“Some of my good friends told me in so many words, ‘You will fail,’” Manhart recalled, hearing only gloomy predictions: “‘Richmond does not have the type of clientele that will want and appreciate the high level of coffee you’re producing.’”

There was the problem of appealing to the general Richmond clientele, and then there was the problem of the economy.

Manhart had barely opened the coffee shop when the national economy plummeted into the worst downturn since the Great Depression — a downturn that has hit small businesses particularly hard.

Last year, more than 400,000 small businesses (establishments with fewer than 100 employees) shut down in just the first quarter, eliminating more than one million jobs, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

But two years after opening, Catahoula Coffee (named after Manhart’s favorite dog breed) is still brewing.

Manhart says that’s because coffee is “an affordable luxury,” and that in times of economic hardship, a community-gathering place — like a coffee shop — becomes even more sought-after.

“I’ve had people that have been laid off, people who have lost their homes and been through a lot of trauma … and they still come in and get a cup of coffee,” Manhart said.

Manhart’s cynical friends questioned the ethics of enticing Richmond’s hard-pressed blue-collar locals to drink custom-roasted lattes at $3 a serving.

But Manhart says the Catahoula clientele has been a revelation, dispelling some widely-held notions not only about who drinks gourmet espresso, but about who makes up Richmond’s population in general.

He said he was at first surprised to see landscapers and mechanics among his regulars, but perhaps even more surprised to see a large number of local artist and musician-types — the kind he said you’d expect to see in San Francisco or Berkeley coffee shops, but not Richmond.

Manhart has lived in Richmond since 1999, when he bought a house in the North & East neighborhood and took over a Merry Maids franchise, which includes the property next door to Catahoula.

And although he’s enthusiastic about the amenities of his adopted neighborhood — affordable real estate, easy access to Interstate 80, Bay views from the hills — he says Richmond’s reputation for crime and blight still keeps many East Bay locals from venturing north of El Cerrito.

But, Manhart said, that reputation might change if more entrepreneurs were willing to make an investment on the San Pablo Avenue corridor of North & East. He points to the commercial development of Temescal — a rough-turned-hip neighborhood in North Oakland — as a potential success model for North & East.

“That area was a dump 10 years ago. I remember I used to drive through it really fast because of that,” Manhart said of driving along Telegraph Avenue, the neighborhood’s main artery.  “It started only with a couple of shops and it’s really blossomed.”

Manhart envisions better schools and the razing of abandoned buildings as prerequisites to improve Richmond’s quality of life, but also, he muses, wouldn’t it be nice to have a pizza joint nearby where you can get a Racer Five and a good salad? Maybe he’d even open it himself.

“I’m never opposed to doing anything,” he said, “but I’ve got my hands full now.”

The Santa Fe Railway, one of the largest transcontinental railroads in the country, had its western terminus in Point Richmond, where it unloaded its passengers and cargo onto San Francisco-bound ferries.

Ferry service ended in 1975 and the East Bay Regional Park District eventually restored part of the pier for fishing and recreation.

At the Richmond Museum of History in the iron triangle neighborhood the stories go much further than that.  Executive Director, Donald Bastin recently took Richmond Confidential through a tour of the land that is now Richmond.  Exhibits begin before colonization, continue through the years as Mexican territory, follow industrialization, and conclude with World War II.

Hafter first revived the bus as a wild, technicolor reanimation of Mexico City’s public transit culture for a San Francisco art show. Now it’s the flagship bus for Hafter’s Richmond-based business, which specializes in taking Bay Area salsa lovers to Latin dance clubs in San Francisco.

El Volado–which means something close to “free bird” in Spanish–is mostly an homage to everything Hafter loved about Mexico City. Because she worked for six years in its film industry, movie posters from what Hafter calls the Golden Age of Mexican cinema line the ceiling. A kitschy array of religious and pop culture icons populates the front of the bus to keep the  drivers company. A mural of a peaceful shoreline adorns the space above the rear exit – a spot where Mexican bus drivers typically placed images of where they wanted to retire.

“Living in Mexico City was just liberating. The nonconformity of these buses really showed that,” Hafter said. “I designed this bus so that I could teach people more about Latin culture.”

The bus’s design was inspired by public bus drivers of the RUTA 100 (Route 100) union, whom Hafter interviewed while in Mexico City. Working up to 15 hours a day, the most liberating thing most of them could do was decorate the buses to suit their personal taste. They often showcased religious icons, luchadores (Mexican wrestlers), beautiful women, or all of the above. Their art form dates back to the 1930’s when public transit routes were created in Mexico City. Laborers who took the buses to work also often collaged contributions onto the seats and surrounding walls.

For the last twenty years, bigger companies with more modern buses have gradually put many of the Mexico’s bright, baroque buses out of service. Hafter wanted to find a way to preserve the artistic tradition.

A $5,000 grant in 1990 from an avant-garde art show called Festival 2000 helped her do that. The initial project plan was to have the bus looking like it had crashed into a wall, but after that much money had been invested into it, Hafter decided not to disfigure  the bus, so it could continue its life after the art exhibit.

Hafter found the most interesting way to keep her art alive was chartering the bus out to groups of people who love dancing as much as she does. Trips  to Mission District salsa clubs highlighted the cultural significance of the bus itself.

Though making the business profitable has always been difficult, fans of the bus have refused to let her abandon it, Hafter said.

In addition to Hafter’s weekly trips to San Francisco’s Mission District dance clubs, community organizations use the charter buses because of the different tone the bus sets for their trips.  One Richmond environmental group uses the bus to take people on tours of the most toxin-prone areas of the East Bay.” Lola,” another eclectic bus designed by Hafter and Chicano playwright Richard Talavera in 2001, also makes its rounds for the company.

For Hafter, though, El Volado carries the most vivid memories.

One night while taking a team of Irish female soccer players to the Mission District,  Hafter ran into folksinger Joan Baez. Hafter and the players convinced Baez and her friends to ride and dance along with them for the rest of the night.

Symbols of female power and worth at the front of the bus–a deliberate departure from the traditionally masculine Mexico City buses–have a lot of personal meaning for her as well, Hafter said. Hafter’s own baby shoes are tied above the Virgin of Guadalupe hanging in the front of the bus.

Hafter, who is Jewish, acknowledges that it may seem odd for her to appreciate Catholic iconography as much as she does. But seeing what bridges cultures together–such as the pervasive guilt complex she said many Catholics and Jews share–interests her much more.

“I like the Virgin there because she always emphasizes the love and care of a woman–she’s blessing and taking care of the people inside,” Hafter said. “And that’s what I like creating most: A space where people can feel loved and appreciated.”

For the last eight years, Chef Tim Hammack has helped run the culinary training and drug recovery program at the Richmond-based nonprofit.

Hammack, 30, is not your average soup kitchen director.

Hammack worked previously at Chez Panisse in Berkeley and at gourmet establishments in Napa. He is also the chef-founder of a high-end catering business, Bohemian Elegance.

But he’s at home in other worlds, as well; he grew up in low-income communities in Vallejo and American Canyon.

“It’s pretty easy for me to relate to these guys and interact with them on one level, and yet, I try to bring them up to the level of haute cuisine,” he said.

In addition to helping people who go through the recovery program, Hammack is hoping to improve the lives — particularly, the diets — of Richmond residents in general.

Hammack said that many of the kitchen’s visitors — some who stay overnight at the mission’s emergency shelter and others who are just passing through — would opt for a Big Mac over, say, the Brussels sprouts his cooks were blanching one recent afternoon. But he’s hoping to change that.

“I really want to see people’s perceptions of comfort food change,” Hammack said. “It doesn’t mean they have to eat sticks and twigs.”

Hammack added that for recovering drug addicts, establishing good eating habits is especially challenging. “If you look at someone coming off of drugs, they’re just cramming pastries down their throat.” he said.  He said that eating sugar and carbohydrates, like using drugs, releases dopamine in the brain and gives a similar feeling of satiation.

Hammack says he hopes that the trainees are able to stick with their improved eating habits after graduation. “I’m not just talking about the time of detox. I’m talking about making life changes.”

The training kitchen, located in the Iron Triangle neighborhood of Richmond, takes on around 14 to 20 people at a time. It’s one of several vocational training programs the mission offers, which all include GED, life skills, and religion courses. After completing the 14-month program, graduates can apply for a two-year culinary apprenticeship program to continue honing their kitchen skills.

Hammack said the kitchen culture’s emphasis on teamwork teaches participants the skills they need to reenter the mainstream.

“The nature of addiction, you’re kind of running your own show. You don’t have to answer to anybody and you just medicate if you don’t like it,” Hammack said. Kitchen work, he added, also requires a sense of self-confidence and drive.

Not surprisingly, graduates from the program mostly end up in cooking jobs — working in everything from steakhouses to pastry shops.

Hammack said about 40 percent of people drop out of the culinary program. He added that right now, more people than ever are trying the program for a second time.

“At first I would take it real personal when these guys would relapse,” he said, “but then I realized I can’t make decisions for them.”

Hammack said many of the participants had been addicts for decades and some have been jailed multiple times. Nearly a quarter of the trainees are on parole.

Finding common ground, then, could seem daunting. But for Hammack, the answer is clear.

The kitchen is where everyone gathers,” Hammack said. “And I think a great place to start rebuilding your life is around food.”