There’s a lot of talk these days about self-made people. I’m not one of them.
Whatever I’ve done, whatever I’ve built, whatever I’ve been blessed to be part of—it wasn’t done alone. Not even close.
I’ve been in a reflective place lately. Not sure if it’s age, or just life slowing down enough to really see what’s been there all along. I’ve always tried to stay grateful, but lately that gratitude feels deeper. Less polished. More real. I keep coming back to the people—so many of them—who stepped in at just the right time. Folks who carried more than their share when I couldn’t carry mine. The more I look back, the more I realize how much of my life has been held together by the kindness, patience, and grace of others.
I made a mess of things in my early years. I was aimless, restless, and caught up in addiction before I even understood what it was doing to me. Some of it was just being young and foolish. Some of it came from pain I hadn’t dealt with. But most of it was just being lost. I drank too much. Hurt people who didn’t deserve it. Burned bridges I couldn’t rebuild. Had I gotten what I deserved back then, I’d either be dead or in jail. That’s not drama. That’s the truth.
I didn’t clean myself up. Grace did.
Grace was always just a word I heard in church—something we sang about, something others talked about. I didn’t understand it until it was gifted to me. I’ve been carried by grace more times than I can count. Not the kind you earn—the kind that finds you when you’ve got nothing left. God’s grace has showed up right in the middle of my messes. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t deserve it. But it came anyway. I’m not here because I got everything right. I’m here because a power much greater than me gave me everything I needed, even before I knew to ask.
I’ve been clean and sober for over four decades. That’s not a badge—it’s a blessing. It didn’t come from willpower. It came from surrender, and from people who stood beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own. My friends in recovery have been my compass. Quiet strength in the background of my life. I owe them way more than I can repay.
I’m a seventh-generation Pine Belt native. Hattiesburg isn’t just where I live—it’s part of who I am. This place raised me, gave me second chances, and kept calling me back every time I strayed. There’s something grounding about being part of a community that knows your whole story. The highs, the lows, the do-overs. You don’t have to explain yourself too much—they already know. And they love you anyway.
When I started in business, I didn’t have a father to show me the ropes. But a lot of men stepped in. They gave advice. They offered encouragement. A few stepped in when things got rough financially. They didn’t have to. But they did. Too many to name here, but they know who they are. And I hope they’ve always known how grateful I am. I’m doing my best to live up to their example and pass it on.
Whatever good I’ve had the chance to do in this town—through restaurants, writing, feeding folks, or just trying to be a good neighbor—was only possible because others helped me grow into it. I think about the cooks who believed in something we were building before there was much to show for it. The servers who came in on slow days with the same heart they brought on busy ones. They didn’t just clock in—they carried the place forward when I couldn’t have done it alone. The teammates who gave more than they had to give because they believed in what we were building. The guests who kept coming back. You never forget that kind of loyalty.
Over the years, more than 10,000 people have worked with us across all the restaurants. I never set out to employ that many folks. It just happened one step at a time. One season after another. They taught me more than I ever taught them. They made me better.
When Katrina hit, when the recession dragged on, when COVID shut us down—there were moments it felt like everything might slip away. We didn’t have a roadmap. We just leaned on each other. Guests checked in. Team members stayed steady. Friends in the community asked what we needed and then showed up with it. Not in big, showy ways. Just quiet help, at the right time. That’s what got us through. It still does.
During the pandemic, I found myself in conversations with other restaurant owners, all of us trying to figure out how to keep our doors open and our people working. It wasn’t organized or polished. It was fellow independent restaurateurs from all over the country doing what they could, while they could. Somehow, through a lot of voices coming together, help— $28.6 billion of it— found its way to the right places. But the real work happened at home, in towns like ours, where folks kept their heads down and took care of each other.
I’ve been fortunate to travel—hosting tours in Europe, writing about food and culture, learning from chefs and artisans across the ocean. But I never travel without knowing exactly where I come from. I carry Mississippi with me everywhere. I carry the kindness of friends, the calm of early mornings in a bakery, the lessons of second chances.
My wife has been beside me for the long haul. Patient in the early years. Steady in the hard seasons. Joyful when joy found us. We raised two children who are kind, smart, and rooted. Watching them grow into themselves has been the most meaningful work I’ve ever done. Period. End of story.
A sense of place doesn’t come from buildings. It comes from people. The neighbor who checks in after surgery. The teacher who stays late to tutor. The dishwasher who doesn’t call in sick even when he probably should’ve. The mentor who picks up the phone when you’re out of ideas. These are the people who define a town. They are the people who carried me.
I’ve been lifted, forgiven, and carried by more people than I can count. Some I know by name. Some I’ll never be able to thank in person. But their impact is stitched into everything I do. Every dish served, every column written, every person hired, every bit of good we’ve tried to put out into the world—it’s all because somebody, somewhere, made the choice to help me when I couldn’t help myself.
If you’ve played a role—large or small—in helping me along this road, thank you. If you offered a kind word, shared a meal, gave me a chance, or forgave a mistake—you are part of this story.
You always have been.
This isn’t a victory lap. It’s a walk of gratitude, a thank-you note. And I’ll keep walking it as long as I’m able.
Because I believe in place. I believe in people. And I believe in paying forward what was so freely given to me. Grace is real.
Again, thank you.
Onward.
