Master of the Restaurant Riff

In 1998, he was ready to give up the commute. Alevizos left Washington and moved back home to work for Kuester Partners — the agency owned by Kevin Kuester, now a partner in Parasole — at Roberts’s direct request.

“I came back at a really good time,” says the adman. “I got to be a part of creating Oceanaire. It was all Phil’s idea to do a power seafood thing, but I helped with the retro supper clubby motif, how to make it masculine, because at the time seafood restaurants weren’t a big draw for business dining. I named it, too. I learned a ton. And then there was Chino."

The name was not his invention. “Chino Latino” is the way New Yorkers refer to the Chinese-Cuban bistros that populate ethnic neighborhoods and try to offer a little something for everyone.

“But I’m the one who stole it,” says Alevizos. “And it squared perfectly with our concept.”

Parsole has a good deal of money, and the partners are known for using it wisely. They knew the Uptown location alone would sell Chino, as would the stylish design, the hot food, and the flaming drinks. So the restaurant invested only in cheap billboard advertising, and let word of mouth do the rest.

Alevizos wrote and wrote: “Mommy, Mr. Whiskers didn’t come home last night,” remains one of his favorites. He regrets that “No cockfighting in the restroom” was rejected by Clear Channel (the billboard company). He also loves his diarrhea series, including “Tio Pepe’s Tacos: Runs South of the Border.”
Once Chino was established (and a raging success), Alevizos switched from ad copy to fortune cookie messages. This is where all his talents—publicity, prose, and saber-sharp humor—came together.

“Boy did you eat quickly. (What was that about?)”
“Look around, mister. Next time, dress more appropriately.”
“Two words: control top.”
“Your waiter perceives sustained eye contact as a threat.”
“Now won’t you accept Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?”
“If you drove here tonight, walk home. Repeat, walk home.”

“People hated that last one.” Alverizos rolls his eyes. “They be all superstitious and get afraid to drive home. Can you believe it? After about a dozen complaints, we had to take that one out.”

Meantime, Kuester Partners had been sold and Alevizos ended up working for Gage Marketing Group, where he wrote materials for literally hundreds of different businesses. But last year, right around the time Parasole was rolling out Salut — the French-style bistro at 50th and France — he grew tired of working for “the man” and, along with two former colleagues, started an agency of his own called Intercom.

They share office space with Parasole, behind and under Salut. About 30 percent of Intercom’s business is with the restaurant company — the agency’s client list ranges from Medtronic to Walking Minneapolis to Golden Oval Eggs —and late last year, Alevizos leveraged his trademark shtick for Salut: this one making fun of Edina. “Edina, your cake is served,” read the first. “Our oyster bar takes the E.D. out of Edina,” announced the most obscure.

The partners at Intercom were shocked when the Edina Grill, newly located in the space next door, took out a billboard across the street from Duluth and launched a nearly identical campaign.

“I was shocked by the lameness of it,” Alevizos says. “They openly duplicated our advertising strategy. It was something like ‘Hard day at the spa?’ and people at Parasole kept coming up and asking me if I’d started working for the competition.”

Tim Alevizos must run to an appointment. Right now, he works seven days a week — partly because business is booming and partly because he’s saving to buy a sleek spaceship-shaped Fasenello chair.

Before you leave his condo, you will ask to use the facilities once more; but this time, he’ll direct you to the other bathroom. You will appreciate this, because while its toilet isn’t quite as advanced as the Neorest (this one lacks the white noise machine, designed to cover all those indelicate bathrooms sounds), Alevizos keeps it stocked with everything a guest might need.

There are seven kinds of shampoo in the shower, and 14 kinds of lotion lined up along the wall. Exotic hemorrhoid creams with labels written in Arabic, nipple shields, feminine deodorant sprays in a variety of scents. And a very expensive, imported French douche, just in case.

 

 


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