March's Must-Reads: Mystery, Romance, and Thrills Await!
Katie Brown
My entire career can be blamed on my red Ford Escort and
curry.You see I had a catering company called "Katie's
Foods" (original I know) where I cooked food out of my
kitchen and delivered it to clients in my—you guessed it—
red Ford Escort. After a while, my hands, my clothes, and
yes, my car began to smell like what I had prepared, what I
was about to prepare--it even seemed to reek of what I was
thinking of preparing. And it was always the stench of that
particular overbearing, but oh so necessary spice, curry.
And believe me, I love that spice, but I couldn't stand it
smelling up my car anymore! So I decided to find a place
where people would come to me to taste my soup du jour.
Hence, GOAT was born.
I started GOAT with my good friend Sarah Essex. It was a
small vintage boutique in West Hollywood, California. It
was filled with fun furniture and tchotchkes, such as over
stuffed couches, fifties and sixties' cocktail wares,
homemade bubble baths, and journals. Customers would take
the time to sit and admire the goods in our small six-seat
cafe while munching on some of my Aunt Ruth's cinnamon
bread.
I thought to myself, hey, this is fun. I get to cook,
redecorate, and sell my crafts. I like my life. You see, up
until this point I was merely waiting for my big acting
break, and Goat was just supplementing my income. But then
I took the money I received from my first big paying
television commercial (perhaps you remember—it was a Saturn
ad where I sold cars . . . and "showed guys the vanity
mirror") to open my second Goat on Mackinac Island, a small
resort island in Michigan where much of my family now
lived. (I was a bit homesick, and I thought I could invent
the perfect life for myself: warm and fun winters in Los
Angeles and familiar summers on Mackinac Island.)
I was in Lake Michigan when a man named Stuart, who works
at the chamber of commerce, came to my front door with a
torn sheet of paper with a phone number written on it. He
said to me, "Someone from Lifetime television in New York
City just called and they are looking for the next Martha
Stewart. I told them that Paul Brown's daughter [that's me]
does that kind of thing. So here you go," and he slid the
torn corner in the pocket of my overalls and walked away.
It had the number of the producer from Lifetime television
on it. They wanted me to call them. I first thought my
sisters had put him up to this. I had been in Los Angeles
for eight long hard years and never had something this
exciting dangled in front of my face. Now, I'm on this
remote island that has about six year round residents (two
of them being my parents) and Lifetime calls here?
I finally mustered up enough courage to dial the number. I
spoke to a lovely development girl named Gina, who
explained Martha was leaving their network and going to
CBS. So they were conducting a nationwide search, which
included making random calls to what she considered "artsy"
areas around the states. She then asked me to send her
photographs of my products, parties, and stores. I
listened, I thought, I hoped, I dreamed. Is it possible?
Could I do this? The next Martha? No, I couldn't be. No one
could compete but, what I do is different. Maybe I could be
the one.
As she continued speaking, I thought to myself photos are
not enough: I must get in the room with these people. So I
blurted out a lie: "I will be in New York next week. How
about lunch?" We were on. I had no money for the plane
ticket, no time to be away from the store and no proper
clothes for an interview.
Not the time for doubts. I had to try. I got in my car,
drove to NYC, and stayed in my sister's tiny apartment, and
luckily, Lifetime paid for lunch. All went well; I arrived
back at the apartment and took a deep breath when the phone
rang. It was Gina—could I meet with the president of
Lifetime tomorrow? Why yes I could. The next day, all
dolled up in my best second-hand man's pin striped suit, I
was ushered into a conference room with one big long table
and what seemed like ten of the most well-dressed,
sophisticated, and hip collection of executives. Each one
was holding a manila folder with "Katie Brown" written on
the tabs. These were real grown ups, and I felt twelve. I
was convinced that a bohemian storeowner without matching
socks was not who they were looking for . . . Surely I will
not leave with the job, but could I please just conduct
myself in a way that I walk out with my dignity? The
questions began: What were women's biggest design mistakes?
How do I define the home cook? My answers started flowing.
I had found my rhythm. What are the differences between the
East Coast, West Coast and Midwest styles? I answered, "If
I were an apron on the East Coast I would be pin striped
and would have a top half and a bottom half; if I were from
the Midwest, I would only be a bottom half apron decorated
with a block print fruit design with a ruffle trim, and if
I were from the West Coast, you would never get me in an
apron." Before I knew it, the development of the show
began. Months later "Katie Brown" the television host, the
author, the spokesperson never had to be in a red car that
smelled like curry again . . . Who knew?