10/18/2026
“Open a restaurant,” they said. “It'll be fun,” they said.
Fall arrived in Rockingham today, bringing with it a welcome chill in the air and that unmistakable feeling that summer has finally packed its bags. Apparently, autumn also brought a rather extraordinary appetite for soup.
We opened our doors at 11:00 this morning with six different soups, twenty-two gallons in total, and by the time we closed for our afternoon reset, twenty gallons had found their way into the hands and bellies of our guests. I have made a lot of soup in my lifetime, but even I had to stand back and contemplate that number for a moment.
And it wasn't just the soup. Paninis were flying out of the kitchen, giant salads were following giant salads, and ingredients were disappearing at a pace that made keeping up with replenishment something of an Olympic event. We exhausted half of our panini selections and lost the ability to prepare three of our seven salads because we'd simply run out of the components.
Meanwhile, the ticket printer had settled into its own peculiar musical performance, repeating the same song like a broken record stuck on a really bad percussion riff. There is something about that sound that is simultaneously exhilarating and infuriating. Every ticket represents someone choosing to spend a little part of their day with us, and we never take that for granted. But somewhere along the way, that cheerful little mechanical chatter begins to sound suspiciously like psychological warfare.
Jana and I exchanged more than a few frustrated side-eye glances across the room. We've worked together long enough that entire conversations can take place without either of us uttering a word. A raised eyebrow, a look toward the printer, a brief expression of mutual disbelief, and we were right back at it.
At one point, I dashed over to Food Lion for an emergency replenishment run, list in hand and absolutely no time for leisurely shopping. I was flying through the aisles when I was greeted with hugs from some long-missed friends of the shop who told me the change in weather had made them think of us, and they'd been planning to stop by. Before I could finish my shopping, four other people stopped me with much the same sentiment. Apparently, a little chill in the North Carolina air now sends people looking for soup at 228.
I love that. I genuinely do. Although I am beginning to suspect that I'll never again be able to move through Food Lion anonymously, particularly when I'm on a mission involving rapidly disappearing inventory.
By midafternoon, our dining room looked like a bomb had exploded, and the kitchen wasn't much better. Interestingly enough, the team wanted to keep pushing through lunch, but I made the decision to stop seating at 2:30 so we could restore some order before dinner service. We weren't out of energy or enthusiasm; we were simply running out of clean surfaces, available ingredients, and places to put things. There comes a point when you recognize that the best thing you can do for the next group of guests is to give yourself the opportunity to start fresh.
So we cleaned, restocked, reorganized, and slowly began putting our little world back together.
Somewhere around 4:00, I stood in the kitchen surveying the damage and the rebuilding efforts while noshing on my dinner: a Lean Cuisine fettuccine Alfredo with chicken, straight from the microwave. Yes, the woman who had just spent the day overseeing twenty gallons of handcrafted soup and an endless parade of composed salads and paninis was eating frozen pasta out of a plastic tray.
And, for the record, it was actually pretty damn good. I happen to like that particular Lean Cuisine, along with the Chicken Enchilada, which occasionally serves as breakfast. Make of that what you will. Apparently, fine dining is a matter of perspective, particularly when you're the one responsible for everyone else's.
But somewhere in the middle of all that glorious chaos, the thing that mattered most to me was still happening.
I was finding my way out of the kitchen to visit tables whenever I could, catching up with familiar faces, welcoming new ones, sharing a laugh or a conversation, and occasionally losing track of just how many things were waiting for me back at the stove. Those moments aren't distractions from running the restaurant. They're part of why I opened it in the first place.
There is something quite remarkable about what has happened between this little restaurant and the Rockingham community since we opened our doors. You've welcomed us, encouraged us, brought your friends and families, and celebrated our little victories. Somewhere along the way, 228 became more than an address where we prepare and serve food. It became a place where relationships grow, stories are exchanged, and people begin to feel that they have a little ownership in what we're creating together. Judging by today's encounters in the grocery aisles, that sense of connection apparently follows me well beyond our front door.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
As the day wound down, I found myself thinking about Jana, Ali, and Keyara, and how much pride I take in watching this team work. Today asked an awful lot of them, and they answered with determination, humor, some perfectly understandable exasperation, and a genuine desire to keep going. Jana stayed with me afterward, helping restore the kitchen as best we could, knowing full well that in a matter of hours we'd be back preparing for what we suspect will be a rather spirited Sunday brunch.
I don't often allow myself the luxury of standing still long enough to appreciate what we've accomplished. There's always another soup to make, another order to place, another menu to write, another detail that needs attention. But today was one of those rare days when I could look around, take in everything that had happened, and feel an enormous sense of pride in the people beside me and the community surrounding us.
It was demanding, messy, occasionally ridiculous, and absolutely magnificent. It was also one of those days that reminded me why, despite the long hours and the relentless demands of this business, I still love what I do.
Tomorrow morning, long before the sun comes up, I'll be back in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls, getting the soups going, and preparing for a Hocus Pocus brunch that promises to bring its own particular brand of madness.
“Open a restaurant,” they said. “It'll be fun,” they said.
You know what? Sometimes it really is.
**Viva la soup.**
Comfort. Community. Serious Food.
