From Chicken Soup to Community: The Story Behind Loretta’s

Some people discover what they love by accident.

For Kelsey Bushg it started at 12—with a pot of chicken soup.

Her grandmother taught her how to cook that summer, passing down Pennsylvania Dutch family recipes: hot pies, apple dumplings, fudge, cookies, and all the other things that may not have been particularly good for you, but were definitely good for your soul.

Cooking became part of her life almost immediately.

“My mom is so good at so many things, but cooking is not one of them,” she told me. “The moment that she learned that I wanted to cook, she had me do it.”

In a family where everyone had chores and responsibilities, hers became making dinner.

And she kept making dinner.

Eventually, that love of cooking became a career—and eventually, a collection of restaurants. But talking to her about Loretta’s, the restaurant she says reflects her most, it becomes clear that what she is really building isn't simply a place to eat and drink.

She is building a place where generations can connect.

Purple Risotto

Not every experiment was a success.

When she first learned about risotto, she didn't have white wine, so she substituted red.

The result? Purple rice.

Her dad's response was essentially, You don't need to make this again.

There was also what she calls her “garbage can pasta_,” the kind of meal where you throw everything left in the refrigerator into a pot of pasta and hope for the best.

Her dad was less than impressed.

But those failures were part of the education.

By the time she opened her first restaurant at 25, she had already spent years experimenting, cooking, learning what worked and what didn't, and figuring out how to make something her own.

She started as a manager at Green Engine, and within a year became a business partner. Later, when Bloomsday opened, she invested financially as well as contributing her time.

By the time Loretta’s came along, she had a decade of experience—and a lot of mistakes behind her.

And that mattered.

“I've made tons of mistakes and I've learned from them,” she said. “This concept was the most lived experience in order to open it well.”

What makes a restaurant successful?

I asked her what makes one business successful while another one isn't.

Her answer wasn't a formula.

“There’s no cookie-cutter thing,” she said.

Instead, she believes in understanding who you're creating something for.

With Loretta’s, she and her team started with the neighborhood.

They thought carefully about who would actually live with the space, use it, return to it, and ultimately keep the business going.

Social media might bring attention. A beautiful photograph might bring someone through the door. But the community has to be able to sustain the business in real life.

“We know who's going to pay our bills and keep us around is our community and our neighborhood.”

That philosophy seems to run through almost every decision she makes.

Even when something becomes popular online, she asks whether it actually fits who they are.

She is wary of chasing trends simply because they are trends.

The goal is to make something that feels authentic enough to exist beyond the algorithm.

A restaurant designed for connection

Walk into Loretta’s and the design gets your attention.

The colors were intentional: a poppy red and cornflower blue, with green incorporated as a nod to the spaces she has created before.

She had wanted those colors for a long time. And they work.

The space feels fresh without feeling disconnected from the historic neighborhood around it. It is colorful and playful, but still genuine.

And then something interesting happens.

People photograph it.

Younger customers come in and take pictures of their drinks. Older customers sometimes don't quite understand why everyone is photographing a latte.

And that difference becomes an opportunity. It creates a conversation.

Why are people taking pictures of their drinks?

Why does this particular latte matter?

What song inspired the name?

What does that mean?

She told me about watching a mother and daughter leave the restaurant after trying one of the specialty drinks. The mother recognized the song the drink was named after and explained to her daughter that it came from a pop star from her generation.

The daughter wanted to hear it.

A latte had just created a conversation between two generations.

It sounds small.

But that's precisely the point.

“I understand it's a stupid latte,” she said, “but it fosters conversations in ways that people don't normally get to.”

“Generational connectedness”

There is a phrase she keeps coming back to: generational connectedness.

It is something she has always wanted her brands to create, but Loretta’s makes it especially personal.

Her grandmother is the person who taught her to cook. Her mother is deeply involved in the design of the space, helping with the window displays and sourcing vintage objects for the shelves.

The restaurant carries pieces of both women with it.

Her grandmother's influence lives in the food and the name.

Her mother's influence lives in the visual world.

And now those family connections extend outward—to employees, customers, neighbors, parents, children, college students, construction workers, and regulars who have been coming in for years.

Loretta’s has regular morning customers in their 60s, 70s, and 80s.

It also has young people coming in to photograph their drinks for Instagram.

Both belong there.

Everyone is welcome—even if they think the place is weird

The clientele is remarkably broad.

Men. Women. Young people. Older people. Families. College students. Construction workers.

She laughed while telling me about groups of construction workers who walk in and basically say, This place is weird, but I like it. I'll be back.

That's exactly what she wants.

Not a narrowly defined demographic.

A space where different kinds of people can feel comfortable. And perhaps most importantly, a space where people feel comfortable asking questions.

She doesn't want anyone to feel like they don't understand something and therefore don't belong.

Instead, the question becomes part of the experience.

Why are you doing it this way?

What's that drink?

What's the story behind this?

And someone answers.

The most successful drink isn't necessarily the most important one

The monthly specialty latte is one of the biggest draws.

Part of the appeal is the anticipation: there's always something new to try.

But the drinks also create another opportunity for connection.

One of her baristas suggested donating a dollar from each specialty drink to a rotating charity. The team tries to keep those organizations Philadelphia-based, creating another way for the restaurant to invest in its local community.

The flavors are seasonal when possible, and they work with local farms.

One current example is a peanut butter and jelly latte made with Concord grape juice from Green Meadow Farm in Lancaster—the area where she grew up. And a whipped Peanut butter froth.

It is playful.

It is nostalgic.

And it is local.

Interestingly, she doesn't actually drink most of these elaborate lattes herself.

Her drink of choice is much simpler: espresso with a little milk, a cortado, or black coffee.

Apparently, even the person creating the peanut butter-and-jelly latte has limits.

What kind of boss is she?

I asked what her employees would say about her.

Her answer was immediate:

Hardworking. Fair. Fun. Someone who has their back.

She believes strongly in accountability—not just from her employees, but from herself. If she makes a mistake, she owns it. That matters because she is trying to create a culture where people understand that mistakes are part of being human, but accountability is part of being on a team.

She also believes in loyalty.

She works hard, makes her expectations clear, follows through, and tries to remember that everyone involved is a person. But she doesn't lose sight of the fact that it is also a business. Finding that balance—between humanity and responsibility—is part of her leadership philosophy.

The surprising thing about her?

There is one thing I wouldn't have guessed from watching her interact with customers all day.

She doesn't actually consider herself particularly social.

She has a small circle of friends and is perfectly happy with it.

In fact, if she could choose, she might be quite happy living somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

And yet she spends her days creating relationships with strangers.

She makes sure her employees learn customers' names, their dogs' names, their birthdays, the details of their lives. Because she understands something fundamental about hospitality:

People want to feel cared for. And when they feel cared for, they care back.

That relationship changes everything.

If someone's latte is too sweet, or not sweet enough, or the milk was steamed incorrectly, they aren't necessarily angry. They can simply say, Can you make this again?

And the answer is yes. Because the relationship is bigger than the mistake.

While we were talking, one of her customers walked past, spotted her, and stopped to say hello. It happened to be a friend of mine—the person who had actually recommended that I talk to her for this project. It felt like a small but perfect illustration of what she had been telling me: that the relationships built in this space are as important as anything on the menu.

It's never really just about the food

Listening to her talk about Loretta’s, it’s easy to trace a line from that first pot of chicken soup her grandmother taught her to make, through a lifetime of cooking, family, mistakes, and eventually a cafe named for that grandmother. Today, that same sense of family extends into the space itself, her employees, and the generations of customers who walk through the door.

Maybe what she’s really been cooking all along isn’t just food. It’s connection.

Loretta's is at 410 South 2nd Street in Philadelphia.