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I can’t tell you exactly when I last had Kim’s Thai, but I know what I ate. As always, I ordered Jungle Curry with chicken, spice level four. My girlfriend got Pad Kee Mao, spice level 3, and gave me a bite. We split an order of veggie egg rolls. I placed the order over the phone, bypassing the tedious task of manual number entry because the restaurant had been one of my contacts for years at that point. A noticeably frazzled voice answered my call, but—at least I’d like to think—eased some and became a little less exasperated upon recognizing a familiar voice (or a familiar order, if nothing else) on the other end of the line. She said it would be ready in either 20 minutes or 45 minutes, because those were the only two spans of time she ever seemed to tell me.

I can tell you with confidence it was a Friday because, aside from the few times it was a Saturday, it was always a Friday. Another long week, which was likely preceding a busy weekend, was temporarily halted. The movie was selected, cocktail ingredients and beer were chilling, and the last/most important part of a relaxing and all-too-rare night in—Kim’s Thai—would soon be home. I drove to pick it up from a Layton Avenue mini mall and was greeted by the restaurant’s namesake, a small woman with a warm smile that I had earned from years of patronage that slowly eroded her tough exterior. Pleasantries were exchanged. Maybe weekend plans were discussed. I might’ve been teased again for tightly knotting the plastic bag my order was in to hold in the food’s heat for my sub-10-minute ride home.

Once home, I immediately tore open the side of the knotted plastic bag and distributed the jasmine rice and curry into a bowl, making sure to save some of each component for leftovers the next day (that somehow always tasted even better than they did the night before). It was delicious. It was always delicious, and I knew it would sustain me for the next 4-6 Fridays until a craving would strike and I would inevitably, happily repeat the process all over again. However, it turns out I will not be able to do it again because Kim’s Thai has closed and I am crestfallen.

Restaurant closures happen all the time, but to quote someone in the comments section of pretty much every closing announcement we write, “this one hurts.” In fact, Kim’s sudden closure is just the latest and, to me, the worst “this one hurts” in a line of devastating dining service discontinuations. In May, Company Brewing abruptly called it quits with no warning (even to its staff) and left a gaping hole in Riverwest dining, drinking, and entertainment. The Noble, a long-tenured Walker’s Point restaurant renowned for its Monday brunch, quietly closed last August mere weeks after my unforgettable first/only visit. Without a word of warning, South Side burger bastion Mazos hung it up for good last weekend following 90 years and three generations in business. Hot Dish Pantry, a newcomer that I’ve quickly come to love, is currently in its final days of operation. The list goes on, and on, and on.

In reality, restaurant closures happen for a myriad of reasons. There’s staggering rental hikes, persistent food cost increases that make it nearly impossible to stay afloat, staffing issues and ownership disputes, looming retirements or other personal matters, and—probably more often than not—a harsh combination of sheer physical exhaustion, mental fatigue, and financial distress because, well, operating a restaurant at any level is extremely difficult and thankless work. And ironically enough, most establishments don’t really “get their flowers” from customers and critics until they’re already buried.

I won’t speculate on why Kim’s Thai (or any other business) ultimately made the decision to close. Nor will I foolishly ask how we can retroactively “save” Kim’s, as if the Paneboune family was a couple more Jungle Curry purchases from living on Easy Street. Instead, I will thank Kim’s—and all the other restaurants I value that are no longer here—for existing in the first place and for sticking it out as long as they could in an ever-worsening landscape for independent owners/operators. And yes, I will mourn the sudden absence of a trusty Thai food standby, the instantaneous end of my cross-counter interactions with a kind woman, and the loss of a simple ritual I’m unfortunately only able to fully appreciate now that I know it’s truly over.

When the dust settles, I’ll hold my remaining spots a little closer, I’ll try to visit a little more often when time and budget allows, and I’ll make sure to savor each bite a little bit longer because it could very well be the last meal at that specific establishment. And if it’s anything like it feels right now to lose Kim’s Thai, it’s going to hurt.

About The Author

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Co-Founder and Editor

Before co-founding Milwaukee Record, Tyler Maas wrote for virtually every Milwaukee publication (except Wassup! Magazine). He lives in Bay View and enjoys both stuff and things.