Suzanne Barr is a respected Toronto chef with a flair for Afro Caribbean, soulful comfort food. Her culinary repertoire includes owner of Saturday Dinette; inaugural chef-in residence at the Gladstone Hotel; resident judge on Food Network Canada’s series ‘Wall of Chefs;’ and partner and executive chef at True True Diner, which permanently closed during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The culinary world is complex — stacked with sweet stories of bringing people together through food but also riddled with deep-rooted, unsavoury histories of systemic injustices that continue to poison this industry. As I stand in the wake of the permanent closure of my restaurant True True, I find myself immersed in a profound, bittersweet place of reckoning. This is not just my story, but the story of many BIPOC folks that have and will continue to find themselves displaced.

As a child, my sister and I relished watching and learning from my dad how to cook. In particular, making patties together provided us with a safe haven where the methodical process (from mise en place to the chemistry of cooking) gave us order and structure against the sometimes precarious backdrop of our daily lives. The smells, the beautiful ingredients and the indescribable feelings of familiarity and comfort are forever associated with the array of moist, juicy ground beef perfectly spiced with scotch bonnet, minced onions, pinches of garlic, speckles of black pepper and strands of scallion that would all come together with strong, kneading hands and decisive movements to make a Nicey Patty. Little did I know then that this would be the first of many seeds planted in my soul that would eventually sprout into the trajectories of my life.

My dad was also a passionate entrepreneur. He opened a flower shop in the east end of Toronto 50 years ago and instilled that “can do” attitude in me. Despite all the odds being stacked against him as a Black business owner, he made it happen and thrived.

Years later, I, armed with the same resolute determination and passion, carved out my place in life, as a chef, entrepreneur and social advocate. These titles are things that fit onto an Instagram profile neatly and succinctly, but it does not even begin to shed light on all of me. Beyond these resumé placeholders, I am a Black woman, a mother, a partner, a leader, a connector, a cheerleader, a disrupter and a fierce ally to justice. All of these shades of me have been integral in getting me to where I needed to get going. But they have also been the causes of some of the biggest hurdles I’ve had to face — particularly as a Black, female chef and entrepreneur.

Many budding chefs and entrepreneurs in Toronto (and the world) are faced with the same baseline of challenges: whether it’s finding a desirable spot in Toronto where the cost of rent won’t consume all of the meager profits from an already razor-thin profit model; churning out food that will stay relevant in a competitive, crowded space with fickle diners; and balancing impossible work hours with some semblance of a home life. But add to that being part of a BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and people of colour) demographic that has been systemically pushed down, pushed out, used and discarded. This has been my reality. On a daily basis, it ranges from biased microagressions to full-blown, blatant, anti-Black racist, misogynistic treatment.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, we had temporarily closed True True Diner, as we thoughtfully contemplated how we would evolve the business. After a spell of silence and without consulting with me, my business partners decided to shut down. I had poured so much of myself into this venture. It had become a hub where BIPOC chefs were celebrated, a safe place where our staff who came from marginalized backgrounds found respect and a sense of family. I intentionally made my restaurant a diner to pay homage to all the civil rights sit-ins that happened in diners across North America and helped shape Black history. And when it really mattered, I feel I had no say. My voice, sweat, blood and tears were dismissed and muted by white privilege.

Although this closure is not my first — I believe it’s a recurring pattern of the privileged piggybacking off my Black, female identity. Initially, financial backers or potential collaborators connect with me — often under the guise of allyship. They love the comfort food part. They love the sassy, vibrant energy that I bring. They love all the Black and female parts of me that serve them. But when they see there are so many other aspects that come with who I am at the core, I believe my Blackness becomes an inconvenience. And this is the part where I feel I literally get shut down.

In my moments of despair following the sudden closure of True True, my dad had simple words for me. He told me he was proud and to remember all the shades of me that make me who I am: that I am not defined by the walls and kitchen that make up a restaurant. That everything I will ever need is inside of me.

I’ve had my time to grieve. And like so many strong, beautiful brothers and sisters before me, I will not stop. I am only beginning. I am not ashamed nor see the closure of True True as a failure. It was a pit stop on my long journey filled with obstacles, humility, lessons learned and precious relationships. As my father alluded … my truth will never shut down because it lives within me, and I will continue to grow and flourish. And that is something that can never be taken from me.