Oregano, dry: $5.
Parmigiano, grated: $10.
Tables and decorative plants: make an offer.
In 2017, Michael and Hatice Rosato opened Sospeso, a restaurant that featured eastern Mediterranean cuisine and Michael’s homemade vermouth. The 60-table establishment, in a converted office on Northeast Washington’s H Street corridor, was named for the “Neapolitan practice of anonymously paying for a coffee … for someone else in need.”
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Michael had spent more than a decade toiling in the food industry. Finally, he had his own place. And, for seven years, its doors remained open.
Sospeso survived the coronavirus. It survived inflation and confusion over tipping. It survived the Rosato family’s move from the H Street area to the suburbs.
But, in March, the Rosatos decided to close. Business was flagging. Staff members had been carjacked. Crime in D.C. was on the rise. The restaurant’s carrying costs — $50,000 per month — were too high.
Day after day, the couple felt that they were just working for their landlord.
They had dreamed a dream, and it had come true.
Then, it came undone.
But when a restaurant closes, the story isn’t over. Now, everything had to go.
Thyme, dry: $5.
Feta, one pint: $10.
Reader’s Digest Condensed Books: make an offer.
Sospeso served its last meal on April 7, and a liquidation sale was advertised on Instagram and by word of mouth for the following weekend. Dozens of people showed up, picking through what remained of the restaurant as ’90s rock blared.
The Rosatos weren’t just selling plates and flatware. All of the countless objects a modern restaurant demands were up for sale: Candlesticks. Half-empty bottles of alcohol. Deep-fryer baskets. Soup tureens. A cactus.
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“We both have done a lot. We have done everything possible to make this work,” Hatice said. “Even your best is not enough.”
She stood among the shoppers, answering questions as her young children — Miles and Siena — gave impromptu restaurant tours. Miles wore a fedora and a skinny tie. Siena wore a princess dress and earmuffs.
The children felt at home here, Hatice said. A small loft space above Sospeso’s second floor was outfitted with a play kitchen where they whiled away idle hours.
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Olivier Caillabet, who runs the ramen restaurant Toki Underground two blocks away, browsed through books in the second-floor dining room before heading to the kitchen. His feelings about Sospeso’s departure: “It sucks.”
Many H Street restaurants opened businesses more than a decade ago amid the corridor’s resurgence. Since then, costs and competition have increased. According to data from the Restaurant Association Metropolitan Washington, 75 percent of restaurants are less profitable than they were before the pandemic.
“The food was good,” Caillabet said. “The service was good. They did everything right. It’s tough.”
Sospeso Blanco Vermouth: $49 per liter.
Urfa chile flakes: $9.
Grapefruit juice: 50 cents.
Emma Hollandsworth and Hakeem Bisyir had come to say goodbye. They stood in line to buy small containers of lentils and hummus as Michael negotiated prices while navigating various payment systems.
“We always loved coming,” Hollandsworth said.
“It’s a little weird in here,” Bisyir said.
“We thought it would be a happier vibe,” Hollandsworth added.
On the second floor was a painting — a mural of what looked like an Italian village with the restaurant’s name stenciled in the sky. The painting, on three large pieces of plywood, was propped in front of an exterior door. A strong wind occasionally blew the door open, knocking the plywood to the floor.
Apparently not even a portrait of the restaurant could survive.
In the end, Michael didn’t get rid of everything he’d wanted to. Other restaurateurs would come by to see what was left.
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They probably would get a bargain. Michael knew the dangers of holding out for a higher price on kitchen gear during a fire sale.
Closing Sospeso helped him remember, he said, that “special things happen in restaurants.” People have stopped in to remind him what a good time they had there. Some said they started drinking vermouth because of Sospeso. An employee met his wife working there.
“I’m happy that I did it,” he said. “Before opening the restaurant, I was tired of me saying, ‘I’m going to open a restaurant.’”
Most people never get to live their dream; at least the Rosatos lived one for a while. Now, Michael can focus on bottling and selling vermouth. Hatice can turn to her jewelry business.
The book of life has many chapters.
“It feels good,” Hatice said. “We are ready to move on.”
