What is in a name?
I did not expect my name to change at the age of forty-three, but that is what happened. It was not a conscious decision. I did not rebel towards being a ‘David’ and rush to the nearest notary, demanding to become a ‘Gus’. It was passive, a slow migration from David to Gus – the speed of moss taking over a rock. I named my restaurant Gus, and that was that. A foreseeable word association I was blind to. Nonetheless, everyone who walked through the door assumed Gus was my name.
Gus was not even my first choice. I wanted to call my new restaurant Chez Angus. Angus is my middle name. I imagined the Scottish ‘Angus’, a sound that imitates one deposing a haggis from the larynx, being juxtaposed with the seductive French word ‘Chez’, in the city of Montreal, would be fun. I had even done research on the Internet to see if Chez Angus was already established. The only reference I found was a poorly written plot summery of a 1970’s porno, in which the star couple ate at a ‘Chez Angus Steakhouse’ in Malibu before getting on with the heart of the story.
I believed Chez Angus to be a meaty name and would reflect the meaty restaurant I wanted to have. The name and restaurant would be in complete contrast to my previous restaurant, that I owned with my wife, Le Jolifou (2004-2012). A name that I passionately instigated, but quickly came to loath after it was printed on every wine glass and a thousand business cards. The correct French pronunciation of Le Jolifou, possesses a very soft J followed by an unimpressive F. The name was supposed to be a cultural ode to Quebec's heritage. It was derived from a painting by Cornelius Krieghoff of a famous auberge owned by ‘J.B. Jolifou’. In the 1800’s the auberge was the gateway to wilderness, a land port filled with drunken traders and trappers, housing unfettered debauchery on the outskirts of town. In the end, the spirit of the name had nothing to do with the food we were producing, or with the linen covered tables and delicate wine service. After eight years of fun, accolades, growth, mismanagement, and fatigue, Jolifou toppled over onto itself. My wife (who wishes to remain anonymous, always) and I decided to keep our marriage and let the restaurant go.
With great wisdom and restraint my wife held back her views as I proceeded with my project. Untethered, I mistakenly believed I was the captain of my own ship; I had my name, my location, and my fear of taking too long to open. Then my delusional ‘sole-proprietor-of-a-restaurant’ fever, was rudely corrected one evening by two friends.
The evening in question began innocuously, Sarah (a restaurant critic by nature and profession) invited me to review a new BBQ joint across town. Over time I came to believe her invitations were more driven by her need of the second gastro system than any insights I might provide (not once did I see my thoughts in the published copy). I suggested a friend, Adam, who she had yet to meet, to come long. I explained his love of brutalist critique and how he never waffled on unforgiving observations. To prove this point, I provided her with one of Adam’s honest assessments of my own food - Sarah agreed Adam had worth. The fact that I saw the purpose of the evening as a bid to match-make is irrelevant to my story (though I will add, as to not leave loose ends, whatever my success may have been, it lasted only a bee’s distance from one flower to the next). They, on the other hand, I discovered (as I was contemplating if the ribs, I was eating, were better than mine), had another purpose to the evening – an intervention.
Sarah spoke first, “David, Chez Angus is a terrible name.”
Adam, without missing a beat, added, “So terrible.”
“Why?” I asked.
Sarah lobbied first “sounds like a Happy Meal at McDonalds”
Adam followed with “or an unimaginative steakhouse. Angus cows!”
“It is my middle name!”
In unison they laughed and said “So?”
I looked at Adam and asked if this intervention was planned.
He replied “no, it is just…” and sighed. Leaving space for Sarah to finish his sentence in an unemotional and metered manner “… it is just obviously, such. a. bad name.”
For the rest of the evening there was no other subject took hold. The ribs started to taste better than my own, and my twenty years of experience in the industry was shot down. Though I did begin to have high hopes that my match making skills would prove fruitful. They comforted me when I explained I had already registered the company and worked on the logo. Adam suggested the extra paperwork was worth getting the name right. Both seemed please with the evening’s outcome. In fact, I learned years later, many people were happy with that evening’s outcome, including my wife, who had quietly feared Chez Angus would be my final choice. All wishing I would avoid a terminal mistake, like New Coke or investing in Blockbuster stores in 1993.
In the days that followed, Adam, due to his good nature, was helping me with the demolition in my new location and began to suggest new names now that Chez Angus was disposed. As he enthusiastically removed a drop ceiling, allowing insulation, particle boards, a metal support skeleton, and dead wires to fall wherever they may, he asked “How about Le Beaubien?”
As I scurried below, avoiding the falling debris and filled garbage bags, I replied “No, that’s the name of an apartment block a few blocks down the street. Kind of sketchy.”
We continued working like this for a few hours. Adam, dismantling layers and layers of workmanship that built up over the years, like a beaver harvesting a forest, tossing names in my direction. Me, bagging all the non-toxic and possibly toxic material (Quebec is the home of the town formerly known as Asbestos) that fell, as I evaluated each name that came my way. Most of the names he suggested I forget. I only remember Le Beaubien because I hated it so much.
Then he finally suggested Gus.
“Gus is the middle part of your last name Fer-gus-son.” He spoke it phonetically, emphasizing the gus part.
I reminded him that Angus also went to Gus as a nickname. To which he replied “See, two gus’s. That’s great. It works.”
I expressed concern the name was a little too masculine, too confident, for my normal place in the world. Adam assured me asserting myself would not be a bad thing. “It’s Bold! That is the best part.” Then he added, “it’s ok to be bold, David.” He said it in a paternalistic way, but in a positive use of the term, with encouragement behind it.
After twenty minutes of bantering the name Gus back-and-forth, examining its potential weaknesses and strengths, we concluded the name had merit. The next step was to pass the name by my Quebecoise wife, a stress-test of sorts, to avoid a linguistic car crash, or worse, a viral meme en françias.
“Les Gosse?” my wife asked? Stupefied.
“Yes. Gus, like shortform for Angus, and g.u.s. in Ferguson”
“But in French, les gosse is slang for a man’s testicles. Like balls. It is spelt differently but pronounced the same way.”
“Shit. I liked that one, so did Adam. It was his idea. How do you pronounce g.u.s. in French?”
“’Goose’, I guess. I don’t think it’s a real word.”
“Do you think people will make the connection?”
“Je ne sais pas”
Over the next couple of weeks, I flashed every francophone I met a card that read “Gus”. I would quietly wait for their response, search my subjects’ faces for any signs of envisioned dangling testicles, such as a revealing gasp or a giggle, but none ever appeared. I would then ask them if the word stirred such visions. Only then did I receive the queerest of looks, to which I would explain my linguistic concerns. Hence, with a reserved confidence, I decided to change the name from Chez Angus to Gus. A logo was created, wine glasses engraved, and business cards printed.
I can’t remember who or when the first client asked me “Are you Gus?” In the beginning Gus was mostly filled with former clients of the old restaurant. But slowly, the percentage of old and new guests changed, and I began being asked. For the first few months I would answer truthfully, “No, but I am the owner. My name is David Angus Fergusson. Angus goes to Gus. Therefore, we called the restaurant Gus.” I would notice a certain disappointment as they heard this explanation for the name. David sounds like a lawyer or doctor’s name, or a schoolteacher. A David is someone you meet at a dinner party because his partner, the more interesting one in the couple, was invited, and afterwards you forget. No one ever gets excited when meeting a real-life David. Unless the word ‘David’ is followed by a ‘Letterman’ or a ‘Sedaris’.
Then one night, as I was pushing through the ‘juice’, or the ‘weeds’, of the service, too frantic to answer the question truthfully, I just replied “Yes, I am Gus”. The delight I saw in the inquisitor’s eyes was surprising. Like someone finding an old Studebaker in a junkyard – the real McCoy. Somehow, I discovered, this single syllable, three-lettered word, put a spell on people. And when the word Gus signifies a Chef wearing a plaid shirt and a beaten-up old hat, the spell is complete.
Other times I was thrown off guard by their questions. “Are you Greek?”, being puzzled by the question I had never been asked before in my life (I am a pasty WASP), I looked at the client and asked why. “Because Gus is short for Kosta.” As it is the diminutive for Gustavo, Augustine, Gustafson, and many other Latin and Slavic names that I learned over the years. To those, I would point to my Scottish Heritage, and Angus would be joined with the ‘Brotherhood of Gus’ around the world.
For many, the “Gus-package” was disarming. Clients would shackle off any pretenses of poshness once they met Gus. “Uptown does not resemble Downtown, so do not ask for it”, was subtly written in Gus’ appearance. He would wear a roughed-up straw hat and checkered shirt, and was charmingly overweight. The bountiful joyful host to all the guest in his house with no other care in the world than the food and drink he was serving.
David was not the same. He dealt with the garbage, the hiring, the firing, the accountant, the government, the permits, the payments, and the endless denial of his floundering business. Adam would come in during the day when I would be in David mode, cooking. He would walk in, keeping his bike helmet on, proudly wearing his Gus T-shirt, and ask “Mr. Ferguson, how’s it going?” He would hear David’s daily rants, be it a broken faucet that had to be replaced, or the need for a new floor in the kitchen. Before the rant was finished, he would offer to get his tools, or plan a day when he could tear up the old floor. Then he would laugh a little at my turmoil and tell me everything would be fine. Always before leaving, Adam would comment on people’s love of Gus, reminding me of the other side of the equation, the other side of my being. And he would say it with an empathetic joy, as if he was speaking of a Montreal Canadians’ winning streak - happiness in another’s rewards.
‘Gus’ was soon being hollered at me as much as ‘David’, on the street, or at the market. I came to appreciate the usefulness of the names. Quick reference tags for my memory bank, helping me place the person who hollered. ‘David’ meant pre-age forty-three; if I heard Gus, post-age forty-three, and most likely the restaurant. Odder yet, some who had known me for years as David, such as my suppliers, over time began to call me Gus. I always wondered if it was just the repetition of seeing Gus on bills and packaging, that led to a slow cognitive dissonance, washing and re-writing their memories of who I was. Or was it as simple as one said to me, “I know its David, but I prefer Gus”. I realized my name was as fluid as my own story. An outward marker that signified the subtle change in how I understood myself, and what made me. David was not gone, but somehow, Gus had arrived.
Then a call came, Adam had died. I had spoken to him the day before, he was laughing about how a flu had knocked out all his energy, and he felt like a slug. The autopsy had shown he had a massive aortic aneurysm – silent time bomb. His death was hard to process. There was no notice, no time to prepare, no moment to say goodbye or thank you. Only an infinite absence lying ahead for those who loved him. At first, I saw him in my restaurant’s structure; the wall he tore down, or the tile compound he diligently mixed while another friend installed the subway tiles in kitchen. I would find myself sighing to myself ‘oh Adam’, as to comfort him and me, as I thought about all the things he was missing, and how he was missed.
As time has passed, and the name Gus takes a firmer hold on my life, a better natured part of me has come to the forefront. Perhaps this part of me would have emerged eventually, I am not sure. But I do know I would have never been called Gus if it were not for Adam. I now see and love his legacy for more than the simple walls in my restaurant. He surfaced a name from a box of ashes, remnants of burnt bad ideas, brushed it off and handed it to me. As if he said, “try this on, I think you will grow into it”, and I did.