Some people judge towns by their population. Others point to school systems, parks, water and air quality, or thriving local businesses. But to me, the character of a town is best measured by its small, independent restaurants and cafes—the places that stand the test of time. They’re more than just places to grab a meal—they’re where stories are told, friendships are built, and communities connect.
For 102 years, the Coney Island Café has been one of those places in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Four direct-descended generations of the Fokakis family have stood behind that griddle, serving up hamburgers, hot dogs, curly fries, and breakfasts that brought folks in from all walks of life and every corner of town. Longevity like that is unparalleled in the restaurant world. Ninety percent of independent restaurants close within their first five years, let alone a century. But the Coney endured, becoming a cornerstone of downtown Hattiesburg and a witness to more than a century of change. Staying open for over a century in the restaurant business is no small feat. The odds are stacked against even the best-run establishments. To last that long requires more than good food—it takes grit, heart, and a dedication that few can maintain. The Coney Island Café didn’t just survive; it thrived. Through changing tastes, economic hardships, and the rise of chain restaurants, it stood as a testament to what’s possible when a family pours everything they have into their craft. That kind of longevity isn’t just rare—it’s almost unheard of.
Arthur Fokakis, the café’s founder, arrived from Greece in the early part of the 20th century, with little more than a dream and a work ethic that wouldn’t quit. He started with a simple fruit cart under a shade tree by the railroad tracks on Main Street in 1923. Over time, that cart became a fruit stand, then a small café serving classic short-order fare. Arthur’s food, hard work, and hospitality built a loyal following, and the Coney quickly became more than a restaurant—it became part of the town’s identity. Greek immigrants like Arthur were some of the earliest pioneers of Mississippi’s restaurant industry. Their diners and cafes became the heartbeat of small towns across the state, offering a warm meal and a place to gather. The Fokakis family took that responsibility seriously. Arthur passed the business to his son, Junior, who later passed it down to his son, my friend, Billy. And when Billy passed away in 2018, his son B.J. stepped up to continue the tradition. Through wars, a depression, and shifting downtown landscapes, the Coney never wavered. Generations of Hattiesburgers knew that no matter how much the world changed, the Coney would be right there on Main Street, serving up the same familiar meals. When businesses began moving to malls and strip centers in the 1980s, the Coney stayed put. It stood firm through the same white flight that emptied many downtowns across the South. And when Hattiesburg’s downtown began its revival in the late 1990s, the Coney was still standing, a reminder of what had always been. It became a touchstone—a place where locals brought their children, just as their parents had brought them. My father brought me there when I was a kid. His father had done the same for him. I brought my son there, and I’d always imagined that one day, he would do the same with his children. Restaurants like the Coney are more than businesses—they’re part of a town’s soul. They shape its identity and tell its story. Whenever I travel, I make a point to find the local breakfast café—the kind of place where regulars gather over coffee and eggs to talk sports, politics, and everything in between. Places like that tell you more about a town than any chamber of commerce, CVB, or public relations pamplet ever could. The people who run those cafes live in the same neighborhoods as their customers. Their kids go to the same schools. They shop at the same grocery stores and root for the same teams. When you spend your money there, you’re supporting not just a business, but a family—and a piece of what makes that town unique. Chain restaurants have their place, and they employ local people, but their profits leave town, heading off to corporate headquarters in distant cities. Independent restaurants, on the other hand, pour their earnings back into the local economy. They create jobs, support other small businesses, and help build a sense of community. They give a town its character—its flavor. And the Coney Island Café did that better than most. The Coney saw a lot in its 102 years. It opened when Calvin Coolidge was president, and the Empire State Building was still a blueprint. It survived the Great Depression, World War II, and the long, slow economic recovery that followed. It watched Hattiesburg grow from a small timber and railroad town into a thriving city. Through it all, the Coney never closed its doors—until the day Billy Fokakis received his cancer diagnosis. He had never missed a day of work in 34 years. Once, when he needed surgery, he scheduled it on a Friday afternoon so he could be back behind the griddle by Monday. That’s the kind of commitment that built the Coney’s reputation—not just as a place to eat, but as a place built on dedication, hard work, and pride in serving others. When Billy passed away, his son B.J., stepped in to carry on the legacy. He didn’t have to—he had another career—but he felt the weight of what the Coney meant to this town. He knew it wasn’t just about flipping burgers—it was about honoring his family’s history and serving a community that had supported them for generations. And so, he opened the doors again, determined to see the Coney reach its 100th anniversary.
Now, after 102 years, the Coney Island Café is closing its doors for good. Downtown won’t be the same without it. Hattiesburg won’t be the same without it. But the Coney’s legacy isn’t measured in years—it’s measured in the memories made there. It’s the father taking his son for their first plate of curly fries. It’s the regulars who sat at the same counter stool every morning, swapping stories over coffee. It’s the generations of Hattiesburgers who knew that no matter what life threw their way, there was always a warm meal and a familiar face waiting for them at the Coney. Losing a place like the Coney Island Café is more than the closing of a business—it’s the end of a chapter that shaped this town’s identity. There’s a sadness that comes with knowing future generations won’t get to sit at those booths or hear the hum of that well-worn griddle. But mixed with that sadness is deep respect. The restaurant business is brutal. The long hours, the relentless pace, the pressure to keep things running day after day—it takes a toll. For four generations, the Fokakis family showed up, put in the work, and served this community with pride. That legacy deserves more than mourning—it deserves celebration. Every time I ate at the Coney when Billy was alive, our chats would eventually circle back to the eventual upcoming 100-year anniversary. It was something we both looked forward to—a milestone few restaurateurs ever reach. During our last conversation, Billy looked at me across the counter, his voice quieter than usual. “Robert,” he said, “I don’t think I’m going to get to see us make 100.” He didn’t. But his son, B.J., carried the torch, ensuring that the café crossed that finish line. That’s the thing about legacy—it doesn’t end when one chapter closes. It lives on in the memories of everyone who sat at that counter, shared a meal with friends, and felt a sense of belonging within those walls. And for that, we are all better for having known the Coney Island Café. Onward.
