Mazama Explodes! Again!?
Updated: Oct 6
History has a funny way of repeating itself. Businesses fail. New ones rise. Names disappear from storefronts and are replaced by something new, sometimes before we've even noticed the old one is gone.
Three years ago, I walked into a brewery hoping to get a job as a line cook. That brewery was Mazama Brewing Co. I got the job and for nearly three years, I worked there long enough for the place to become part of the rhythm of my life. Long enough to know the people who come and went, the people who stayed, the busy nights, the slow ones, the strange chracters, the familiar faces.
Then last month, I recieved a text from the owner. Effective immediately, the restaunt was closing.
There had been signs. The sale of the brewery in Corvallis. The fire sale of beer. The arrival of a grandchild. Little pieces of information that, when placed next to one another, begin to look less like coincidences and more like clues.
But hindsight is an excellent detective.
It is always unfortunate when a business closes, especially when that business is someone's livelihood. Because behind a restant is rarely just a restaurant.
There are people. People with mortgages. People with children. People saving for retirement. People who aren't ready to retire. People passing through a strange chapter of their lives and simply trying to make enough money to get to the next one.
A business can look like a building, a brand, a logo, a menu. But underneath all that are lives. And that got me thinking about something I've been trying to understand more deeply:
What makes something last?
BOH circa July 2024
We have a peculiar relationship with permanence. Luxury, especially, likes to dress itself in the language of longevity. Timeless. Heritage. Iconic. Built to last. Investment piece.
We are taught to associate price with premanence. The more expensive something is, the more serious it must be. The older the company, the more trustworthy it must be. The more prestigous the name, the safer the purchase. But Mazama reminded me that permanence isn't something you can simply purchase.
A beautiful building can close. A beloved restaurnt can disappear. A company with a respected name can run out of road.
Even things that feel permanent are only permanent until they aren't.
The commonly repeated statistic that roughly half od restaurants close within their first five years is often used as evidence of how diificult the industry is. But statistics liek these can also give use a false sense that failure is something that happens to other businesses — the inexperienced ones, the poorly managed ones, the ones that didn't understand the game.
I'm not sure that's true. Sometimes businesses fail because of decisions. Sometimes because of circumstances. Sometimes because the economics no longer work. Sometimes because the people running them simply decide that they want something else. And sometimes, we may never know.
The last part bothers me. I like closure. I like knowing why the door closed. But businesses don't owe us a satisfying ending. Sometimes there is only a text message. And then the lights go off.
Crafted from soft Shaniko Oregon wool in a straight-leg silhouette in it's natural color.
There are books about restaurants that fail. Books about companies that collapse. Books about brands that disappeared. There are consultants who will tell ou how to build something that lasts. And yet every generation seems to learn the lesson again.
Perhaps because durability isn't a formula. It's a practice. Which brings me back to luxury.
I don't think luxury should be about buying the thing that looks like it will last. I think luxury is having the discernment to ask why it might.
Who made it? How was it made? What materials were chosen? Can it be repaired? Does the company understand its own history? Does the business have a relationship with the people who make its products? Is the object beautiful because someone decided it should look expensive or becuase someone spent an unreasonable amount of time making it right?
These questions don't guarantee permanence but they move us away from status and toward discernment. And maybe that's the real misconception and luxury: Luxury isn't permanence.
Luxury is understanding what you're buying well enough to recognize what deserves to remain.
The restaurant is gone now. The tables have been cleared. The kitchen has gone quiet. People who worked there are figuring out what's next. And somewhere, another business is opening its doors.
History repeats itself.
Again. And again. And again.
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