January 21st, 2026

As of today, it’s now been just shy of three weeks since The Aperture - in its current iteration - shuttered its doors; which perhaps makes this message long overdue.  During the time between announcing our closure, and our final service (appropriately on New Year’s Eve, mirroring our first service), I assumed that I would be able to conjure up a few words that were adequate and fitting of the past two years.  However, I quickly discovered (and labored on) the fact that what should feel natural is not always easy and, conversely, what seems easy doesn’t always feel natural.

So with that in mind, here we are, and here it goes.

Eight years ago, I started conceptualizing what would eventually become The Aperture.  That means I’ve spent around one-fifth of my life focused on this venture that, for now, is a little more quiet than I’d care for it to be (though I don’t need a calendar to indicate my age - my back lets me know).  In this current period of reflection, I suppose it would be easy to tell the long story of how things came to be.  How, once upon a time, I sat down with some pens and notebooks and dreamed up something that I felt compelled to bring to reality.  Early menus and concepts that, in retrospect, make no sense (but posterity is important).  All the things that transpired during the time from when I wrote down and circled “The Aperture” among a list of names, and when our doors opened.  How the name came full circle during my month-long solo road trip around the country with my trusty and original film camera.  But I’d rather focus on all the good that came out of the past two years here in our space.  

I firmly believe that stories are important.  They are the most consistent and direct point of connection between people, enduring across time - ironically, I would consider food to be second (music a close third).  Through The Aperture, I have been fortunate to steward and lead a place that served as a space for stories and connection to take place, often in surprising ways and at unexpected times.  It’s no secret that running a restaurant is an immense challenge, but also a rewarding one, given all that you’re blessed to experience, even from a distance.

I’ve witnessed immense growth and fortitude - collective and individual - that’s inspirational, albeit difficult to describe.  I’ve seen what trust and teamwork look like at the highest level, and the results that it can lead to.  I’ve experienced numerous people - internally and externally - trusting this space, and those within it, with some of the most personal and sacred moments of their lives; good, bad, and everything in between.  Including the incredibly serendipitous connection we’ve made with our friends at ETXE.  And at the risk of stating the obvious, we made some damn good food, poured some great drinks, and had a great time doing it.  But when it’s all said and done, the stories and connections are what will endure (we’ll bring back the carrot though - promise).  I am deeply and immensely proud of that.  And while it’s in our nature to sometimes apply a melancholic lens to our past, those lamentations - if we give them the attention they deserve - often lead to a better future.

Since hitting the “pause” button, life has slowed down and become a little bit quieter.  Going from “turn and burn” to “cruising altitude” (sorry, my son, Teddy, has been into fighter jets recently).  However, having that time back has been important, particularly for reflection and learning about The Aperture - how it came to be, what it was, and what it can be.  And for the first time in recent memory, I’ve had time to revisit a few things that are meaningful to me, including one of my favorite poems - “Desiderata.”  I’ve been reflecting on the first line in particular - “go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.”  Fittingly,  as I finish these words, I’m enjoying both peace and silence at my favorite table in the restaurant - Table 22.

I’m trying to get used to it, for now.

But I’m looking forward to the day when I can make some noise again.

With Gratitude and Miles to Go,

Chef JAB