Before Palafox Street became a destination—before the restaurants, the crowds, and the national attention—there was a small walk-up hot dog shop with very little to look at and everything to do with people. That shop would quietly become the oldest family-owned restaurant on Palafox. And it started with Jimmy Holler.
Jimmy Holler and the Start of The Dog House
The Holler family has been part of Pensacola for generations, but Jimmy Holler’s story is especially rooted in this place. Adopted and raised in Pensacola, Jimmy grew up with saltwater in his veins. Some of his earliest and fondest memories were spent on the Pensacola Beach Pier. His mother would drop him off in the morning and come back at the end of the day.
“That pier was my babysitter,” Jimmy liked to say.
Fishing all day shaped the rhythm of his life—simple, social, and centered around the water. Jimmy later attended the University of West Florida, studying business, but he was never one to disappear into a desk job. He was fashionable, social, and always the life of the party. After college, he followed that instinct into the clothing business.
Jimmy began his career at Gayfers in Pensacola before being transferred to Mobile, Alabama, where he worked as a buyer. Like many professionals at the time, lunch breaks were as much about connection as they were about food. That’s when he discovered a small place on Royal Street called Royal Dog House.
It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It was a gathering place—a bar without the noise. A spot where people met during lunch, caught up, and felt part of something familiar. Jimmy fell in love with the idea.
When Gayfers wanted to move him again—this time to Jackson, Mississippi—Jimmy knew it wasn’t for him. He missed the water. He missed Pensacola. And he believed what worked on Royal Street could work on Palafox.
Jimmy approached Kim and Dot Royal about franchising. He signed a 10-year agreement for $5,000, and in 1977, the Royal Dog House opened at 30 South Palafox Street.
By 1987, the franchise agreement ended, and the name officially became The Dog House. At one point, people flipping through the Yellow Pages thought it was a dog groomer, which eventually led to the name Dog House Deli.
But the heart of the business never changed.
Jimmy designed The Dog House around life—not the other way around. He worked from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., Monday through Friday. No weekends. No late nights. He didn’t love cooking, but he loved people, the street, and the community. His wife and mother-in-law played key roles in recipes and operations, giving him the freedom to slip away and go fishing or hunting while they covered the store.
The Dog House was never about chasing trends. It was about doing enough to live well— spending time with family, being outdoors, and creating a place people could rely on.
As Palafox shifted from a quieter, less desirable stretch into a vibrant downtown corridor, The Dog House stayed. Through economic cycles, floods, and cultural changes, family support and community relationships kept the doors open.
That foundation would eventually be tested—and transformed—by the next generation.
Nathan Holler Steps In
Nathan Holler was born and raised in Pensacola, too. Like his father, his childhood revolved around the water—fishing trips, long days outside, and time spent simply being with his dad. But Nathan never imagined himself taking over the hot dog shop. What he wanted was the same thing Jimmy had built: a way to make a living and still live life.
Nathan’s first real job was at McDonald’s, where he became fascinated with systems and scale. He watched how food, labor, and timing all moved in rhythm. It planted a question that stayed with him: Could The Dog House ever work like this? Could something so personal be built to last beyond one person?
But the pace of fast food—the repetition, the fluorescent ceilings, the churn—wasn’t for him. Nathan didn’t want efficiency at the cost of soul. He wanted freedom, movement, and a life that still felt tied to the water.
That pull led him to the docks. Through a friendship with Ray Russenberger at Bahia Mar Marina and with his father, Nathan landed a job working there. He built relationships quickly and eventually joined a yacht crew as a deckhand.
For four years, Nathan worked his way up, traveling to the Bahamas and Mexico, surrounded by influential, successful people. And he noticed something they all had in common: real estate.
Knowing life on the water wouldn’t last forever—especially if he wanted a family—Nathan got his real estate license. He became successful quickly, owning multiple properties and living on the beach.
Then came 2008.
When the real estate market crashed, everything changed. Bills piled up. Properties had to be sold. Nathan had to pivot fast.
That pivot came in the form of a small opportunity: opening a Dog House on Pensacola Beach.
The space was tiny—maybe fifteen seats—but it worked. Surf videos looped on the TVs. College kids ran the counter. Summers were bustling, open until 1 a.m., electric and exhausting. If the business was going to survive the winter, summer had to carry it.
That little hangout became part of the culture of Pensacola Beach. And more importantly, it taught Nathan how restaurants really worked.
Reimagining The Dog House
By 2014 and 2015, Palafox Street was changing fast. Tin Cow. Hopjack’s. New York Nick’s. Downtown was becoming a destination.
Nathan saw a problem. “Palafox was becoming social,” he recalled. “And social streets need restaurants that work for groups. A hot dog is perfect for one person on the go. It’s rarely the place a table of four chooses.”
Something had to change.
Nathan reevaluated everything—music, seating, lighting, TVs, the overall environment. The goal wasn’t to erase the past, but to make the space work for the present.
Then, on April 29, 2014, Pensacola experienced what would later be called the 500-Year Flood. Water rushed into The Dog House, one foot deep. Drainage poured inside. Floors. Joists. Electrical. Everything had to go.
Standing there, Nathan and his family faced a real decision: Is this where it ends?
Instead, Nathan saw opportunity.
This was a chance to rebuild with intention—to put systems in place, hire the right people, and turn a family-run operation into a business that could stand on its own.
Telling Pensacola’s Story Through Food
Nathan believes that restaurants carry responsibility.
“As I look at any chef or any town,” he says, “the responsibility is to tell the story of the culture and the history through the food, the hospitality, and the restaurant.”
That belief reshaped the menu.
Fried mullet from the Gulf. Seafood that made sense here. Meals that honored Pensacola’s roots. Lunch still mattered—people needed to be in and out quickly—so Nathan developed a burger program. But if they were going to do burgers, they were going to do the best burger in Pensacola.
And then there was the Po’ boy. Nathan tells its story like a lesson in entrepreneurship. Born from necessity. Built with whatever was available. Refined over time. Not about ingredients—but about doing the best you can with what you have.
That story mirrored his father’s.
Jimmy took a hot dog and a bun and built a life. Nathan took that same foundation and expanded it—without losing its soul.
During the rebuild, Nathan hit his breaking point. Exhausted, stretched thin, unsure if it was worth it, he leaned on conversations with a close friend—a pastor—who spoke to him about stewardship. Success, he realized, wasn’t money or status. It was honoring the gifts you’d been given and stewarding them well.
When the doors reopened after the flood, something clicked.
People showed up. The food worked. The concept worked. And most importantly, his parents were proud.
Dinner crowds came slower, but just like the hot dog stand before it—and just like the po’ boy— Nathan kept building with what he had.
Because that’s the story of The Dog House.
Not just a restaurant, but a reflection of Pensacola itself—built on simplicity, community, and the belief that if you stay steady long enough, something meaningful will grow.
