It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything on this blog. Honestly, life gets busy and I don’t usually feel the need to share every thought or opinion. But this one has been sitting heavy on me, and I felt like I needed to say it. Cracker Barrel has been a big part of my life and my memories, and what I experienced last night was too important to keep to myself.

I grew up on Cracker Barrel. It isn’t just another restaurant to me, it’s part of my story. My dad taught the children of Dan Evins, the founder. My mother worked at their headquarters in Lebanon, Tennessee. I even remember going to the original Cracker Barrel in Lebanon (as seen in the picture) when I was a kid, long before the chain spread across the country. And some of my fondest restaurant memories are from sitting at those tables with my family.

We went often, partly because of my mom’s employee discount, but mostly because the food was amazing. I still remember my favorites: the biscuits with grape jelly, fried shrimp, chicken fried chicken, the hashbrown casserole, those thick steak fries, and of course, the Coca-Cola fudge cake.

There was something special about walking into any Cracker Barrel in America. No matter where I was, it felt like home, because home is where it all started.

Over the years, Cracker Barrel has weathered controversies and challenges, yet somehow always managed to rise above and come out stronger. But in the last few years, something has changed.

Since Covid, every visit has been a letdown. The service has slipped, the food has declined, and the familiar comfort that made Cracker Barrel beloved is fading.

Two months ago, after waiting nearly 40 minutes for our meal, I contacted corporate and shared my disappointment. I told them how sad it was to see the place that held so many of my memories slipping away. Tonight, we decided to give it one more try.

Our server Stephanie was wonderful—she was the highlight of the night. But the food told a different story.

I hate to be critical, and I don’t want to come across as someone who just complains, but this place means too much to me to stay quiet. What we experienced on this visit was not the Cracker Barrel I grew up loving.

The biscuits were bland, missing the buttery flavor that used to define them. The green beans, once cooked down with pork and rich seasoning, tasted like they had been poured out of a can and microwaved. When I asked, our server told us the recipe had been changed about a month ago. The hashbrown casserole was dry and lifeless, like it had been sitting out for days. Even the grilled chicken, once a dependable favorite, lacked the seasoning that gave it its southern soul.

Here’s the truth: I don’t care about your new logo. I don’t even mind the new paint, it brightens things up a bit and gives the restaurant a fresher look. But when you start tinkering with the recipes, when you strip the flavor out of the very dishes that built your reputation, you’re doing more than just changing food. You’re tampering with people’s memories. For many of us, Cracker Barrel isn’t just a place to grab a bite, it’s where we sat with grandparents who are no longer with us, where families celebrated milestones, where road trips weren’t complete until we saw those rocking chairs on the porch.

And when that taste changes, the memories feel different too. The connection isn’t as strong, the warmth isn’t as real, and the nostalgia begins to fade. For those of us who built some of our sweetest family moments around your tables, the loss is real and deeply felt.

Cracker Barrel, you’re losing loyal customers. You’re pushing away the very people who have loved you for decades, the ones who stood with you in hard times and rejoiced with you in the good ones. These aren’t casual guests you can afford to brush off, they are the backbone of your legacy, the reason you became more than just another restaurant chain.

I really don’t care about whatever controversy you may be facing in the headlines. I don’t care if the management makes questionable decisions, I don’t care if you change the logo (though I do miss old Uncle Herschel sitting in his chair), and you can repaint the walls as often as you want. None of that matters. What matters is the food, the menu, and the service that made you special. That’s what drew us in, that’s what kept us coming back, and that’s what will always matter most.

Please, don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget what made us fall in love with you in the first place. Don’t sacrifice the heart of what you do for the sake of cost-cutting or trends. Go back to the flavors, the care, and the authenticity that made you special. Go back to the food that tasted like home.