American Dylan Alverson was in the midst of tear gas and stun grenades, on the frozen street where Alex Pretti was shot dead by police officers immigration in January. That’s when he came up with the idea for what he later called “an absurd business decision.” He decided to stop charging for food at Modern Times, the cafe in south minneapolis which he has managed for 15 years.
“For the remainder of the government occupation, we will operate as a free, donation-based restaurant,” he wrote on social media, two days after the shooting. The original intent of the change was to stop paying sales taxes to a government that he said was “inflicting active daily harm on its citizens.” The pay-what-you-want restaurant would also gain a new name: Post Modern Times.
Alverson’s decision came at a time of intense and widely publicized local resistance to Operation Metro Surge, which brought 3,000 Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents from the United States. United States and sparked widespread unrest in Minnesota last winter.
More surprising, however, was what followed in the following weeks and months. Post Modern Times has thrived, even as the number of customers who don’t pay for food hovers between 40% and 50%.
“I was more successful than I ever was when I was running a conventional business with 22 employees,” said Alverson, who decided to make the change permanent. “I think this is proof that something is wrong.”
On one of the first warm days of spring last month, the breakfast rush began as soon as Post Modern Times’ doors opened at 9 a.m. Alverson, a married father of three with a nose ring, took a break between tasks while customers settled in.
Among them was Antonio Malone, a video artist who said he had eaten at the restaurant every day for three weeks, drawn by the free, quality food. Sofia Padilla is a neighborhood regular whose son loves pancakes. She doesn’t believe the city has fully recovered from the winter turmoil.
“The whole neighborhood looked like a war zone,” she said. “I want to support a business that cares so much about the community.”
Alverson is both host and spokesperson for his diner-style restaurant, built inside the former premises of an alternative newspaper and literary center. He articulated his evolving vision to numerous stakeholders, including journalists, documentary filmmakers, and members of an experimental theater group.
What began as a way to get around paying sales tax has evolved into a business that borders on performance art: a restaurant that may offer a solution to a broken industry-wide business model, as well as a critique of that model.
“I’ve been struggling to make a profit for 15 years, and I don’t think it’s possible without exploiting people,” he said. “We’re getting out of the system.”
Donation-only or pay-what-you-want restaurants are nothing new. What makes Alverson’s approach innovative is his determination to center the business around an expanded concept of hospitality, driven by something beyond economic survival. Serving customers who can’t afford to eat at most restaurants brings an ethical component to his recalibrated definition of success.
“It’s kind of an unspoken agreement in America that there is a group of people who are worthless, and they are treated as such,” he said. “I disagree with that.”
Alverson reduced the menu after removing prices, to help the small kitchen keep up with increased demand. But the differences that set Modern Times apart from other daytime cafes with diner-style menus — artisanal bread and buttermilk, local ingredients, everything made to order — remain in its successor.
One customer, Juvie Harper, said she first visited Post Modern Times in April, expecting to find the pre-prepared and packaged food she usually finds at such organizations. He was surprised, he said, “to see that everything is really made fresh, with options for different drinks and delicacies.”
In the years before the pandemic, Alverson said, the restaurant was profitable every year but one, but never exceeded a 10% profit margin. He sees his days as a young punk anticipating social collapse as an asset as he continues to face daunting odds as a restaurateur.
“This economy that I call fascist is not a place where independent businesses can survive,” he said. “I believe we are facing a catastrophic failure of the restaurant industry.”
The pessimistic analysis is not that far-fetched.
About 42% of restaurant owners said their businesses would be unprofitable by 2025, according to a report from the National Restaurant Association.
Modern Times’ proximity to tragic events — it’s just four blocks from where Renee Good was killed and six blocks from the scene of her murder George Floyd— contributed to its challenges. But the financial precariousness that Alverson has experienced over the past six years is not unusual.
His restaurant generated $1.3 million in sales last year and still made a loss of $18,500, according to a financial statement prepared by an accountant that he shared with The New York Times. And this despite cost containment measures, such as paying himself just US$23,000 (R$119,600) per year as the restaurant’s manager, chef and handyman.
“I’ve been wearing as many hats as possible,” Alverson said. “The numbers don’t add up.”
Modern Times’ distinctive products have added a revenue stream since the restaurant introduced limited-run artist-designed T-shirts during the pandemic. The attention generated by Operation Metro Surge and Alverson’s response to it led to an increase in these sales, from US$60,000 (R$312,000) per year to US$25,000 (R$194,000) in April of this year alone, in addition to a flood of financial donations from outside Minnesota.
Alverson describes his current operation as “a period of creation.” The goal is to find a model that works for him and others.
“What I realized immediately is that we created a space of economic equality that doesn’t really exist in a business environment,” he said. “What can we learn from this?”
Their efforts were not universally applauded. Alverson said neighbors regularly complain that Post Modern Times is attracting customers who increase the potential for crime.
To address these concerns, Derek Armstrong works security in front of the restaurant most days. He draws on his experience as a “violence interrupter” in George Floyd Square, intervening peacefully before crimes could occur. He knows how to navigate intense moments that can be complicated by addiction and mental illness, as he suspected was the case when a customer pulled a butter knife on an employee.
But his volunteer work is often much quieter than that, he said, and he often knows the people involved. “Sometimes I can call him by name and say calm down,” Armstrong explained. “Etiquette things to make sure it’s run here like the high-quality restaurant that it is.”
