THE ROAD TO SOUTH POINT

I grew up in California, where being in the restaurant industry was instilled in me from a young age. When I was a boy, I spent long hours helping wherever I could — rolling silverware, bussing tables, refilling waters, greeting guests at the door. It wasn’t glamorous, and it definitely wasn’t easy. The days started early and ended late. There were weekends we didn’t stop, holidays we worked straight through, and nights we went home exhausted. But for me, it never felt like just a job.

Even as a kid, I knew there was something special happening around those tables. I watched people walk through the doors burdened by the world — stressed from work, weighed down by life — and leave with full bellies and lighter hearts. I paid attention to the small things: how someone’s shoulders relaxed after their first sip of a margarita, how laughter echoed louder as the meal went on, how a familiar face at the door could turn a hard day into a good one. Some of our guests came in once and left an impression. Others came back again and again. Over time, they became part of our story. Some turned into friends. A few even felt like family.

The restaurant world was fast, demanding, unpredictable — and I loved it. It gave me energy. It gave me purpose. But after years of hard work, I began to feel the weight. I was working seven days a week, constantly on my feet, pouring my heart into every shift. Eventually, the long hours and nonstop pace caught up with me. I was exhausted. I still loved the work, but I didn’t feel like myself anymore. So, I did something I never thought I would — I stepped away.

I took an office job. It was quieter, slower, more predictable. I had weekends off, I wore nicer shoes, and I didn’t go home smelling like fajitas. But something was missing. I couldn’t quite name it at first — I just felt out of place. The days were fine, the people were kind, but the spark was gone. I missed the chaos. I missed the rhythm. I missed the people. But most of all, I missed the connection.

Then one night, everything clicked. I was out to eat with my family, just sitting there at a table — like a regular guest. I looked around the room and saw it all again with fresh eyes: people laughing, sharing stories over chips and salsa, clinking glasses, passing plates, making memories. And I realized — this is what I had walked away from. It wasn’t just about the food or the pace. It was about the community. The relationships. The sense of belonging that only a restaurant can create. And in that moment, I knew I had to go back. Not long after, an opportunity came up to help manage a restaurant in Virginia. I didn’t think twice. I packed my bags, left the comfort of what I knew, and moved across the country. I dove back into the work with a new sense of clarity. This time, I wasn’t chasing a job — I was answering a calling.

Then came the dream I never thought would come true so soon: the chance to open my own restaurant. My own place. My own team. My own vision. In South Point, Ohio, of all places — far from California, but exactly where I was meant to be. I named it Casa Grande, which means “Big House” — because that’s what I want it to feel like. Not just a restaurant, but a home. A place where everyone is welcome. Where the food is made with care. Where strangers become friends, and friends become family.

From day one, I made it my mission to create something different. I didn’t just want to serve great meals — I wanted to offer meaningful hospitality. Every guest who walks through our doors should feel seen, valued, and better than when they came in. That’s what it’s always been about for me. Not just good service — but genuine connection. Today, I’m back where I belong — doing what I love, the way I’ve always wanted to do it. And every time I see a guest smile, every time a regular walks in and the team greets them by name, I’m reminded: this is more than a restaurant. This is my purpose. This is my home. And I’m so grateful you're here.

- Carlos Ortiz