One year ago, chef Maria Hines had been running her James Beard Award-winning Seattle restaurant, Tilth, for nearly a decade and a half. Housed in a charming Wallingford Craftsman, Tilth was only the second certified organic restaurant in the country when it debuted. Hines’ cooking in Tilth’s small kitchen supported the work of local farmers, fishers, foragers and more, while both local and national critics applauded as her ethos helped define a new era of high-end Pacific Northwest cuisine. Lucky regulars and those celebrating alike felt – and tasted – the alchemy happening, clinking innumerable glasses as evenings stretched out deliciously within Tilth’s butter-colored walls. Hines opened two more places along the way, but after the sad closure of one and the sale of the other, she spoke frankly of the difficulty of running restaurants as Seattle grew, of the increasing competition and skyrocketing expense. Tilth, however, she would hold on to – as she said in the Before Times of 2019, “It’s my baby.”
On March 15, 2020, Tilth’s dining room went quiet. With Washington state put on lockdown in an attempt to contain COVID-19 cases, indoor restaurant service was halted. Hines – who agrees with the public health measures taken then and since, saying, “100% that had to happen, and in fact, it should’ve been more aggressive” – took the “gut-wrenching” step of laying off all but three of her 17-person-strong team. The four of them who remained scrambled to revamp the Tilth menu for upscale family-style takeout like bake-at-home salmon en papillote with fingerling potatoes, citrus, fennel and herb butter. Hines says her sales dropped immediately and dramatically. She and the skeleton crew worked without the heat on to save money. “We were wearing jackets and beanies,” she remembers. “It was cold in there!”
Hines’ first-ever cookbook, “Peak Nutrition: Smart Fuel for Outdoor Adventure,” came out on April 8 of last year, representing a dream culmination of her outside interests and culinary expertise. But pandemic circumstances left little room for celebration. Under a degree of financial stress that book royalties could not begin to address, Hines used her nonexistent spare time to slog through the paperwork for a federal Paycheck Protection Program loan. The money finally came through at the end of April. It felt like a lifeline – at least for a time.
As spring turned to summer, Hines was trying everything she could think of to keep Tilth going. The stress only mounted. She recalls thinking, “‘I cannot lose this restaurant. This is my life!’ … That’s how I’d feel when I woke up, and I’d go to bed and I’d have that same fear – constant fear.” She felt a deep sense of responsibility to those whom Tilth supported – the remaining crew, the local purveyors she bought foodstuff from who were also under dire financial duress. What had felt like a community growing together for more than a decade, celebrating the land and water and seasons, had a new, stark reality. “In essence, you’re helping them keep a roof over their head and a bed …” Hines realized. “And you’re like [expletive] – this is all going to be gone.”