natural thing in the world. When we neglect our balance, basic needs and inner serenity, the ultimate architect of our lives brings us back to where we need to be. Miracles happen as many times as needed until we finally get it. Without warning, and often without us realizing it, they send us brilliant ideas, prophetic dreams and magic keys. The greatest miracle that happened to me that day was that I believed in that RESTAURANT FOR SALE sign without wholly understanding what it was telling me. Cora ❤️