The meals I didn’t know to cherish: Finding gratitude in the memories of K&W
When I learned the Winston-Salem-based chain K&W Cafeteria was shuttering all of its locations, my first thought was to call my mother.
I knew we went to the Cornelius location at least a few times annually before it closed permanently, though the reasons for those visits had slipped my memory. We couldn’t agree on when it closed, only that it had been gone for at least a decade.
“Mom, can you remember what occasions we would celebrate at K&W?” I asked her.
“Everything,” she responded.
She was right.
The truth is, I never loved K&W. Our trips followed a familiar script: my parents announced the outing, my younger sister and I responded with a groan calibrated to be expressive but not punishable and then came the inevitable directive to put on our Sunday Best — a dress code the restaurant itself had never endorsed.
It took me years to learn that my parents weren’t choosing the venue.
Grandma knows best
My grandparents’ love for K&W bordered on devotional. But I was confused by their affinity for the restaurant — especially my grandmother’s — for a few reasons.
First, the food. My grandmother always raved about the sides, especially the mac and cheese and green beans. Even as a child, I suspected both suffered from a certain absence of seasoning.
And the dining room, with its dim lighting and lack of music, offered little distraction from the clatter of silverware.
And lastly, my biggest gripe with the restaurant — it wasn’t all-you-can-eat.
To be fair, K&W never claimed to be a buffet, but the revelation that seconds were not an option — not even after a modest serving of chicken tenders and unseasoned fries — felt like a personal betrayal.
I never had the chance to ask my grandfather what drew him there, or why he wore such an unmistakable smile from the time we sat down to the time we walked out into the parking lot. But after he was gone, I learned that the food had never really been the point — he just loved having all of us together in one place.
Becoming ‘Mr. Evan’
My grandfather didn’t talk much, especially when there was food around. That was doubly true at K&W. But he always made a point to ask me how I was doing, always referring to me as “Mr. Evan,” which I always thought was a comical way to address an 8-year-old.
“How are you today, Mr. Evan?” he’d ask, waiting patiently for whatever rambling, half-formed story I had prepared. I’d tell him about the sand castle I’d built during a recent trip to Myrtle Beach, or about some young adult book I was struggling to understand, and he’d listen closely, smiling as if each word mattered.
K&W was also where I caught up with my uncle, an accomplished attorney from Durham with an unexpected fondness for gangster rap and an infectious laugh.
“You listen to that new Young Jeezy album?” he’d ask, fully aware my parents wouldn’t permit that kind of music for several more years. “You have to check it out.”
The cafeteria doubled as a meeting spot for my sister and my cousin — who, in my mind, was more like a second sister. We were preteens with urgent matters to discuss. I remember long debates about our favorite songs from the newest “High School Musical” soundtrack, or which Nintendo DS game we were hoping to unwrap at Christmas.
Somewhere along the way, I began to look forward to those trips to K&W. I didn’t realize they wouldn’t last forever.
Giving thanks
My uncle, Harold Robert Hunter Jr., passed away in August 2022 after a lengthy battle with cancer, and my grandfather, Harold Robert Hunter, died unexpectedly in April. This Thanksgiving was our family’s first without him.
Before we bowed our heads for grace, my mother lit a candle in their memory.
“They may not be here in body, but they’re here in spirit,” my mom said, her voice carrying the kind of certainty meant to steady the rest of us as much as herself.
Once the plates were filled and the familiar hum of family conversation returned, my mind drifted back to those evenings at K&W. At one end of the room, my mother and my aunt dissected the news of the week; my grandmother, half-distracted by whatever home renovation show had captured her attention on HGTV, chimed in occasionally. Nearby, my sister offered her trademark commentary, solicited or not, while I worked my way through the dishes my grandmother had made talking sports with one of my other uncles.
We left the chair at the head of the table empty, its silence standing in for the grandfather whose calm, observing presence had once made the room feel whole.
And in that empty space, I imagined his familiar smile: patient, as if he were still taking everything in, exactly the way he always did.
As the evening wound down, I found myself grateful for those unremarkable dinners at K&W – moments I hadn’t known to treasure then, but hold onto now with both hands.
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This story was originally published December 3, 2025 at 5:00 AM with the headline "The meals I didn’t know to cherish: Finding gratitude in the memories of K&W."
