Today, K&W Cafeteria announced the immediate closing of all locations.

If you didn’t grow up in the South, specifically the Carolinas or Virginias, this might not mean much to you. But if you did, you likely just felt a phantom taste of salisbury steak and french silk pie.

For 88 years, K&W was a constant. It survived the tail end of the Great Depression (founding in 1937), World War II, the Cold War, the rise of fast food, and the slow death of the mall. It lived long enough to probably have a hallucinating AI chatbot on its support page.

But today, the tray rail ends.

The “Fancy” Restaurant

K&W was an important pillar of my childhood. Growing up poor in the 80’s and 90’s in Roanoke, VA it was one of my “Fancy Restaurants,” right up there with Bonanza.

It had brass rails. It had blonde wood. It had linen napkins. And it had a line that wrapped around the building on Sundays after church.

My core memory of K&W isn’t just the food; it’s the Meat Ma’am.

The Meat Ma’am was the gatekeeper of the protein. She stood behind the steam table, wielding a carving knife and a pair of tongs with the authority of a Supreme Court Justice. She was usually cheerful, often stern, and had zero patience for indecision.

“Meat, Ma’am?” she would bellow at my mother, while my grandmother fussed with her tray, ensuring her green jello salad had adequate structural integrity to survive the journey to the table.

It was a machine. A beautiful, chaotic, gravy-covered machine.

The Utility of a Hot Meal

Later in life, K&W shifted from “fancy” to “functional.”

When I was first dating my now-wife, I was working a split shift that would break most people today. I worked 5:00 PM to 9:00 PM at Overnite Transportation (now UPS Freight) on the dock, followed by a 10:00 PM to 2:00 AM shift at UPS, unloading trailers. Not a traditional nightlife

My girlfriend was in graduate school 30 miles away at Virginia Tech. Time was our most scarce resource. Except for money. That was non-existent.

We would often meet for a very early dinner at K&W. It was strategically located near the interstate she used to drive in from Blacksburg, and close enough to my first job that I wouldn’t be late.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was hot, it was fast, and it was ours. We sat in those wooden chairs, eating roast beef and collard greens, planning a future that seemed very far away.

The Long Game

We went back to K&W one last time recently. It was the first time for my daughter.

I won’t lie—it was tired. The brass was tarnished. The crowds were gone. But the staff was still kind, and the baked spaghetti hadn’t changed a molecule in three decades.

It’s easy to look at a closing announcement and see failure. “Oh, they couldn’t adapt.” “They didn’t pivot.”

I see an 88-year victory.

K&W started in 1935 as a coffee shop. It grew to over 30 locations. It employed thousands of people. It fed millions of families. It anchored communities for nearly a century.

In the startup world, we celebrate “exits” that happen in 5 years. We obsess over “growth hacking” and 10x returns. But how many of the SaaS companies launching today on Product Hunt will be here in 2113?

Businesses have lifecycles. They are born, they grow, they mature, and yes, they die. That is natural.

To endure for 88 years is not a failure of adaptation; it is a triumph of consistency. K&W played the long game better than most.

So tonight, I’m pouring one out for the Meat Ma’am. Thanks for the memories, the indigestion, and the baked spaghetti. You had a hell of a run.