The problem wasn't with the menu. Cooper's friend, Elizabeth Wilson, had served the Harlem favorite for 60 years at Wilson's Soul Food Restaurant in New York City. The 80-year-old Wilson's warning was more prosaic: "That's too many folks in the kitchen."
It took two years, but her words proved true. Sandora's Box, a popular Harlem-style breakfast spot near downtown, is set to serve its final plate of fried chicken wings and waffles this week, spoiled by fighting between the two restaurateurs who tried to share a kitchen.
Cooper's abortive restaurant had its start in 1996, thanks to a message from God. Cooper was working for local television station KDFW, which had undergone three changes in ownership in three years. Turnover was high, and Cooper's nerves were on edge.
"There was a lot of turmoil at work," she recalls. "People were afraid for their jobs, worrying about 401k and what was going to happen in the future. And I was getting a little bit old, and I'm saying this is just a little bit much." She needed a career change, so she prayed.
"I said: 'Lord out of the many talents that I've been blessed with, which of them could I use to earn a living of my own without having to depend on someone so much?' He says, 'Cook.'"
Cooper wasn't sure that she had heard God correctly until she saw a sign that said "Happy Hours" outside of the New Orleans Seafood Parlor at 3115 Live Oak. She had driven past the restaurant often, but never saw any cars in the lot, so Cooper, a former nightclub manager, stopped to ask the owner whether he needed any help.
New Orleans owner Douglas Parker told her business was good. He served Cajun cuisine during lunch hours only and made most of his money renting the space for parties on weekends. Parker offered to sublease the restaurant to Cooper in the mornings if she was interested in running her own business.
A year later, Cooper decided to take him up on his offer, but she had no equipment and no money.
Although Parker doubted that Dallas' commuters would stop in for fried chicken and waffles on the way to work, he offered her his restaurant -- including the appliances and basic supplies -- for a flat fee of $250 a month.
On November 15, 1997, Sandora's Box had its grand opening. Cooper hired jugglers to attract people off the street and invited old friends from her days in the nightclub and media business. The building was packed that first day, but business soon tapered off. For the first six months, she barely broke even. "I was happy if I had two people coming in at one time," she says.
Then her luck began to change. A customer told KKDA-AM radio personality Willis Johnson about the menu at Sandora's Box. Johnson frequently spoke of his fondness for a West Coast food chain called Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles. When Cooper found out about this, she called Johnson on the air and set him straight on the history of chicken and waffles.
"They originated in Harlem in 1938 at Wells Restaurant on Seventh Avenue," Cooper says.
Afterward, Cooper went down to the station and cooked Johnson and his morning crew breakfast. He loved the food and publicized the restaurant on the air. Soon, Dallas developed a taste for Sandora's Box.
As Cooper's profits rose, her troubles began. First, Parker brought in his niece to manage his restaurant. The new manager began locking up the kitchen supplies that Cooper had once used for free. Worse yet, Cooper learned that Parker's niece had criticized her cooking to customers. Cooper complained, but Parker refused to get involved.
"I told them, whatever their problem is, I don't want to know about it," Parker says.
Because Parker still rented the place out on the weekends for parties, Cooper says she had to clean the restaurant mornings after the place was rented. She also claims that large quantities of meat began to disappear.
"His response was that he didn't know or didn't take it," Cooper says.
Parker's niece found another job last spring, and tension eased temporarily.
Sandora's Box, meanwhile, was booming, helped along by two stories published in the The Dallas Morning News and an interview with Cooper broadcast on KDFW's Sunday morning news program Insights.
"I knew it was time for me to get my own place," Cooper says. Unfortunately, the place she chose was already occupied -- by Parker's business.
Originally, Cooper envisioned a restaurant with a Harlem Renaissance theme, but her attempts to secure financing fell through. She needed $50,000 to move to a space in Deep Ellum, but all but one of her potential investors told her there wasn't enough profit in investing that amount into just one restaurant. In August, Cooper connected with Dr. Richard McDaniel, who a friend told her might be interested in loaning her the $50,000. Cooper and McDaniel met outside Sandora's Box, and he pointed out a for-sale sign posted on the property. McDaniel declined to be interviewed for this story, but Cooper says he encouraged her to look into buying the building.
She did, without first speaking to Parker, whose lease will expire in 2000. Cooper introduced herself to Parker's landlord, Frank Perryman, telling him that she subleased from Parker. Cooper was unaware this was a violation of Parker's lease.
Parker soon informed Cooper that the landlord was threatening to evict him unless he stopped allowing Sandora's Box to sublease the restaurant. Cooper says the landlord later denied this, and Perryman told the Observer he did not know Cooper.
On October 5, Cooper found herself locked out of the restaurant, her signs thrown by the trash. Cooper obtained a court order allowing her to reopen temporarily, but as of November 30 her eviction was final, and the lid was closed on Sandora's Box. At least that's what the eviction notice that Parker served Cooper with said. At press time, Cooper told the Observer that she planned on opening the restaurant December 1, and that she will leave only when Parker physically puts her out.
"When I go in tomorrow morning, I'll know," Cooper says.
Any hopes of reconciling with Parker were dashed when Cooper's 31-year-old daughter, Tracey, recently walked into Parker's restaurant and told his customers that Parker sometimes thawed chicken in the restaurant's mop sink. Parker denied the claim and was so outraged that he began chaining the refrigerator and freezer. Parker says that after the incident he feared for his customers whenever Cooper's daughter was on the premises.
Tracey Cooper says that she was evening the score for her mother.
"She's been depressed a lot," she says. "We're unsure about a lot of things. Her hopes have been raised a lot, and in this last few months they've been shattered."
Both Cooper's daughter and her mother, 72-year-old Clyde McClendon, seem to agree, however, that whatever Cooper's intentions were, she was wrong to speak with Perryman behind Parker's back.
Parker, Perryman, and Cooper each blame the others for the bad blood between Cooper and Parker. Parker is upset with Cooper because he says that Perryman informed him that his protégé tried to take his business. Cooper says that she had no such intention. Parker cites Perryman as the reason behind his decision to evict Cooper, but Cooper says that Perryman told her that he didn't care if she continued to sublease from Parker.
Parker says that he's merely trying to protect his investment, and that he never made much money from Cooper, even after he recently raised her rent from $250 to $500 a month.
"If you know anything about the restaurant business, $500 don't do nothing in the restaurant business. She didn't have no equipment. She didn't have no nothing. She was paying $250 a month rent for a year and a half; $250 don't do shit for me when I've got to pay $1,000 rent, $700 electric bill...I was just helping her to get a feel for the restaurant business...So, I felt like I was really kicked in the ass for helping her out," Parker says.
Cooper, meanwhile, is left wondering what she will do for a career if she is finally evicted. A former dancer, Cooper was a songwriter during the heyday of disco. Above her fireplace are three gold records, one for the song "In the Bush," which Cooper wrote for the disco group Musique. Cooper was also the group's manager and traveled with Musique when disco was popular. Her past success makes her current predicament seem worse. A few weeks ago, she says, a realty company offered her another fully equipped restaurant space to lease, but she couldn't come up with the necessary $4,000.
"I can't give up. Whenever I think about this not working, everything just goes black," Cooper says.
