Sometimes you don’t value something until you know you’re about to lose it, or it’s lost.
When Pauline’s Pizza, home of legendarily, serious pesto pizza closed after 33 years, I thought I’d never find another place like it. Good pesto pizza is hard to find, and most places that do pesto pizza, don’t do it well.
Lucky me stumbled on Pi Bar, at the opposite end of Valencia Street from Pauline’s in my Mission neighborhood. It was not Pauline’s – but Pi Bar did its own version of pretty decent pesto pizza.
Smart people – people like Annie Duke, writer of “Quit – The power of knowing when to walk away” – will tell you one signal to move is when the answer to the question “Are things likely to be better one year from now?” is “No.” For example, that job you hate? If it’s likely not to be any better, the red flashing light of low “expected value” (EV) means it’s time to quit.
And last Sunday, Pi Bar closed – for good.
There is quitting as in stopping, period. There is quitting as in moving on while on top, before skills or abilities degrade. And there is quitting while you have accomplished what you’ve set out to do, and it’s time to move on to something different.
Mike Krzyzewski, long-tenured, highly successful, men’s college basketball coach at Duke University, put one perspective on his retirement last year. “When I say I don’t miss it, it doesn’t mean I didn’t love it. I just think I squeezed every bit of joy from that sponge, you know?”
We live in a world where the average marriage lasts 7-8 years, private sector employees clock around 3.7 years with their employers, and most restaurants like Pi Bar average 8-10 years on business. That’s a lot of “quitting.”
Or is it? Maybe some quits are really quits (I’ll be happier someplace else), some are “I’m at the top of my game and ahead,” and maybe some are of “I’ve done what I came to do, time to try something else.“
Pi Bar helped sustain my family during the Covid pandemic, a welcome pie of takeout love during lockdowns, surges, and unpredictability. Little things in uncertain times make big differences. Pizza may not seem like much, but the embracing warm smile of co-owner Jen Garris coupled with the taste and smell of something familiar and good was food not just for the stomach, but food for the soul.
Jen and spouse Rich Rosen operated the place during the pandemic with just themselves – no staff – and as San Francisco slowly climbs back from the pandemic they didn’t see the business getting appreciably better. Their “EV” was low. So they closed.
Thirteen years may not seem like much compared to Pauline’s run, but it’s much better than most. So, after a thirteen-years, it’s goodbye Pi Bar. I’ll miss you. So will so many, many others.
And thank you Pi Bar for taking care of yourself and knowing when to quit. Safe landings: whatever you do, you’ll do well.