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I had one of those small, unexpected moments the other day—the kind that stops you just long enough to make you look around and say, wait a minute… what’s really going on here?

I was at my favorite sandwich place.

TKB.
The Kids Business.

I’ve written about it before. I love this place. The sandwiches are to die for—huge, creative, perfectly balanced. I almost always end up with a to‑go box because there is no universe in which I can finish one of their sandwiches in a single sitting. And the bakery? Unbelievable. The walnut brownie alone deserves its own fan club.

There’s also this: TKB isn’t just a local favorite—it has a national, how‑is‑this‑even‑possible kind of résumé. In 2018, it was named the #1 restaurant in America on Yelp’s annual “Top 100 Places to Eat” list. That’s the sort of headline you expect for New York City or Los Angeles, not for a sandwich shop tucked away in the California desert.

And that’s an important part of the story. Indio, California isn’t NYC. It isn’t LA. It’s a city of about 90,000 people, sitting in the Coachella Valley—roughly two and a half hours from Los Angeles and San Diego, and about four hours from Phoenix. It’s desert. It’s hot. It’s spread out. No one accidentally wanders through Indio on the way to somewhere else.

And the name has an origin story that fits the place. TKB stands for “The Kid’s Business,” a nod to how it all started back in 1991, when the Sippel kids began selling their mom’s cookie dough door‑to‑door. One of those classic, very American stories—small, scrappy beginnings that somehow turn into something enduring, beloved, and improbably big.

What makes TKB even more intriguing is where it is.

Not on Main Street.
Not in a shopping center.
Not near anything else you might accidentally wander into.

It sits in an industrial, warehouse area of Indio, near railroad tracks, surrounded by… nothing. No retail neighbors. No other restaurants. No foot traffic. You don’t stumble upon TKB. You go there on purpose.

And people do.

On this particular day, I ordered my usual tuna sandwich on focaccia at the counter, paid, and was handed one of those tall, mini poles—the thing with a number on top that lets the staff know where to bring your food. There must be a proper name for it, but “table number on a stick” will do.

Usually at other restaurants I get a number like 4. Or 8. Maybe 12 if it’s busy.

This time, I looked down and did a double take.

 

97.

Ninety‑seven.

I actually thought it must be a mistake. Ninety‑seven implies that there are ninety‑six orders ahead of me. That someone else is sitting there calmly holding 87 or 92, while I used to think 8 was a big deal.

I remember thinking, Wow. This is a first.

I took my seat and waited, still shaking my head a little. And then—almost immediately—a staff member approached my table.

“97?”

That’s me, I said.

She handed me my sandwich.

Now that really made no sense. If I was number 97, how on earth did my food arrive so quickly? So, of course, I asked.

“What’s with the 97?” I said. “I’ve never seen a number that high before.”

She smiled.

“You’re the fourth 97 today.”

Let that sink in.

That means the number 97 had already been issued three times before me. Which means 396 orders had been placed before mine that day.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon.

Holy cow.

In an industrial area.
With no nearby stores.
On a random weekday.

Just people—hundreds of them—showing up because something is that good.

I sat there for a moment, sandwich in hand, slightly stunned. We talk so much about marketing, location, visibility, strategy, branding. And yet here was this place, off the beaten path, quietly cranking out hundreds and hundreds of sandwiches because they do one thing extraordinarily well.

No flash.
No pretense.
Just excellence.

A Gentle Ending

As I sat there, I realized the number wasn’t really the story.

The story was that excellence has a way of finding its audience. That when something is genuinely good—thoughtfully done, consistently delivered, quietly confident—people will come. Even if it’s out of the way. Even if it’s hidden among warehouses and railroad tracks.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

You don’t always need the best location, the loudest voice, or the flashiest sign. Sometimes, all you need is to do your thing really well, day after day, and trust that the numbers—whether they’re 4, 8, or 97—will take care of themselves.

I ate my sandwich slowly.
I took the other half home.
And I walked out thinking:

Pay attention.

Sometimes, the smallest details tell the biggest stories.