Some people blend into the background of our daily lives. We see them so often, they become part of the scenery — until the day they’re not there. That’s when we realize they weren’t just passing through. They were family all along.
For chef Donell Stallworth at the Shrimp Basket in Pensacola, Florida, that moment came on a September morning when the restaurant’s most loyal customer didn’t show up for his daily meal.
The Man Who Never Missed a Day
Charlie Hicks wasn’t just a regular customer at the Shrimp Basket — he was practically an institution. For a full decade, the 78-year-old Air Force veteran and retired accountant would arrive at the restaurant twice daily with the precision of someone reporting for duty.
His routine was sacred. Every morning at 11 a.m. sharp when the doors opened, Hicks would settle into his favorite table. His order never changed: a cup of gumbo, light on the rice, hold the crackers. Hours later, he’d return for dinner and order the exact same thing.
“Mr. Hicks don’t miss no days,” Stallworth told CBS News. “We open the doors up, Mr. Hicks is there to greet us.”
Over the years, what started as a customer-server relationship evolved into something deeper. Stallworth, who had been working at the restaurant even before Hicks became a regular, found himself drawn to conversations with the elderly man. They’d discuss baseball — Hicks loved the Yankees while Stallworth rooted for the Dodgers. They’d watch reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show” together. They’d share laughs and swap stories.
“At my age, I don’t really mingle with any group or make friends that easy,” Hicks admitted. “I know he’s a chef, but I’m usually sitting there by myself, so we just have a good chat just about every day.”
For Hicks, who never married and had no children, these daily interactions became more than just meals. They were connection. They were companionship. They were what kept him showing up, day after day, year after year.
When Routine Breaks
In early September 2025, the routine finally broke. Hicks wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t make the drive to the restaurant. He called the staff and asked if they could deliver his gumbo to his apartment a few miles away.
They didn’t hesitate. Staff leader Denise Galloway took on the delivery duty, dropping off his meal outside his door at Hicks’ request — he didn’t want to risk getting anyone sick.
For two days, this new routine worked. But on the third day, September 11, something was wrong. The restaurant tried calling Hicks, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Messages went unanswered.
At the restaurant, Stallworth tried to focus on his prep work, but something gnawed at him. Hicks had become like clockwork to them. This silence felt different. This silence felt dangerous.
“All of a sudden, I’m like, that’s been too long, something was just off,” Stallworth recalls. “I come in in the mornings and Hicks is already here. We’re still about to open up, he’s already in the restaurant like he got his own key.”
That instinct — that feeling that something was terribly wrong — wouldn’t let him go. In the middle of his shift, Stallworth grabbed his keys and left the restaurant.
“Help”
Stallworth arrived at Hicks’ apartment and knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.
Just as he was about to turn away, he heard it — a faint, weak voice from inside crying for help.
The door was unlocked. When Stallworth pushed it open, what he saw stopped him cold. Charlie Hicks was lying on the floor where he had been for days, unable to move.
“That was a hard thing to see him in that position,” Stallworth said, the emotion still fresh in his voice months later.
Hicks had fallen that morning and couldn’t get up. As a diabetic who hadn’t taken his medication, the 78-year-old had grown severely dehydrated and weak as the hours stretched into days. He had suffered two broken ribs in the fall. Every hour that passed, his situation grew more dire.
“When people that are 78 fall, it’s a different ballgame than when you’re younger,” Hicks explained. “I didn’t know what I was going to do, because after three or four hours laying on the floor, you wonder, ‘Am I going to get out of this?'”
Back at the restaurant, Denise Galloway immediately called 911. Paramedics arrived quickly and rushed Hicks to the hospital, where he spent a week recovering before being transferred to a rehabilitation facility for another seven weeks.
“If Donell hadn’t showed up, I was going to have to crawl out the front door and just wait till somebody found me on the sidewalk,” Hicks said. “But it didn’t go that far.”
His niece, Christina Neeper, put it more directly: “Donell saved his life.”
What Happened Next
While Hicks was in the hospital recovering, something remarkable happened. The staff at the Shrimp Basket didn’t just check in on him — they showed up. They visited regularly. And most importantly, they brought his gumbo.
Twice a day, just like always, Hicks got his cup of gumbo, light on rice, no crackers.
But they didn’t stop there. When it became clear that Hicks couldn’t safely return to his old apartment, general manager Casey Corbin found an empty unit right next door to the restaurant. The staff helped secure the lease, furnished the apartment, installed new appliances, and helped fix it up.
They moved their friend into a home where they could always keep an eye on him. Where he’d never be far from help. Where his family — because that’s what they had become — would always be nearby.
“There were a few things that needed to be done before he moved in,” Corbin said. “It was taking a little bit longer than I liked, so I was like, what can we do to make this process happen faster?”
The Shrimp Basket staff rolled up their sleeves and got to work. They cleaned, renovated, and prepared the apartment themselves. By the time Hicks completed his rehabilitation in December, everything was ready.
Coming Home
Three months after his fall, Charlie Hicks walked back into the Shrimp Basket. He now uses a walker — one that the entire staff signed as a gift to him — but he was back at his favorite table.
“I’m glad to have you back, buddy,” Stallworth told him.
The reunion was emotional for everyone who had watched this friendship bloom over a decade and then deepen through crisis.
Jeff Brooks, brand president of Shrimp Basket, announced that Hicks would receive free gumbo for life — twice a day, every day, for lunch and dinner. The restaurant chain, which has 18 locations across Florida, Alabama, and Mississippi, also offered free gumbo to all customers for three consecutive Mondays to inspire more acts of kindness.
In the first week alone, they gave away almost 1,000 cups of gumbo.
“Mr. Hicks, Donell and the Warrington, Pensacola team embody Shrimp Basket’s mission to put people first and have been an inspiration to all of us,” Brooks said.
More Than Just a Customer
Today, Hicks still eats at the Shrimp Basket twice a day. His routine has been restored, but the relationship has transformed. What was once customer and server is now something that defies easy categorization.
“We made a connection,” Hicks says simply. “We made a connection.”
For Stallworth, the feeling is mutual and profound.
“He means a lot to me,” Stallworth says. “You know, he’s Mr. Hicks, but he’s that uncle, that granddad, that best friend now. He’s all in one with me.”
The story has touched people far beyond Pensacola. When news of the rescue spread, messages of support and inquiries about Hicks’ health poured in from around the country. The simple act of noticing someone’s absence — of caring enough to check — resonated deeply in a world where people often feel invisible.
A Message for All of Us
But Hicks doesn’t want the focus solely on his rescue. He wants to use this moment to remind people about the elderly individuals who live alone, who might not have someone checking on them.
“If anybody knows somebody that reaches my age and lives alone, for God’s sake, check on them every once in a while,” Hicks urges.
It’s a simple message, but it carries weight. In an era where loneliness among seniors is considered a public health crisis, where isolation can be as deadly as any disease, Hicks’ words are a call to action.
The story of Charlie Hicks and Donell Stallworth isn’t just about one chef who saved one customer. It’s about the power of routine, the importance of noticing, and the beauty of treating strangers like family until they actually become family.
It’s about showing up. Paying attention. Caring when someone’s missing from their usual spot.
Because sometimes, a cup of gumbo is more than just food. Sometimes, it’s a lifeline. Sometimes, it’s the thread that connects us all — reminding us that we’re never truly alone as long as someone out there is watching out for us.
And sometimes, the person who saves your life is the one who’s been sitting across from you all along, waiting for their moment to prove that you matter.
Charlie Hicks now lives next door to the Shrimp Basket, where his chair is always waiting, his gumbo is always ready, and his family — the one he found over a decade of daily meals — is always nearby.
“He’s that uncle. He’s that grandfather. He’s that best friend,” Stallworth says, summing up what Hicks means to him and the entire staff.
In a world that often feels disconnected, this story from a small seafood restaurant in Pensacola reminds us what community really looks like. It looks like paying attention. It looks like caring. It looks like leaving work in the middle of your shift because something feels off.
It looks like love served up daily, one cup of gumbo at a time.