- Robert St. John says he’s forgotten a lot of what he’s eaten over the years, but he remembers the meals that meant something.
I’ve eaten thousands of meals in restaurants. The ones that have stuck weren’t about the food. What I remember is the person sitting across from me.
In my business, service times, table numbers, and orders all start to blur. But the moments that rise above it—the ones that last—are about people. A shared meal has always meant more than what’s on the plate. It’s the company, the conversation, the connection.
These days, I eat lunch with my wife almost every day. That’s become our rhythm. I know how rare that is—especially in a world that seems to be moving faster than it should. We always plan it. Sometime mid-morning, one of us will ask, “Where do you want to have lunch?” And these days, our daughter—who lives and works in town—can sometimes free herself up and join us. Most days, we end up somewhere around 1 p.m., ordering something familiar and settling in. It’s not extravagant. It’s steady. A small act that means a lot.
It wasn’t always this way.
When we dated and when we were newlyweds, both of us worked full-time. I spent the early years of my restaurant career in the kitchen during lunch service, and the next decade or so working the floor. She was holding down a demanding job of her own and rarely even stopped for lunch. We made it work when we could. A quick bite. Fifteen minutes squeezed between obligations. We didn’t have much time, but we valued what we had.
That shifted when our daughter was born. Once she was old enough to sit upright in a highchair, we’d pick her up from preschool and take her to lunch. Never fast food. Always a sit-down meal in a real restaurant. She was perfect—quiet, observant, content to be right in the middle of the lunch crowd. She grew up in dining rooms, learning how to act civilized, how to listen politely, and how to stare at strangers chewing without making a face—which is, frankly, more than I can manage most days.
Our son was a different story. Loud, excited, always moving—like a chihuahua on espresso. Never misbehaved, just thrilled to be in the mix. That was just who he was, even back then. He grew up in restaurants too, and today he’s working in one, living in Chicago and following his own path in the business.
Back when both kids were small, breakfast on weekends was its own tradition. First with my daughter, until she discovered sleeping in. Then it became my son and me. These days, when I’m in Chicago, we’ll still meet for breakfast before he heads to work. Those early hours matter. They’re quiet and honest.
Some of the most meaningful time I’ve spent as an adult came in the form of a fast-food biscuit breakfast with my mother. For over a decade, we met three mornings a week—after my time at the gym, and before work. She liked the biscuits at Hardee’s. Said they tasted like her mother’s. They didn’t. But that didn’t stop her. We always sat at the same table by the window she liked. Thirty, forty-five minutes, just catching up. Talking about everything and nothing. Usually debating whether the sausage biscuit was worth feeling terrible the rest of the day—which, of course, it always was.
She’s gone now. But those mornings still feel close. Just the two of us, making space in the middle of life.
I’ve always admired the men in my old neighborhood who came home for lunch. You could set your watch by them. Pulling into the driveway at noon, back to work an hour later. A small, steady tradition. I still know a couple who do it. That kind of consistency says something about how people choose to spend their time.
For us, lunch means going out. That’s how it’s always been. My wife and I fell into that habit early and kept it. Whether it’s a neighborhood spot or something new, we’ve had thousands of meals together. We talk about the kids, about work, about whatever’s going on that day. Sometimes we talk less. We’ve reached the point where silence is comfortable, at least on my end. She’s never met a quiet moment she didn’t want to fix. But most days, just sitting across from her, splitting an entrée, drinking iced tea, watching the room, feels like a reminder of how good this life is.
Most business meetings I take these days happen at The Midtowner, around 7 a.m. at table 19. It’s my preferred time. People are fresh, there’s little distraction, and nobody’s had enough time to make really bad decisions. I like how breakfast sets the tone. Even when we’re talking business, the food makes it feel more grounded.
Some of the best meals I’ve ever had weren’t special occasions. Just memories that stuck. In 2011, our family spent six months traveling through Europe. My son and I had breakfast almost every day—Barcelona markets, Paris cafés, Milan bakeries with croissants as big as your head. But the one I remember best happened in Athens, on the rooftop of the Royal Olympic Hotel. The Temple of Zeus in front of us. The Parthenon beyond. A perfect morning. Just a quiet table, soft boiled eggs, croissants, and the city waking up around us.
I’ve forgotten a lot of what I’ve eaten over the years. But I remember the meals that meant something.
Life doesn’t slow down on its own. We have to make the space. The table does that. Whether it was a biscuit with my mother, breakfast with my son, lunch with my wife, or sneaking my daughter out of elementary school to share nachos, those meals have been a steady thread. They connected our days. They brought us together. They reminded us—without ever needing to say it out loud—that we were right where we were supposed to be.
Who was across from me mattered then. Still does.
Onward.
This Week’s Recipe: Stuffed French Toast
Ingredients
Filling
2 lbs Cream cheese, softened
1 Tbsp Orange zest
3 /4 cup Sugar
2 tsp Vanilla
1 1 /2 tsp Cinnamon
Batter
2 cups Half and half
2 cups Milk
8 Eggs + 4 yolks
1 tsp Vanilla
3 /4 cup Sugar
1 tsp Cinnamon
1 /2 tsp. Nutmeg
French Bread, cut into 8 five-inch-long pieces
Instructions
To make the filling, mix all ingredients together using an electric mixer until light and fluffy.
Hollow out a one-inch tunnel through the center of the French bread pieces. Fill a pastry bag with the cream cheese filling and stuff the French bread.
Prepare the batter mixture and pour it over the stuffed French toast in a casserole dish. Let soak for two hours or longer. Rotate the bread often so that all sides become equally saturated.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Place French toast on a well-buttered sheet pan and place in oven. Bake 12 minutes. Remove and turn bread over. Return to oven and bake eight more minutes. Serve with warm maple syrup and fresh sliced strawberries.
Yield: eight servings
