Just before the pandemic, my best southern friend, Chubis, and I started having lunch at a restaurant in Nags Head, NC called Woo Casa Kitchen. It was owned by a couple named Katie and Aaron.
The Woo, as we called it, was a little place at the end of a strip mall. Beyond a tiny bar, a dozen or so tables were surrounded by cozy walls of beachy art—images like sea animals and surfboards and rolling ocean waves. You could eat healthy rice-and-veggie bowls there, or you could treat yourself to buffalo sliders and a basket of fries. A hidden gem where the food was excellent, the service was even better, and a gigantic painting of Darth Vader’s head—set against a bright pink background—hung over the toilet in the restroom.
It wasn’t long before we’d hear, “Hey, Matt and Matthew!” whenever we walked in. (Matt is Chubis’s given and professional name. Chubis is his family nickname.) Chubis’s unsweetened tea with a lemon and my club soda with a lime would be in front of us seconds after we had sat down. My friend always switched up his food order. But Katie would say to me, “You having Tuna Poke Bowl Special today?” And I—being a creature of habit—would always nod and smile.
During the pandemic, Chubis and I sat outside at one of the Woo’s greenish-blue picnic tables—even when the weather demanded heavy coats and the winter beanie hats that my best southern friend calls “stocking caps.” We’d be shivering our asses off by the time Katie arrived with food. She’d laugh and then say, “You two must really like eating here.” The wind was often strong enough to send one of Chubis’s nacho chips flying. But no matter how cold it got, Katie always served us outside whenever we showed up.
We were never sure if we were completely safe from Covid. We thought maybe being in the open winter air would help. No one had any idea what was going on back then. But Chubis and I were pretty sure we needed to see each other at least once a week. There was medicine in that. And the local businesses needed our patronage.
Most everyone else was getting take out. Chubis and I were often the only people sitting outside. And in this way—through the Covid mask she always wore—we got to know Katie a little better. She’s one the kindest people you’ll ever meet. The type of person who lights up your day the second you see her. A good soul.
When the pandemic started to lose its grip on the world, going to the Woo was like stopping by an extended family member’s house on a holiday. Katie seemed to know every local who came in. She was always running around, doing the endless work of a restaurant owner. But she never once failed to greet us personally and make us feel like she was glad to see us. And she and Aaron always fed us well.
If we missed a week, Katie would ask where we’d been. There was never any resentment in her voice. She was curious to hear about our lives and seemed to take true joy in whatever happy news we reported.
Sometimes we’d see Katie’s daughter quietly doing what looked like homework in front of the checkout counter. Katie’s husband was always busy in the kitchen and seldom came out. It was very much a small family-run business. And in a tiny way, Chubis and I began to feel like we were part of the family too. This idea maybe fed us even more than the food did.
The Woo was a safe place for Chubis and me to discuss our lives. We often sat at our table for more than an hour after we finished eating. We felt comfortable there. Like we belonged. There are very few public places where this introvert has enjoyed such a gift.
A young waitress named Brooke came to work at the Woo. She was the best and quickly claimed us. The other waitresses were told that only Brooke served Matt and Matthew. She would tell us about her life. And we’d listen. She’d show us her new tattoos. You could tell Katie loved Brooke like a daughter.
One day, when Brooke came outside to serve us, I found myself—almost as if compelled, without knowing why—suddenly saying to our server, “You look different. You just have a glow about you.”
Brooke’s face turned bright red, then she rushed back into the restaurant. When she returned a minute later, she said, “I wasn’t planning on telling you yet. I only just told Katie.” Then Brooke said she was pregnant. Chubis and I congratulated our favorite server. We felt overjoyed for her. I’d almost dare to say we were proud. Throughout her entire pregnancy, Brooke served us lunch and gave us baby updates. Chubis and I became quite fond of her. We felt like surrogate grandfathers.
Just before she began her leave, Chubis got Brooke some baby clothes and I pitched in some money. When we presented Brooke with the gift, it surprised her. She seemed genuinely touched. Chubis and I smiled and smiled.
A short time later, we went to the Woo and learned that—the day before—Brooke had given birth next door at the OBX hospital and had stayed overnight as a precaution. Her husband’s vehicle was parked right out front of the Woo. Katie told us that Brooke would be stopping by on her way home. A few minutes later, Katie, Chubis, and I got to see the newborn and congratulate the young couple. It was a beautiful moment.
Katie often comped us meals on our birthdays.
So Chubis asked for Woo Casa gift certificates from the attendees of his big fiftieth b-day bash and got one from just about everyone he knew. He gave the huge pile to Katie and then ate on credit for the better part of the year. He never did the math. He just told Katie to let him know when he had to start paying again. She was happy to oblige.
There were times when I was tempted to think our sense of belonging at the Woo was a fantasy on our part. After all, we were just two dudes out of many people who regularly ate at the local joint.
But when I published my last novel, I did an event with the fantastic Jamie Anderson of Downtown Books. My publisher had rented a space and we had a nice crowd. During the live interview, I spotted Katie sitting in the audience, smiling proudly at me. I hadn’t told her about the publication. I don’t even think I’d told her I was a novelist. But there she was. I was taken aback by how much her being there moved me.
When she came through the signing line and saw the appreciation on my face, Katie said, “You always support us. Of course, I’d be here tonight.”
Ten minutes later, Chubis reached the front of my signing line and excitedly said, “Did you see Katie was here?” I think he might have been moved even more than I had been. “Can you believe she came? She must really care about us!”
When I moved to Beaufort, South Carolina, Chubis and I started having virtual lunches at the Woo. Chubis would eat alone at a table in the restaurant and FaceTime me in. Via my friend’s smartphone, Katie never failed to make an appearance. She’d say she missed me and hoped I’d come back and have a meal someday. Through my smartphone, I’d tell her I missed the Woo more than she could imagine. I hadn’t found a replacement lunch spot and didn’t think I ever would.
Then in the summer of 2024, Chubis called and told me the Woo was shutting down.
“Why?” I asked. “That place is always packed.”
He said that inflation had got them. The cost of food kept going up and up. They had raised the prices on their menu as high as they could justify, but the numbers weren’t agreeing with their rent costs. The only way to make it was to serve dinner in addition to lunch, but Katie and her husband wanted to prioritize family time and their daughter over profit. So they were shutting down.
This news upset me more than I would have anticipated. Even though I was far away in South Carolina, the idea of the Woo not being in OBX devastated me. It felt like someone I dearly loved—someone who had fed me well and truly brightened my life—was on hospice.
On the last week they were open, Chubis had lunch at the Woo with his daughter, Bailey. He FaceTimed me in to say goodbye to Katie. I told her once again how much I loved eating at the Woo and how much I missed our weekly lunches. She said she had enjoyed having me at the restaurant. She was smiling, but I could tell the closing was difficult for her. How could it not be? She and her husband had invested so much in Woo Casa Kitchen. It had been their dream.
Later that afternoon, Chubis called me and said that when he left the Woo for the last time, Katie gave him a huge hug. Then she told his daughter Bailey about Chubis and me sitting outside in the freezing cold during the pandemic. That was one of her favorite memories and we were some of her favorite customers.
“I think Katie really did care about us,” Chubis said. “The hug she gave me felt real.”
“I guess we were part of something,” I said.
“I think we were,” Chubis said.
We talked about how much we admired their decision to put family first over money and knew that they would do something amazing in the future. Good talented people always do.
“You know,” I said. “There are so many restaurants in OBX that are making piles of cash. But I never wanted to eat at those places.”
Then Chubis said, “There were people who drove hours just to get one last meal at the Woo. One couple was RVing across the country and turned around when they heard it was the Woo’s last week. They interrupted their vacation, just to be here for Katie. The place was packed today.”
“The Woo was special,” I said.
Chubis and I talked about how they did everything right and yet they went out of business. Then we remembered that they went out of business because they were prioritizing family over money. And that’s exactly what made that place what it was.
“I’m glad we got to experience the Woo together,” I said to my best southern friend.
“Me too, buddy,” my friend said. “Me too.”
After I hung up with Chubis, I thought a lot about how I often measure my own career in terms of money and sales. Whenever one of my books fails to make a bestseller list or ends up on the discount rack or gets terrible placement—or no placement at all—at a book shop, I often beat the shit out of myself for years, thinking I must have done something wrong or should have been someone different. When I fail to land the necessary Hollywood person to get a movie made or one of my scripts doesn’t sell, it can feel like a character flaw—like there is something wrong with me, because I didn’t win the day in terms of money and power. I’ll look at the other authors who are ‘doing better’ and wonder if I should be more like them, even though I know being me is really all I have to offer as a writer. This happens even when many people tell me they’ve enjoyed my work. Even when I’ve had legitimate success. There will always be other writers and books whose successes are bigger and whose print runs go on long past my own. It’s hard not to feel like you’re failing when the reading world seems hyper focused on such a tiny percentage of novelists.
Feeling like I should be someone else so that I will achieve some imagined sense of forever financial security is the malware that my analyst and I are working hard to root out.
The dreaded money complex. Measuring success exclusively in terms of profitability.
These ugly thoughts attack me even to this day.
But, lately, I’ve started counterattacking by highlighting all the many beautiful things in my life that did not rise to the top of the money game—and likely never will—but still have great value.
And I’ll think about how kind Katie had been to Chubis and me. What a gift the Woo was for years. How it enriched the community. How it was the brightest part of my pandemic experience. How much it meant to my best southern friend and me. What a difference Katie made in our lives. We paid her for excellent food and service. But the best of what we got from the Woo was free.
Woo Casa Kitchen was a smashing success. Its existence mattered. I loved that place more than I have ever loved a restaurant. It made Chubis and me feel like we belonged. Like there was a spot in the world that not only served tasty lunch, but cared about us. Little old Chubis and me. That means something. That’s a human win in every way imaginable.
And Katie made me believe—again and again—in the altruistic kindness of others. A feat my analyst will tell you is a staggering accomplishment. Chubis and I will never let anyone call the Woo anything but a spectacular triumph.
PS - Did you read the November 20th post? My Week Without Alicia (Finding The Inner Me)