Unfiltered Confessions of a Small-Town Restaurant Owner

Today I'm saying the quiet parts out loud

Photo Credit: Lindsay Linton Buk/Linton Productions

I never planned to be a restaurateur. But here I am—going on five years of owning a restaurant in one of the smallest towns in Wyoming.

It’s one of the most gratifying things I’ve ever done. It’s also one of the most exhausting.

And those two things can be true at the same time—sometimes in the span of five minutes.

I’m proud of what we’re building in our little corner of Wyoming. I’m proud of the food. I’m proud of the place. I’m proud that people walk in and feel nostalgia, comfort, a sense of belonging… a remembering.

But today I’m going to say the parts I usually don’t say out loud because, well… I feel like it. And some of it just needs to be said.

So here it is:

Confession #1: The Locals Are Our Lifeblood (And Also… a Lot)

If you’ve never run a business in a small town, here’s what you should know: locals are everything.

They’re the ones who keep you afloat in the off-season, when the highway slows down and the tourists disappear. They’re the ones who swing by for a burger on a random Thursday. They’re the ones who tell their cousin from out of state, “You have to go to the Fountain.”

They’re loyal in a way that doesn’t exist in bigger places.

And I LOVE them for it.

But some locals also come with… intensity. Ahem.

Because in a small town, you don’t just run a restaurant. You run a community space. A living room. A piece of living history. A small piece of everyone’s identity.

Which means people have opinions about it—strong ones. They remember how it used to be. They have ideas about how it should be. And quite frankly… sometimes the locals are far more entitled (and rude) than the out-of-towners.

They’ll talk trash on Facebook because they don’t like the past of a staff member. They’ll boycott you because two years ago their biscuit was cold. Or they’ll be furious that you ditched frozen fries for hand-cut ones.

(Yes—this is actually a thing... For some reason, a handful of locals absolutely hate our hand-cut fries… while everyone else raves about them. I don’t understand it…)

I’m not throwing rocks. I’m so grateful for the kind and understanding locals who show up, give us grace, and cheer us along.
But there are a few bad apples, and it can be discouraging when the sharpest criticism comes from the people closest to home. I think small business owners should be allowed to say that sometimes. So I am.

Confession #2: I Wish We Could Rate Customers

You know how customers can rate restaurants?

“The food was cold.”
“The wait was long.”
“The prices are outrageous.”

Well… sometimes I wish we could respond with our own little scorecard.

⭐️
“They waited less than ten minutes, but threw a tantrum because they wanted their food instantly. Made the 15-year-old waitress cry, scoffed at our apologies, then huffed out… and left a nasty review two hours later.”
(Yes, this really happened.)

⭐️
“Told us our chili should taste more like Hormel and said the chocolate shake didn’t have chocolate in it.”
(Yes, this really happened.)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
“Treated the staff like humans. Said thank you. Smiled. Made our day.”

Because here’s the truth: a restaurant is a relationship. And like any relationship, it goes a whole lot better when both sides show up with basic decency.

(Translation: when you go out to eat… please don’t be a jerk, mmkay?)

Confession #3: We’re Not Trying to Make Your Life Hard with Our Limited Hours

Our hours aren’t short because we’re lazy.

(And they’re not short because we’re “going under,” despite what the local Facebook rumor mill likes to speculate...)

They’re short because it’s not profitable to be open ten hours a day in a town of 200 people.

It’s math, y’all.

As much as I love our winter breakfast crowd, serving three breakfasts over the course of three hours doesn’t pay the bills.

In a tiny town, you don’t have the luxury of “staying open and hoping it picks up,” because hope doesn’t pay payroll taxes. So yes—I know it’s inconvenient sometimes, and I feel bad about that. But longer hours would only feel more convenient right up until we’re out of business.

Confession #4: Staffing Is… Complicated

Staffing in any restaurant is hard.

But staffing in a town of 200 is… a whole different sport.

You don’t have a huge pool of applicants. You don’t have a line of eager, experienced servers just waiting for their chance. Most of the time, you’re hiring from the people who are available—period.

Sometimes those people are wonderful.

Sometimes those people are… trying.

And most of the time, they come with a laundry list of trauma, messes, and trials.

(But don’t we all?)

I have staff who are here because it’s their last resort. Staff with incredibly hard pasts. Staff who are trying to rebuild their lives. Staff who are dealing with more tragedy behind the scenes than you’d ever guess from a quick interaction at the counter.

I’m not sharing this to make excuses for bad service.

I’m sharing it because it’s real. And 98% of the time, our service is great. But sometimes? It falls apart. I’ll own that.

But behind the counter, there’s a whole other world you don’t see.

The back room of my restaurant is a literal confessional.

I’ve heard everything back there—tears, tragedy, apologies, heartaches, grief, second chances, messy stories, and big dreams.

I’ve been brought to tears more than once while listening and prepping lettuce and tomatoes.

There are days I feel like I’m running a restaurant, a halfway house, a counseling office, and a crisis hotline… all before 2 p.m.

We do our best. I’m there a lot. I try to mitigate as much as I can.

But sometimes the messiness of life leaks into the dining room, no matter how hard we try to prevent it.

So if your fries took longer than expected, or your server seemed a little frazzled, or something felt “off” one day… I’m asking for a tiny bit of grace.

Not because you don’t matter. But because the humans behind the counter matter too.

Photo Credit: Josh Hopkins

Confession #5: I’m Not Getting Rich Off This

Restaurant pricing is a hot topic right now. Everything costs more. Everyone is stretched. I feel that too.

But when someone says, “Your prices are high,” what I want to say is:

You’re not just paying for the food.
You’re paying for the food and the ability for us to keep making it.

Food costs are insane right now. Labor is expensive. Utilities, insurance, repairs, permits, grease traps, paper goods, equipment… none of it is cheap.

And in a small place, you can’t make it up in volume.

Yesterday I nearly had a heart attack after realizing the mint-chocolate bits we use for one of our most popular shakes now costs $115 per box…

Despite what people might think, I’m not making money hand over fist. I’m trying to cover costs.

Because if I operate at a loss, the business closes.

Simple? Yes.

But you’d be surprised how many people don’t understand that.

Photo Credit: Josh Hopkins

Confession #6: We Care a Lot About What We Serve You

We take a ridiculous amount of pride in serving handmade food.

We’re not interested in a menu that’s mostly reheated, pre-made stuff from the big restaurant suppliers. It’s not what we want to serve, and it’s not what we want you to eat.

We’re in the back handcrafting 90% of the items on our menu. That’s something you don’t see much anymore.

Our soups are built in layers with real ingredients and simmered carefully while we babysit them.

Our fries are hand-cut that morning from russet potatoes.

Our biscuits are made from-scratch from our manager George’s grandma’s recipe.

The result?

Our food tastes like someone cared. Like someone made it with their hands and their brain and their heart.

That choice is more work. It’s more prep. It’s more planning. It’s more dishes. It’s more margin pressure.

But it matters to us.

Because we’re not trying to just be a fast-food joint with cute wallpaper. We’re trying to be the kind of place you remember.

So when people pick at us and compare our prices to McDonald’s or Steak ’n Shake, here’s the truth:

We’re not playing the same game.

And that’s okay.

If what you need is fast and cheap, those places exist for a reason—and I mean that sincerely.

But if you want real food made by real people in a place that still feels human… that’s what we’re building here.

Photo Credit: Claudia Borchardt

To sum it all up…

This job is extremely gratifying.

And hard.

And frustrating.

Sometimes all at once.

If you’ve been coming in, supporting us, tipping well, being kind to the teenagers at the counter, being patient when we’re short-staffed, telling a friend to stop in… THANK YOU.

You are the reason we can do this.

And if you’ve ever left a restaurant feeling irritated—because something was slow, or imperfect, or not quite what you expected—here’s what I hope we all remember:

There are real humans back there.

Real costs.

Real stories.

Real work.

We’re not perfect.

But we’re here. We care. And we’re trying.

And in a world that feels increasingly automated and impersonal… I still think that counts for something.