PETROGNANO, TUSCANY — We were finishing dessert on the terrace last night when one of my Yonderlust Tours guests looked at the cap I wear most days and asked, “What’s that word mean?”
Onward.
People ask that all the time. He thought it might be a restaurant I owned or someone else’s business I was promoting. I told him it wasn’t either. Just a word that’s meant something to me for a long time.
That word first showed up about fifteen years ago when my wife, son, and daughter were with me on a six-month trip across Europe. I’d saved and planned for two years to make it happen—a dream trip—but it didn’t always unfold like the glossy version on paper. We were traveling on a tight budget, juggling bags, dealing with cramped spaces, tight roads, homeschooling, early versions of GPS, and trying to stretch every euro.
On the second night of the journey, in Copenhagen, while still battling jet lag, we ended up in a tiny café near our hotel. The waitress told us all they had left was soup. We took it. It was thin, but it was hot. That night I wrote my weekly column like always and, without really thinking, ended it with one word: Onward.
It fit. We didn’t have a choice.
At the time, it was just a sign-off. But the word stuck. I used it again the next week, then again after that. Before long, it found its way into everything I was doing.
Active recovery from alcohol and drugs taught me long before that trip how to live in the solution. That’s been my foundation for over four decades—focus on what you can fix, let go of what you can’t, and be grateful for the difference. Out there, halfway across the world, every delay, missed ferry, and wrong turn became another version of that same truth I’d already been practicing— keep moving forward.
The restaurant business drives that lesson home every day. After four decades of running restaurants, I’ve learned that standing still will sink you fast. Everything changes—suppliers, menus, staffing, even the rent. One month you’re breaking records; the next, you’re wondering how you’ll keep the lights on.
There was a week, years ago, when it looked like I wasn’t going to be able to make payroll. The money wasn’t there, and the bills kept coming. I didn’t sleep that night. By morning, the only thing to do was open the doors and start fixing one problem at a time. We made it through. I made payroll. I always have. Thirty-seven years, and I’ve never missed one. But that week carved the word Onward into me for good.
People sometimes assume the hat is a personal logo or branding. It’s not. It’s survival. It’s faith. It’s a constant reminder that I’ve been here before—and that the only way out is forward.
I’ve learned you find balance by moving, not by waiting. When you’re stuck, even a small step changes the view. That slow, steady motion has carried me through restaurant closings, lean seasons, and long stretches of uncertainty. You don’t have to sprint. You just have to move.
There have been plenty of times when moving forward meant starting over. The closing of the Purple Parrot hit me hard. It wasn’t just a business—it was a 32-year piece of my life. But that loss made space for new ideas. Out of it came The Maple Bar (one of the better business decisions I’ve ever made), and a whole new way of doing things. I didn’t plan it that way. I just kept showing up. Same goes for Crescent City Grill—born from a moment when I could’ve quit, but didn’t. Every restaurant I’ve opened has carried a piece of the one that came before it. You build, you stumble, you rebuild. Over time, the stumbles become part of the foundation. That’s the part no one sees from the outside.
The best people I’ve ever worked with—chefs, servers, dishwashers, managers—live that. They don’t waste time pointing fingers. They move. They help. They solve. I’ve seen a line cook run two stations short and still crack a joke at midnight. I’ve seen a manager drive across town to cover someone else’s shift without being asked. That’s what Onward looks like in action.
These days, business is good. The teams are strong, the restaurants are full, and the numbers look better than they ever have. Most mornings, the kitchen lights come on before sunrise and there’s laughter before the first ticket prints. But I know comfort can be a harsh mistress. The minute you think you’ve got it all figured out you start sliding backward. So, every morning, before I head out the door, I grab that same cap. Not for luck. Just a reminder to keep showing up.
Keep moving forward.
That same word has now found its way into something new—Onward Hospitality. It’s not branding or strategy; it’s just what we’ve always tried to do.
We’ll open restaurants that feel like home. We’ll build travel experiences that connect people. We have other business concepts in the on-deck circle. And we’ll keep the same foundation in all of those: faith, gratitude, and honest work.
That guest on the terrace nodded when I told him all this. “Seems like that word’s done you pretty well,” he said. Maybe so. But it’s not the word—it’s the work. It’s the mindset.
In my mind’s eye I think back to that little café in Copenhagen. We were tired, money was tight, and I might have been wondering what I’d gotten my family into. But looking back, we had everything we needed. We had each other. We had the next step. We kept moving forward. Onward.
The meals are better now, and the shoes last longer, but the lesson’s are the same. When the road gets rough, live in the solution. Stay grateful.
The hat doesn’t say I’ve got it all figured out. It just reminds me there’s still work to do—and that the best way through anything is one honest step at a time.
Onward.
Biscotti di Prato
5 ½ cups Cake flour
1 ½ cup Sugar
4 each Whole eggs
1 each ¼ oz. package active dry yeast
1 ½ cups Blanched almond slivers, toasted and finely chopped (about 1 cup after chopped)
Preheat oven to 325.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook, mix the flour sugar and eggs on medium speed for 4 minutes. Add the yeast and continue mixing for 2 minutes. Add the chopped almonds and mix another 2 minutes.
Divide the dough in half and form each into a loaf about 1” thick and 3” wide on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Cook for 10-15 minutes, let cool slightly and slice ½“ thick. Return to the baking pan and cook an additional 6-8 minutes until browned. Allow to cool completely.
(Robert St. John is a chef, restauranteur and published cookbook author who lives in Hattiesburg, Miss.)
