The first time I stumbled into Little Brother in Windsor Heights a few years ago, I instantly became my mother. “Well, this place looks cute,” I said under my breath to no one. “Let’s hope the food is up to snuff.”

The kitschy-quirky décor was one part Bohemian diner and one part unfinished 1960s art installation. Everything was—well, eclectically mod. (Mod-ly eclectic?) And the corresponding menu complemented everything quite nicely. Think elevated, brunch-esque comfort food—minus any bit of pretentiousness.

For Des Moines, it was like stepping into a parallel universe. It was just mom-and-pop enough to welcome the farmer in the dell and just bougie enough to placate glorified foodies. Over the years, I tried most everything on the menu. It was the perfect blend of flavorful and fanciful. (Yeah, I know that’s a weird flex. Sue me.)

When they closed in a huff last Sunday, I was shattered. There was no other place in town that served a homemade cinnamon roll the size of my head. Where was I gonna go to score pigs in a blanket with pancakes so huge, they literally spilled over the side of the plate? (And team, don’t even get me started on how good the homemade spicy breakfast sausage was.)

After the restaurant shuttered, the owners put up a perfunctory “g’bye-we’ll-sorta-miss-you” social media post. (Even weirder? They edited said post, like, five times.) I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but something seemed amiss. The place always seemed busy when I was there and, like any good eatery, it had more than its fair share of ravenous regulars. But I get it—staffing a restaurant can be problematic at best and completely unattainable at worst.

Then, a funny thing happened.

And not funny ha-ha.

Social media users started chiming in about a random smattering of things—like unused gift cards, etc. Several people wanted to know if the wait staff was being accommodated. From what I could tell, the motley service crew at Little Brother was a tightknit family.

Folks then turned their ire on the ownership. And ownership, in turn, started responding on social media with calculated vitriol. Those responses—which have now been deleted along with anyone questioning Little Bro’s cred—turned into a back-and-forth blame game. One post even insinuated staff members were stealing from the restaurant.

It was poor form across the board—which got people even more riled up. (This article from The Des Moines Register doesn’t offer much added insight. The comments on their FB post, however, are gold.)

Like any good patron, I chimed in with my two-cents on how quickly some of the posts had gone missing. From a PR standpoint, the owners weren’t doing themselves any favors. So, I pointed that out to owner Joe Tripp accordingly.

Less than .03 seconds later, I, too, was blocked.

Okay, petty—but whatever.

Undaunted, I started doing a bit of a deeper dive on Tripp and what he brought to the proverbial table. Seems he’s a revered Midwest chef with plenty of accolades and countless James Beard nominations under his belt.

He’s also purportedly a royal asshole to work for.

Like, mean for the sake of being meanspirited.

Allegedly.

And—as we all know—Central Iowans don’t take kindly to that. (Pun semi-intended.)

Keep in mind, I’m all about giving people grace in the restaurant industry. Fact—I worked for 21 years at various restaurant joints in Des Moines and KC. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned—where there’s smoke, there’s fire. (Read that: once an a-hole, always an a-hole.)

It reminded me of one particular occasion where I watched Tripp lambast a server through gritted teeth on the dining room floor. He was seething and speaking in hushed tones. If he’s willing to bring that toxicity out from the kitchen, think what he must be like behind closed doors?

I’m guessing now that Tripp’s professional reputation is on the line, damage control will ensue. While there’s no doubt the man has established himself as a culinary whiz, his Gordon-Ramsay-be-damned outbursts might be a bit more scrutinized. If I’m not mistaken, his legendary rogue behavior is the stuff of lore—passed down from one traumatized generation of staff members to the next.

The ego has landed.