05/12/2026
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To our city.
To our customers.
To the people who stood beside us through every rise and every fallā¦
Itās time to share the true story.
For the last five years, thereās been nonstop rumors, gossip, assumptions, and people speaking on our story without ever knowing what really happened behind the scenes. We stayed quiet for a long time because we believed hard work would speak louder than drama. We believed loyalty, integrity, and results would eventually outshine the noise.
But our silence allowed lies to grow.
So this is the true story..
Years ago we built Lost Era from the dirt during one of the hardest times imaginable ā right after Covid. No investors. No handouts. No rich backers. No loans. Just relentless work, sacrifice, sleepless nights, and belief.
Before any of this, it was me with a Blackstone and a hot dog cart working 18-hour days trying to survive while raising kids and building a dream. Selling antiques. Hustling every way possible. Learning food through passion, failure, fire, and obsession. Iām not some corporate chef trained in luxury kitchens. Iām a backwoods food guy raised on hard work, smoke, cast iron, farming, and creating food that makes people feel something.
Food became my art.
My therapy.
My life.
Lost Era became more than a restaurant. It became a home. A family. A place people traveled across the country to experience. We were featured in major publications, people flew in from all over the U.S., and what mattered most to us wasnāt fame ā it was hearing people say:
āManā¦ Iāve never had anything like this.ā
That was the reward.
But while the city saw packed houses, wild food, and successā¦ behind the scenes things were falling apart. People we trusted turned out to be people using us. Equipment disappeared. Antiques disappeared. Entire pieces of our livelihood vanished overnight. The people we thought were friends cared more about spotlight and ownership than the blood it took to build the place. Rumors spread through town while we stayed quiet trying to handle things the right way legally.
We lost a place that felt like home.
But we didnāt quit. Because nothing weāve ever built came from giving up.
So we scraped together every dollar we had and built again ā The Golden Fang. Small spot. Big vision. Another five-star experience built with our own hands. Once again the city showed us love. Packed houses. Incredible reviews. Loyal customers. Families becoming regulars. We took pride in making sure when people spent money with us, they got an experience they would never forget.
And againā¦ success attracted the wrong people. We partnered with local investors who promised loyalty, growth, family, and a future. We were told weād build restaurants together, a dynasty. That our creativity and passion finally had backing behind it.
Instead, what was really being built was a brand off our backs.
We created the food.
Built the attention.
Built the hype.
Built the culture.
Built the experience.
And once the machine was running, the truth came out.
The partnership wasnāt real.
We were told to erase our own name. Stop posting our own food. Stop speaking to our own followers. Stop being ourselves. Everything we created was being stripped away piece by piece while we were expected to smile and keep cooking.
Then came the final insult: a silence agreement and payout offer meant to make us disappear quietly after giving everything we had physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially. A warning to keep our mouths shut.
We refused. Because no amount of money is worth selling your voice, your integrity, or your truth.
So we walked away with nothing except each other.
And once again, we rebuilt.
We opened antique stores with family. We kept our heads down and kept fighting because thatās what real ones do. We donāt fold in hard times, we rise.
Then came Whiskeytown Tap House.
We walked into another impossible situation believing we could save it. We were told stories about failed ownership, debt, scams, chaos, and people abandoning ship. We were handed keys and promised opportunity, partnership, and ownership potential if we rebuilt it.
So we did exactly what we always do:
We rebuilt the food.
Rebuilt the reputation.
Rebuilt the energy.
Rebuilt the customer trust.
We gave that place life again.
Packed holidays. Viral food. Full dining rooms. Families returning. Momentum was building. We poured hundreds of hours into that business believing we were building something real for our future and for this city.
Then on Motherās Day, after everything we sacrificed, we were handed our checks and told we were no longer needed.
Just like that.
No loyalty.
No honesty.
No respect for the countless unpaid hours, sleepless nights, stress, sacrifice, or belief we poured into it.
Just discarded once the hard part was over.
So letās make this clear once and for all:
We did not fail.
We were not lazy.
We were not frauds.
We were not the problem.
We were creators surrounded by people who saw passion as something to exploit.
And despite all of it, we are still standing.
This is our home, our roots are generations deep. We love this community with everything we have. Every restaurant, truck, pop-up, plate, and experience we created was built from genuine love for feeding people and bringing something magical to this town.
We never wanted sympathy.
We never wanted handouts.
And we still donāt.
The people who supported us deserve to know why places disappeared, why names changed and why we kept vanishing after building things people loved.
To our loyal customers, friends, family, and supporters:
Thank you for riding with us through every chapter. You gave us purpose during some of the most challenging years of our lives.
And to the people who tried to break us, silence us, use us, or profit off our passion:
You failed.
Because weāre still here.
Still standing.
Still creating.
Still fighting.
Outlaws donāt die from betrayal.
We evolve through it.
This isnāt the end of our story.
Not even close.
Weāll find our next adventure and when we do, weāll build something even louder, stronger, rowdier, and more unforgettable than ever before.
May the bridges they burned light our way.
Much love,
The Golden Fangš«¶š¼
