The Death of Routine, and Why We Feel It in Our Gut
Let me tell you about a place where time stood still—and why its disappearance feels like a gut punch to everything we once believed about community. Wishbone, a Chicago institution serving Southern comfort food for 36 years, is closing. But this isn’t just a restaurant obituary. It’s a case study in how modern life erodes the rituals that anchor us, and why we’re all worse for it.
The Death of Routine
Wishbone thrived on repetition. Bill Grant ate the same shrimp and grits twice a month for decades. Adrienne Banks ordered the same two-egg special weekly. In my mind, these aren’t just customer habits—they’re acts of defiance against a world that demands constant novelty. Why do we cling to these rituals? Because they’re proxies for stability. A world where you can always count on shrimp and grits is a world that makes sense.
Personally, I think we underestimate how much these routines shape our identities. When a place becomes your ‘third place’—not home, not work, but the spot where you’re known—it weaves itself into your self-concept. The staff at Wishbone didn’t just serve food; they provided continuity in an age of algorithms. That’s why Ken Koehn’s condo decision wasn’t about square footage—it was about securing access to his emotional safe space.
The Oprah Effect: How Fame Builds—and Breaks—Local Gems
Let’s talk about the double-edged sword of fame. When Oprah’s studio moved nearby, Wishbone became a celebrity magnet. ‘A Godsend,’ Joel Nickson called it. But here’s the irony: celebrity attention creates a false sense of invulnerability. The same spotlight that draws A-listers also creates a dependency. When the cameras leave, the crowds thin—and suddenly you’re left explaining why your value isn’t tied to who last dined at your booth.
Wishbone survived a corruption scandal in the ’90s (remember Operation Silver Shovel?), but the real killer was slower: the post-pandemic collapse of weekday dining. What many people don’t realize is that restaurants like this are economic canaries in coal mines. When commuters vanish, so does the lunch rush. When delivery apps eat margins, nostalgia isn’t enough to keep the lights on.
The Illusion of Permanence
Joel Nickson compared the closure to attending his own funeral. That’s not melodrama—it’s the death of a cultural myth. We like to believe that ‘if it’s been here 36 years, it’ll always be here.’ But this illusion of permanence is crumbling everywhere. From my perspective, Wishbone’s closure isn’t unique; it’s part of a wave. The mom-and-pop bookstores, the vinyl shops, the dive bars—they’re all fighting the same battle against economic tides.
Consider this: The West Loop transformed from gritty to gourmet during Wishbone’s run. That gentrification brought both opportunity and vulnerability. The neighborhood changed, but the restaurant didn’t—or couldn’t. There’s a lesson here about adaptation. The places that survive aren’t necessarily the best; they’re the ones that balance tradition with evolution. Wishbone’s grits stayed the same, but the world around them didn’t.
The Real Cost of Closure
Let’s talk about the human fallout. Omar Alonso, a server for 25 years, called it ‘a dysfunctional family.’ That word ‘dysfunctional’ cracks me up—because isn’t that the definition of a real family? The staff’s two-decade tenures reveal something deeper: we’re witnessing the dismantling of a social network, not just a business. When Joel jokes about getting buttermilk pies done, he’s really juggling grief and responsibility.
And what about the customers? Jacqui Grant’s strategy—eating her way through favorites like a culinary bucket list—shows how we process loss through consumption. It’s bittersweet, but also absurd. Isn’t this how civilizations have worked for millennia? We memorialize through meals. The difference now is we’re doing it faster, more frequently, as the lifespan of cultural touchstones shortens.
Final Course: The Future of Nostalgia
Wishbone’s story raises a deeper question: Can any business survive the 21st century’s velocity? The pandemic accelerated trends that made places like this vulnerable—remote work, delivery dominance, the erosion of ‘third places.’ But maybe the bigger issue is psychological. We’ve become conditioned to expect impermanence. We don’t plant roots because we’re always expecting the next disruption.
In my opinion, the real tragedy isn’t the restaurant closing. It’s the quiet realization that nothing will replace it. The next generation of entrepreneurs faces higher stakes and thinner margins. The ‘hole’ Ken Koehn fears won’t just be in the West Loop’s fabric—it’ll be in how we connect. So here’s my challenge: Next time you find your Wishbone, don’t take it for granted. Show up. Order the same thing twice. Make the staff know your name. Because in a world obsessed with the next big thing, continuity might be the most radical act of all.
