The Day Has Come
A letter to our team, our city, and the people who built this kitchen
The day has come.
People like to say, “I never thought this day would come.” For me, it was always coming. I knew how. I just didn’t know why or when.
Over the last five years, my incredible partner Olivia and I—and the people who stood beside us—sacrificed everything. Emotional health. Physical health. Mental health. Every version of ourselves that could be spent, we spent. We told ourselves it was the cost of building something meaningful. Something lasting.
Along the way, we lost friendships. We strained families. We lost people who helped us build this place in the first place. That is the quiet tax of growth; especially when you’re trying to build something honest, something ambitious, something that refuses to be small.
But here’s what we gained: we developed people. People who had no experience in this industry. People who had ideas but had never been given a real opportunity to test them. This was a stage—literally. A place where people could pitch ideas, try things, receive feedback, and experience what real growth actually looks like.
And it worked. The best versions and the most intentional interpretations of Mexican cuisine this town has ever seen came from our program. We gave our people the rules, the vernacular, and most importantly the space to create something with purpose, meaning, and heart. All of those names you are now familiar with? They never had this before we came along.
This is how we became one of the most revered restaurants in this city. One of the most influential. That isn’t braggadocio or nostalgia talking. This is fact and matter of record.
Today, we’re announcing that it’s time.
More specifically, that we will be closing our beloved restaurant República.
There is no clear horizon ahead—not under the current conditions, not with the realities we’re facing. This decision wasn’t made lightly, and it certainly wasn’t made suddenly. We are heartbroken. We are exhausted. And we are choosing truth over denial.
Yes, Portland has changed. But I refuse to use the city as a scapegoat. This Mayor, this City Council, and much of its current leadership continue to make it too easy for people like myself to lose faith in the future of our city. Nonetheless, this is not a warning to stay away. It’s a cautionary tale about adaptation.
When the numbers drastically dropped last March and April, we had a choice: evolve into something smaller, more casual, more flexible—or tighten up and wait it out. We chose the latter. We reacted instead of reimagining. And when we lost over 30% of our business almost overnight, we tried to fix a systemic wound with a bandage. That mistake cost us more than we can recover.
Tourism disappeared. Habits shifted. Costs rose; not just food costs, but the human cost of staying in the game. This industry is under attack, whether we want to admit it or not.
And for me, one issue rose above all others.
When the safety of my staff; people who built this place with their hands and their memories—could no longer be assumed, when their dignity and security were treated as negotiable, silence stopped being an option. We stayed quiet for a year, hoping things wouldn’t worsen. They did. And they will continue to.
Last week, I spoke with colleagues in Minneapolis about the attacks on our community; specifically on the hospitality workers who came to this country looking to build a better life for themselves and their families. I won’t make this overly political. If you want my full thoughts, read my previous post. Right now, all I keep asking myself is the same question:
How long do we wait? One more month? Three? Six? For what sign? For what promise?
So instead of pretending, we’re choosing clarity.
Last week, we served roughly 100 covers total. For reference, our average before this administration was about 44-48 per night. This decision is not theoretical.
To my team: I am sorry. We failed you; not for lack of effort, not for lack of belief, but because we could not turn the tide fast enough without losing ourselves entirely.
And to the city of Portland, let me be equally clear:
The Mexican cuisine you celebrate today did not arrive by accident. It exists because of the labor, memory, and courage of the people in this kitchen; the tortilleras, the tortilleros, the cooks who brought recipes from home, who cooked from nostalgia, from history, from pride. They changed this city’s culinary landscape. We simply helped hold the door open.
For that, you’re welcome. And you should thank them.
Our official closing date will be February 21st. This gives us a few weeks to revisit some of the dishes we loved so much. Should the situation change—should we be spared what our colleagues in Minneapolis are facing—we will do our best to extend a little longer.
If you’ve ever meant to come in, this is the moment. We will give you everything we have left.
We’ll stay open. We’ll keep the conversation going. And we’ll finish the way we started; with intention.
One last thing—before I forget.
This is not a final goodbye. And it’s not a final email.
We’ve worked too hard to build the relationships we have, and too many of you have supported us in ways that deserve more than a rushed thank-you at the end of a difficult announcement. If I tried to name everyone or tell every story here, this email would be ten times longer—and it still wouldn’t be enough.
So instead, I’ll save that. Over the next few weeks, I’ll share some of those anecdotes, some of those moments, and some of the gratitude that deserves its own space.
All I ask is that you continue to support where we started, and where we’re still going—whether that’s through Reforma Roasters, TODOS Media, Lilia, or any of the other projects that still carry our care, our interest, and our love.
Thank you for staying with us.
Forever Grateful,
Angel & Olivia.
