State of the Plate: Channeling Regret

It’s a bummer when restaurants close. I think we learned that on a much grander scale than necessary in 2020 and the ensuing years. If we never have to go back to daily RIP posts, that would be great. But it is a cycle, it has been a cycle, and it will continue to happen, as with any industry—restaurants will wax and wane. But why is it so emotional?

This summer, two longtime favorites closed the doors for a final time. Erica Strait bade her Foxy Falafel adieu after more than a decade of service in farmers’ markets, food trucks, and the small eatery on Raymond Avenue in St. Paul. Hai Truong of Ngon Bistro closed his University Avenue spot the same weekend, after 16 years, ending the flow of locally sourced Vietnamese cuisine that had charmed us equally in the sunny dining room and the hidden back patio.

Both were deeply rooted veterans of the industry; both had fought to stay open through the pandemic and come back to serve another day. In each of their goodbye posts on social media, I could read something in common: exhaustion. 

And yet, what came next was almost harder. Both owners gave their loyal fans more than a week between the announcement and the final service to say goodbye. Of course, the loyal fans showed up. So many, in fact, that Foxy had to post that it would be closing early one day due to selling out of all the food. It soon became apparent that people were flooding back to these two spots in an effort to have one last goodbye meal. 

Now, I’m not going to do the thing where I admonish everyone for not going more often and only supporting them in the final days. I’m not going to point out the obvious, which is to say that if those fans had shown their love more consistently instead of waiting until it was too late, they wouldn’t have to actually have one last goodbye meal. I won’t do that, because it’s clear to me from the actions that most already know that, even if there’s no way to change the final outcome.

What I saw on social media was people complaining that they couldn’t get a reservation to get in one last meal. I saw comments that the lines were frustratingly long; that people showed up only to find the hours shortened; that they were pissed their favorite dish, which they had specifically gone to eat, had sold out that day. I will balance this by reporting that many, many others were patient and sweet and reverent. And grateful. 

All of it, the good and bad behavior, feels like it’s rooted in regret. And it’s something we’ll all continue to deal with on the heels of a tumultuous few years. On the restaurant side, more owners will burn out from years of trying to keep up, and some of our favorite spots will close. They won’t have a satisfying reason; they’ll just be done. 

As diners, we supported our restaurants during the toughest times at a frenzied pitch: ordering takeout, buying gift cards, giving huge tips to stem the fear that we might lose our gathering spaces and the people who make them wonderful. We helped save a lot of them, but we can’t stop the cycle. We can do our best to support the new spots striving to make the scene vibrant. And we can do our best to get to all of our old favorites that make the scene rich. But, we can’t save everyone.

Clearly, I’m not a psychology professional, but this chaotic wrenching of the heart for restaurant closings feels like a reflection of the collective trauma we’ve all gone through. Perhaps we can see that, acknowledge that, and deal with that without being passive-aggressive jerks online, because more change will inevitably come.