They’ve annexed the spot next door to reopen Jones’ clothing boutique. I buy a trucker hat. They added a dining room that can be cordoned off for meetings. Hundreds, if not thousands, of meetings will be held here as the future of Paradise is rewritten. Live bands play on weekends. Locals dance.
Claire and I need to talk about it, but don’t want to make them talk about it. It’s pretty obvious they know. They see it in us, probably see it in every new arrival. And so they patiently walk us through the tragedy, the updates, the process. They’re the victims and yet they become our consolers. The age-old joke about bartenders also being therapists has never rung more true. Before we walk out the door, they segue into the stories of hope, the newfound strength of community, that sharp wisdom of what’s really, truly important in life that people can only get through loss.
I attended Chico State from 1991 to 1997. I was brought back to help shine some light on these restaurants, the cooks and owners and dishwashers working their butts off in a tough industry to make something memorable for their community. I agreed to write a story for Explore Butte County about my experience, and this is that. The hole in Butte became my story, as I think it would for anyone returning at this point in time. To write anything else would be superficial, dishonest. But in the epicenter of that hole I saw the restaurants, filling that hole.
Restaurants are as vital as organs, especially now. If you’re looking for hope in the wake of tragedy, follow the food.