Suzette Franco-Camacho Photo

Bespoke's Arturo Franco-Camacho behind the metal gate Yale erected to keep he and his wife Suzette from using the restaurant's back door.

A wooden walkway. A cinder block addition. A back door.

Standing at the rear entrance to Bespoke, the chic new restaurant by New Haven culinary darlings Arturo and Suzette Franco-Camacho, it's hard to believe this is it: This is what all the fuss is about. An exit. A place to keep the dry goods and the wine. A way to take out the trash. This adds up to hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees, years of squabbling and a personal toll beyond measure.

Like any David versus Goliath tale, it can be hard to believe.

One of the best restaurants in a city of fine restaurants—and one of the first in New Haven's much-touted "renaissance"—was brought down by a six-year property battle between two hard-working restaurateurs and the city's most important institution, Yale University. That restaurant, Roomba—the Nuevo Latino miracle child of the Franco-Camachos—was closed after Yale opted not to renew the couple's lease, citing a soured business relationship. If recent events are any indication, Roomba may be just the first casualty of Yale's attack on the Franco-Camachos' life's work. Yale, of course, doesn't characterize its actions as an attack, but rather a strident defense of its property rights. Nothing more than that, nothing personal.

From the beginning, Bespoke has been plagued by problems, the most significant of which was Yale University Properties asserting sole rights to the back door and cinder block addition at 266 College St. The Franco-Camachos had leased and later bought that building, completing the extensive renovations necessary to turn a mediocre diner into the sort of place that earns a "very good" rating from The New York Times, as Bespoke recently did.

Yale bought the parking lot behind Bespoke in 1999—as part of a larger land deal—and believed the shed and walkway belonged to the university, and only the university. By the time those claims became clear to the Franco-Camachos—almost a year after they'd signed the lease—the couple was too deep into the project of restaurant building to back out.

They'd already spent a year on the project. They'd emptied the contents of the building—formerly Kasey's Restaurant—and worked with an architect to design its haute new interior. They'd wrangled with banks to secure $625,000 in small business loans and written $5,500 a month in rent checks—or about $66,000 worth—to their landlord, Asimina Antonellis.

So the Franco-Camachos went ahead with their plans to open the restaurant while Yale sued Antonellis. Financially strapped, they sold their family home in Milford and made room for themselves and their two daughters in the top two floors of the building.

In back of 266 College St., there's a walkway—a stilted wood and metal construction that extends from Bespoke's rear wall to a public parking lot. It's used by four businesses besides Bespoke, and is the only way for the Franco-Camachos to leave out their back door. In 2005, Yale erected a heavy metal gate to block the back door—a gate placed so close to the door that it could only open about a foot. The gate was locked from the outside, and only Yale had a key. Yale's gripe was that the Franco-Camachos were using a walkway the university owned. The second sore spot for Yale was the wine closet, which had been built years before on what is now university property. Both the addition and the walkway had been used by previous tenants for years. How many years—or whether there's been "visible and exclusive possession uninterruptedly" of the closet and "notorious, adverse and continuous" use of the walkway for 15-plus years—is the crux of the Franco-Camachos' defense in Yale's case against them.

Yale's trying to keep the Franco-Camachos from using the closet and the walkway, even though both are physically attached to their building, and have been for the entire time the couple's been there. The Franco-Camachos are fighting back, relying on the same laws that allow squatters to lay claim to multimillion-dollar New York City apartment buildings and surfers to maintain trail access to California surf spots: adverse possession and prescriptive easement. Which, in essence, means: Use it long enough and, in effect, it becomes yours.

When Yale sued the Antonellises, and then the Franco-Camachos, they were hoping to re-establish their exclusive rights to the property they'd bought, before they lost those rights permanently. The longer the Franco-Camachos used the walkway, the more firmly they'd establish the right to continue using it. The longer they used the closet, the more likely it would be seen as theirs, whether it was on their deed or not. Yale couldn't have that, says David Newton, former head of University Properties—the office that manages Yale's commercial real estate—because the university wants to develop the property. Maybe. Eventually. Someday. There's no immediate plan, says university spokesman Tom Conroy, but it's been discussed.

Yale acknowledges the Franco-Camachos genuinely believed they'd be able to use the two pieces of contested property when they leased the Bespoke building. "I do believe [the Franco-Camachos] assumed they had this right [to use the closet and walkway]," Newton said in an interview in early August. "We said, 'Hey look, you don't—because it's our property—but we're willing to allow you to use the property, the walkway and the shed. However you ought to be also aware that at some point in time we [may] end up developing this area back here, which may make it impossible for you to exit out the back.'

"During this discussion, also, when we were in this minor skirmish with the Antonellises over this, I knew that Suzette was anxious to build the restaurant, so we advised her to build a second [exit] out of the restaurant because we didn't know how long this whole litigation with the Antonellises would take."

In late 2005, the Antonellises settled with Yale—signing over whatever rights the family may have had to the cinder block addition via a quit claim deed. By then, the spat with Yale had grown ugly. Shortly after, the university threw down the gauntlet. If the Franco-Camachos didn't agree to sign the license agreement acknowledging Yale's ownership, Yale said, the couple's lease at Roomba, which had expired earlier that year, would not be renewed—a move that would effectively shut down the business. Yale made good on their promise. Six years after the couple began work on their second restaurant, their first—the beloved Roomba—was shuttered.

Almost two months after the couple closed Roomba, Suzette sits at Bespoke's long, slate counter, surrounded by her vision: the recessed candles along the white-painted exposed brick wall, the alighted crystals overhead, the many kinds and textures of varnished wood. Her eyes well—for the third time today—as she describes the days before Roomba's seven-year run ended in June. "It was very strange," she says, "it was almost like a funeral. I had people come up to me and just look at me like they'd just lost somebody. By the last Sunday, I just wanted to be done because it was just hard. Bringing my kids into the space for the last time, because they grew up there—seeing them upset about it—that killed me."

The Franco-Camachos see Roomba's closure as retaliation for their disagreement with Yale over the Bespoke building. "[Roomba's lease] was the one piece of power that they had over me that they could use," says Suzette, "which is ultimately what they did, and it was the fear I had the entire time."

It's easy to envy people with the ambition and skill to start not one but two successful restaurants, especially when they are as charismatic and seemingly on top of the world as the Franco-Camachos are. But much of what seems effortless from the outside is in fact carefully cultivated, says Suzette. A restaurant like Bespoke depends on image as much as it does on good food. Part of Suzette's role in her and her husband's business is to do her best to keep the cracks in the Franco-Camacho facade from showing. She loves her work, she says, but years of litigation and the financial burden it's caused have taken a toll on the couple.

It would be hard to overstate the Franco-Camachos' place at the center of New Haven's restaurant scene. Arturo—who goes by "Franco"—came from poverty, worked his way to the Culinary Institute of America, opened a beautiful restaurant and appeared on The Today Show. In a city like New Haven, itself emerging from a decidedly unglamorous past, this constitutes stardom. Roomba's patio nightlife was even featured in Market New Haven's self-promotional—and partially Yale-funded—ad campaigns, designed to show that New Haven is a hipper place now than it once was. While it was open, Roomba was a poster child for New Haven's renaissance.

But the Franco-Camachos' success didn't come easily, and having it compromised by an endless lawsuit has been hard on them, says Suzette. They've lost sleep and time with their kids. Their financial situation is precarious, though they're hesitant to say how bad it is.

Suzette was raised in Milford and went to Gateway Community College and Southern Connecticut State University. After leaving the area for Florida and then Fairfield County, she spent years in the less savory corners of the restaurant industry. She worked for Disney, then for a company that franchised restaurants and eventually became general manager of Park Place, a Stamford restaurant where Franco was the executive chef.

Franco's from Tijuana, Mexico—a swelling border city that's known for prostitution, its shantytown hillsides and the human and drug traffickers that increasingly rule the place. His family was poor, but he made it through school and became a dental hygienist. At 20, he followed a neighbor who'd crossed the border to work in a restaurant in San Diego, getting a job washing dishes. He took English classes, followed another colleague to Hawaii to work at a start-up restaurant there, got an apprenticeship at a Hyatt in Maui, and then a second Hyatt apprenticeship that took him to Chicago. He paid his way through New York's prestigious Culinary Institute of America. He's cooked in Spain, France, England and aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2 super cruise ship. Last week, he had an interview at The Food Network, where he's being considered for his own show.

Suzette says that having come so far, the loss of Roomba, their financial insecurity and the constant stress of litigation has been especially difficult for her husband. Sometimes, she says, they consider leaving New Haven altogether, putting down roots somewhere else and starting over. "To say that they've driven us from New Haven is a pretty fair statement," she says.

Yale doesn't dispute that the decision to end Roomba's lease was related to their disagreement over the Bespoke property. "We think it's totally appropriate," says Tom Conroy, a university spokesman. "If you have a fundamental disagreement with a business partner—something so fundamental, so basic that you can't even agree on the ownership of a piece of property, where it's abundantly clear that we own it—you're just not going to have a productive business relationship in the future."

But the underlying issue of who owns the property has been temporarily put on hold. The dispute that Yale has with the Franco-Camachos over their use of the walkway and closet was seemingly resolved a year earlier when the two sides came to a settlement. That agreement, as it was granted by a housing court judge, gave the Franco-Camachos a two-year license to use the walkway and closet—with the possibility to renew it annually. It said, in effect, let's agree to disagree for now and hash this out later. It also said the Franco-Camachos had to fix up the closet to make it structurally secure, so as to limit the university's liability. Then, if the couple used it for more than seven years, they would pay the cost of removing it. If they used it for less, Yale had to pay. Both sides reserved their right to defend their property rights in the future, and Yale agreed not to sue the Franco-Camachos. The agreement was signed by attorneys for both parties and a judge on Aug. 10, 2006.

But that agreement hasn't stuck. Instead, the Franco-Camachos and Yale have spent the last year arguing about whether or not it is legally binding. That's because the day after the agreement was put in writing, Yale filed a motion to have it set aside. The university claims David Newton and attorney Tom Sansone—who had negotiated the settlement—had no authority within the university bylaws to make the deal. Only Newton's immediate superior, Bruce Alexander, the vice president for New Haven and State Affairs and Campus Development, was empowered to settle the case. "I never said or did anything," said Alexander in an affidavit, "that would make any reasonable person think that Mr. Newton or Attorney Sansone had any authority whatsoever to bind Yale to an agreement without my express approval."

The ultimate authority lay with him. Newton and Sansone made a deal they weren't in a position to make because Sansone "misconstrued the scope of his authority," says the university. The deal, therefore, is invalid.

In an affidavit in the court file, Sansone says, "I came to the incorrect conclusion that I was authorized to offer defendant such a license agreement, even if defendant did not agree to waive its right to assert any claim."

"The agreement did not achieve Yale's goal," says Conroy, "to ensure that its property rights were protected." It failed to do that, according to Yale, because it limited their right to bring a property lawsuit against the Franco-Camachos, and therefore "clouded the title."

"Yale is doing what any property owner would do," says Conroy, "which is—if someone is contesting its ownership—to ensure that your rights are clearly established and unassailable."

Before Yale's objections to the settlement are resolved, the property dispute is on the back burner. But both sides say they are confident they will prevail, if and when the property case is litigated. Yale's argument is that the closet is on property that's on their deed, and that it hasn't been there and actively used long enough for adverse possession to apply. Likewise, they say if the back door was used by previous tenants of 266 College St., it wasn't used in a way that would create a prescriptive easement. They say they have evidence to support their position—evidence that will be presented in court when they ultimately resume their case against the Franco-Camachos.

Before the settlement agreement, Yale planned to have a surveyor testify that the rear walkway could not have been used prior to 1984 because "until approximately 1984 and 1986, buildings and other types of permanent improvements" were there.

The Franco-Camachos have evidence too. They have copies of building permits—provided to the Advocate by their previous attorney, David Krassner—that show a "masonry addition (rear)" was erected on the property as early as 1946. A line drawing on New Haven tax documents from 1979 also shows the rear addition as a rectangular box 6.5 by 11 feet at the back of the building. Whether those records are accurate, of course, would have to be proven in court. Similarly, the existence of the addition alone doesn't prove adverse possession. The addition would have to have been in continuous use.

Joel Schiavone—the previous owner of 1016-1020 Chapel St., Yale's property behind Bespoke—says in a 2003 affidavit in support of the Franco-Camachos case that it was.

"According to my extensive knowledge of the history of the City of New Haven and my familiarity with this area...the 266 College Street occupants/tenants/owners have openly, continuously and under claim of right always used the rear door...since the end of World War II," he says in the affidavit. Schiavone built the "pedestrian bridge" and says he never challenged use of it by 266 College St. because "they would definitely prevail should the matter go to court." On a recent court date, Yale's attorneys accused Hugh Keefe, the prominent criminal defense attorney who is representing the Franco-Camachos, of trying to argue the underlying property case instead of addressing the issue at hand: whether the settlement was valid. "We'd love to" litigate that case, says Yale's attorney, but first things first.

The decision to open a second restaurant couldn't be an easy one. Restaurants are time and money intensive and notoriously risky. But for the Franco-Camachos, self-admitted workaholics and perfectionists, the allure of "what's next" was too much to resist. The scouting and considering began earlier, but Bespoke really got going in 2001, when the Franco-Camachos were approached by the Antonellises' property manager at 266 College St. The property was available and theirs if they wanted it.

The Franco-Camachos could have both restaurants within 100 feet of each other, with a walkway between the back door of Bespoke and the front door of Roomba's basement location. Asimina Antonellis, meanwhile, was eager to make the deal. Within two months, the Franco-Camachos negotiated a lease with a written option to buy.

But by the following fall, in 2002, the Antonellises had been challenged by Yale and the Franco-Camachos were thrust into limbo. Three years later, Antonellis—an elderly widow—settled the suit. Yale points to this settlement as her acknowledgement of their rights. The Franco-Camachos say that signing over rights to the back door and the wine closet was a violation of an addendum to their lease. Plus, they say, settling with Yale cost Antonellis nothing. She already had a lease with them and they were paying rent while the restaurant sat vacant.

In a court filing from June of 2006, Krassner complains that Antonellis "eventually and unwillingly" settled "knowing that the Plaintiff, with a 16 billion+ dollar endownment would crush her financially."

The Franco-Camachos were stuck. After deciding against their architect's designs, Suzette had planned Bespoke's interior herself. Construction was about to begin, but the lawsuit put it on an indefinite hold. Suzette's layout—which included the kitchen in the back of the restaurant and a large dining room in front—would never pass muster with the fire marshal without an emergency exit. Plus, there would be no efficient way for them to receive deliveries, dispose of trash—to function as a restaurant—without a back door. Most important, the Franco-Camacho's small business loans required a lawyer to sign off on the property's title, guaranteeing that it was problem-free. The Yale suit meant the Franco-Camachos couldn't get their money. No money, no construction.

As early at December, 2002, Yale University Properties offered to make a deal with the Franco-Camachos, according to a letter the couple provided. The couple could use the back door and closet for 10 years, with restrictions. The walkway could only be used in emergencies and the license only lasted as long as the couple owned the restaurant. The Franco-Camachos declined, feeling that any deal they made had to come after the Antonellis case was resolved.

But resolution was slow in coming. Months passed, until finally building and fire department officials suggested the interior could be reconfigured so that there was a second exit out of the front of the restaurant, allowing it to meet building code regulations. The idea worked. Suzette redesigned the restaurant so that a long hallway divided the first floor into two distinct areas—with two distinct entrances.

But the plan turned out to be hugely expensive. Because a hallway would take up so much of the front dining area, Suzette had to find space for more tables in order for the restaurant to be profitable. She moved the main dining room to the back of the restaurant, the kitchen to the basement, designed a bar in the front and additional seating on the second floor. The basement had an uneven ceiling, old wiring and two huge dysfunctional furnaces—all of which had to be dealt with before it could accommodate an industrial kitchen. It wasn't until November 2006 that the long-awaited Bespoke finally opened.

Newton says the fact the restaurant is up and running without the use of the back door (until the dispute is resolved the Franco-Camachos have mostly avoided using it, they say), shows it's not as necessary as they claim.

In an odd exchange between attorney Krassner and Bruce Alexander in August 2006—after the settlement was made and then challenged—Krassner wrote: "We stand ready, willing and able to meet with you in an attempt to globally resolve all of the various, lingering matters between the parties." He suggested mediation, with a mutually respected third party. Yale has said they would be happy to work with a third party but that they prefer the arbitration process, which is legally binding (and comes with a price tag that the Franco-Camachos say they can't afford).

"The issue for us is not complicated," Alexander responded. "The olive branch we would appreciate having extended is not more discussion and surely not a series of demands for additional concessions, but rather an acceptance of what's reasonable."

On Sept. 11 of this year, Hugh Keefe stood before a housing court judge and said, "Enough is enough." He was filing a motion to dismiss Yale's motion on the settlement and asked the judge to make a decision that day. Beside Keefe sat Suzette, while Franco sat behind in the jury booth, occasionally nodding off as the day dragged on and the lawyers went back and forth using language that only a lawyer could love. Yale's attorneys launched an objection, but the judge agreed to hear Keefe out.

"This case has gone far enough," Keefe said. He pointed to a moment in July, when Sansone testified about his involvement in making the settlement deal. Sansone said he knew he wasn't authorized to enter into an agreement with the restaurant owners, but he did it anyway.

Keefe called the testimony surprising, incredulous and stunning, and questioned whether Sansone had "deliberately misrepresented" himself to the judge. Why—if Yale was "so offended, so upset" with the agreement that Sansone and Newton had negotiated—did the university continue to give the attorney work? When a similar question was put to spokesman Tom Conroy, he wouldn't comment on the university's relationship with Sansone, but he said of Newton, "He didn't do anything wrong. He was a fabulous asset and had a great role in all of Yale's accomplishments."

There are two more court dates scheduled in the case. After that, a housing court judge will decide if Yale has to honor the signed agreement or if Yale's lawsuit against the Franco-Camachos will continue as if the settlement never happened. If Yale loses, the dispute would be over, for now—so long as Yale doesn't appeal the decision.

Even now, with all that's happened between the university and the Franco-Camachos, Newton acknowledges the couple was a good tenant at Roomba. "They were timely with the rent and they ran a good operation there." The problem, he says, is mutual trust.

It's easy to see why. In December, 2006, Yale filed a second suit against the Franco-Camachos. This time the charge was trespass. After putting up white plastic gutters along the outside of the addition and doing work on the back door, Yale accused the Franco-Camachos of building on their land.

Both sides say they're willing to be reasonable, but it's difficult to imagine what reasonable means when you're looking at six-years of litigation and hundreds of thousands of dollars expended over a closet and a back door.

fmoon@newhavenadvocate.com