Last summer, I wrote a piece for the Chattanooga Times Free Press headlined “Zarzour’s Might Last Forever.” The family-run meat-and-three was a pure “joint” where you’d need Inspector Gadget’s magnifying glass to find any frills. Yet in a treacherous industry where most restaurants kick the bucket before their fifth anniversary, Zarzour’s was approaching 107 years old.
When Zarzour’s announced out of the blue that they’d be closing after more than a century of slinging food, I was engulfed by a genuine sense of regret. Selfishly, I thought to myself, “How could they close down without me at least once gracing them with my appetite?” I hate when people go around telling other people they have “no regrets.” I wrote that there wasn’t enough ink in my pen to list my regrets, emphasizing how rarely the chance to cross one off comes along.
