Restaurant Website Designfor Snellville, GA

A flavor-forward restaurant site with menu and ordering.

A Gainesville, GA tire, auto-repair, and off-road build shop — a dark “expedition-grade” design with same-day-service conversion, click-to-call everywhere, a real build gallery, and local-SEO-tuned pages (tire e-commerce store in the pipeline).

Door-through-door non-emergency medical transport for seniors, veterans, and dialysis patients across Metro Atlanta — online booking, flat-rate rides, no insurance needed.

A talent-management and event-production company working Dallas–Fort Worth and East Texas — film, stage plays, concerts, brand partnerships — built as a black-and-gold room after hours, with the type set in wide-tracked capitals like the stencil on a road case. The gold was measured rather than chosen: sampled from the lit pixels of her own logo, band by band, after the accent colour printed on her brief turned out to be our intake form’s default rather than anything of hers. The whole site runs on a fact registry — every line tagged with where it came from, and anything unverified rendering as literally nothing — which is why it shipped with no social links at all until each account could be resolved and confirmed, and why the web address printed on her own moodboard appears nowhere on it. That domain does not exist: no registry record, no DNS, no certificate ever issued, not one capture in the Internet Archive. It now sits on the banned-phrase list that fails the build.

A Houston doctor of physical therapy who drives to the patient — pelvic health, post-op recovery, dry needling and manual therapy, in the living room or the office rather than a clinic, paid directly with no insurance in the middle. The site is built on a fact registry: every claim on the page is tagged with where it came from, and anything unverified renders as literally nothing. That discipline is why it shipped for weeks with no button anywhere on it — until she supplied a working phone number, a dead call-to-action was worse than none, so the code returned null and the closing section simply did not exist. The research paid for itself once. Texas lets a physical therapist treat you without a physician's referral, and the state board's own published FAQ says the limit is ten or fifteen consecutive business days — so we read the enrolled bill instead, and HB 4099 had already moved it to thirty consecutive calendar days, effective September 2025. The regulator's explainer was a year behind the regulator's statute; she knew her own scope and her website can now say so. Her patients' words are on the page as typeset text rather than blurred screenshots, with the former practice and every colleague unnamed — and the two reviews that praised her alongside a coworker were left out of the featured quotes entirely rather than excerpted into sounding like they were only about her. The mark is her own idea, redrawn as vector: a house open at the threshold with a figure walking through it.

A Gwinnett County nonprofit connecting people with housing, recovery, workforce and reentry resources across metro Atlanta — built end to end from a founder’s brief and a single business card. The design argument came out of the research rather than the moodboard. Across ten live Georgia sites in this category — including the state’s own 211 portal and the Department of Community Supervision — the string “988” appears zero times, while every one of them shows a donate button. This site inverts that: the crisis lines are reachable from every page, and the resources page asks the reader for nothing at all — no county dropdown, no ZIP code, no form — because someone sleeping in a car at 2am does not know which of two counties their city is filed under. Every fact on it is sourced: the copy runs against an eighty-four-phrase gate carrying its own Georgia code citations, so the site can never imply the organisation provides housing, treatment or legal help when what it actually does is connect. Their two-hand logo was re-posed from their own artwork so one hand reaches down and the other reaches up, and they do not touch.