The End of an Era.
From the desk of the CEO
A few blog posts ago, I mentioned my local sushi bar, Honda. It wasn’t just a place to eat; it was a relationship—longer than most marriages, more reliable than some friendships. Fifteen years of raw fish and raw honesty. “Cheers” with a side of toro. Walk in, spot a familiar face, exchange a few laughs, buy a few beers, go home feeling marginally better about the absurdity of existence.
And then, bizarrely, it got even better during COVID. While the world spiraled into chaos, Honda became a sushi speakeasy. Five of us had visitation privileges. We staggered our appearances to maintain plausible deniability, but we all knew what it was: a lifeline. A tiny, soy-sauce-scented sanctuary from doomscrolling and existential dread. It wasn’t just about food anymore. It was about survival—mental, emotional, possibly even spiritual.
Then, just like that, it was gone.
Last weekend, Honda closed. No warning, no fanfare, barely an explanation. Everyone was blindsided. But before the doors shut for good, the owner called the Honda family back for one last night. It started like any other Friday night, like we had all just coincidentally landed at the bar at the same time. Jokes, laughter, lots of old stories. The only difference? No one paid. We were simply consuming the remnants of something we all knew we’d never have again. The night ended with hugs, a few tears, and solemn promises to meet elsewhere, though we all understood the truth: it wouldn’t be the same.
The next morning, I woke up with a hangover. Not from the drinks, but from the loss. A thick, undeniable sadness. I tried to diagnose myself—was it nostalgia? Melodrama? A midlife crisis? So, naturally, I consulted the almighty internet.
Turns out, it’s a thing!
This phenomenon has a name: “place attachment.” It’s that deep psychological bond between a person and a specific place, formed by routines, experiences, and the people who populate it. And, like all losses, it follows the well-documented stages of grief!
It hasn’t been fun. And I’m not entirely through it yet. But it got me thinking—this thing I’m feeling? It’s what we, in business, are constantly trying to create. That kind of attachment, that kind of loyalty, that kind of irrational, deep-seated need for something that goes beyond the product itself.
Absurdly, I am my own case study. I’m typing this on my Mac Mini (even though I once sold all my Apple stock like a complete fool in the ‘90s because I was convinced they were doomed). I’ve got my Chucks on (a brand that somehow resurrected itself from the dead by becoming a nostalgia-fueled lifestyle staple). And last night, I watched Daredevil (because Marvel, another phoenix, somehow went from bankruptcy to owning pop culture).
The common thread? Each of these brands practically disappeared—poof—only to claw their way back. Not by reinventing themselves beyond recognition, but by remembering who they were at their core and adapting just enough to matter again. It’s something to remember.``
So, is there hope for another Honda? Maybe. Maybe not. But history suggests that when something truly resonates, it has a way of finding its way back—sometimes under a different name, sometimes in an unexpected form. Maybe one day, I’ll stumble into a new sushi joint and feel that same old spark. Maybe a place just like Honda will rise again, like a well-seasoned, slightly tipsy phoenix.
Until then, I’ll keep looking.
And I’ll always have Honda.
Michael D. Dean
CEO Brand 33