Even before I’d met Mr. Kite, I knew I liked him.
From my living room window, high above State Street, I’ve been spying on his store, Mr. Kite’s Confectionery, with its old-fashioned red and white striped awning. No one, it seems, ever goes in or out. The owners of the jewelry store next door closed and moved to Florida about a year ago, Dillon’s Frozen Custard has been abandoned for months and months, and lately I’ve been worried that Mr. Kite will be next.
But he keeps hanging on. In a time when people seem to let go of things much too easily, Mr. Kite is steadfast and true, a sign of permanence.
It’s not just his fortitude I admire. I like the way he pays such close attention to the holidays. Mr. Kite makes a very big deal about Easter, Christmas, Halloween, Mother’s Day.
Right now, his place is overflowing with baskets full of sweet-smelling chocolate hearts and cupids, wrapped in cellophane and tied up with big red bows. I like Mr. Kite because he wears his heart on his storefront, even when customers are scarce.
This neighborhood is home to more than its fair share of scrappy nail salons and dry cleaners and diners, all hanging on like Mr. Kite. But if you turn your back for a couple of seasons, suddenly the handsome 1889 Queen Anne-style building on the corner of State and Division will have been transformed into a huge CVS pharmacy, dressed up in brand new brick that doesn’t match the old stuff, like some gorgeous old Gold Coast matron with bad plastic surgery. Never mind the Walgreen’s pharmacy one block away, or the one at Jewel-Osco two blocks away. And what chance did Solomon-Cooper Drugstore have? After dispensing fancy soaps and pharmaceuticals since 1912, they’ll close their doors for good on Valentine’s Day. CVS bought them out.
It’s out with the old-fashioned and in with the newfangled around here. Even the Gap has closed.
But not Mr. Kite’s.
Last month, I started making a special trip past his store in the morning, supposedly to get my newspapers at the Gold Coast Food Mart, two doors up, but really to see how he was doing. Just checking in. His “Open, Come In” sign hung in the door every day, cheery and hopeful. The place didn’t look open — it’s hard to tell because you can’t see the counterperson from the sidewalk — but whenever I cracked the door a bit, I could smell chocolate.
One night I walked by at around 8:30, speeding up a little when I got to his door, and I think I caught a glance of Mr. Kite himself, in there working on some papers. But no customers.
A few mornings ago, I edged up and peered through the front window — which is mostly obscured by hand-painted signs illustrating his specialty taffy apples (“Best in Town”), deluxe chocolatized strawberries (“Place Your Order Now”) and handmade s’mores.
Three women were busy at work in the front kitchen, getting ready for Valentine’s Day, mixing big bowls of chocolate and delicately placing pastel colored conversation hearts onto iced cookies, as if the cookies had feelings. I was glad he has them around, because what could be lonelier than an empty candy store at this time of year?
Obviously, Mr. Kite is old-fashioned. I don’t mind it, but how can he compete? He sells lemon drops and licorice Scottie dogs and cinnamon hearts and Jordan almonds and malted milk balls and chocolate cigars. He sells big lumps of chocolate-dipped sponge candy, peanut butter smoothies, drumsticks, cashew caramel clusters, chocolate dipped orange slices and coconut haystacks, which he has renamed Bill Cosbys. Mr. Kite doesn’t seem to be aware of the crazy fads in the candy business. I don’t imagine he throws around words like ganache or guanaja when he’s talking about chocolate.
So I often wonder: Has Mr. Kite never seen the crazy lines at that crazy caramel corn store on North Michigan? Does he know that Godiva chocolates are for sale at the first and third floor escalators inside Bloomingdale’s? Has he ever thought about jazzing the place up a bit?
I decided I had to meet him.
I went in before noon one day, and confessed my fond feelings and also my worries about the apparent paucity of candy-buying customers (we, and the chocolate-stirring ladies, being the only people in the place). But he seemed surprisingly unmoved by my admiration, unnerved by my concerns about his profits. He was on his way to do some business, he claimed. He had sweets to sell. I gave him my card. He never called.
I persisted. When I finally cornered him, it was at night. (I learned that Mr. Kite, who is 42 and a native of Taiwan, is not really named Kite at all but that’s what everyone has called him since he bought out his original partner, Henry Kite in 1988; he works seven days a week, until 9:30 p.m. and until 11 in summer, when he turns on his frozen yogurt machine.)
A young couple was inside buying marzipan — actual customers! The floor was lined with boxes of Valentine gifts packed up to ship out.
A pretty woman in a blue fur hat with bright blue eyes was buying malted milk balls; she informed me that she lives in the neighborhood and visits Mr. Kite all the time.
“He’s just so lovely,” she said. In fact, she orders gifts for donors at the foundation she directs. “Some of them live in the neighborhood and they definitely recognize Mr. Kite’s little seal. I think it makes the gift more special, because it’s more personal,” she told me.
They smiled at one another. He said goodbye, using her first name. “Goodbye, Holly,” he said. I felt sort of jealous. “I have lots of friends in the neighborhood,” he told me, and he also does a lot of corporate business and custom-made candy, it turns out. Two police officers, Jennifer Kromidas and Brian Warner, came in for a mint smoothie and a s’more, and told me that Mr. Kite, or Dominic, as they referred to him because they knew him so much better than I do, was one of the most creative, hardworking guys they know. And then they chummily ordered big chocolate Oscars for their Academy Awards party. “He’s doing the guest gifts for my wedding too,” Kromidas added.
After they left, Mr. Kite informed me in no uncertain terms that he has no desire to expand. “I’m lucky,” he said, “even though I don’t have too much business.”
I went home, a little less worried about Mr. Kite, but also a little sad. He offered me a pecan cluster as I left. But clearly, he has all the attention he needs.
