Company

Foodie is not a word that I enjoy or use to call myself. I do like food, a lot, and after years of working in hospitality and with a healthy dose of curiosity, I know quite a bit about it. I even cook it. But really I'm just a very passionate and sensual person, enjoying all senses with equal vigour. A great meal in my book satisfies all of them; it's beautifully presented, obviously it smells and tastes good, and it's enjoyed while surrounded with good company.

Who you dine with makes just as much of an impact on your experience as the person preparing the food, the decor, the music, the seat, the view, the service and the choice of wine. The balance has to be right. If any of these are not quite right, it will negatively affect the dining experience whether you realize it consciously or not. I recently enjoyed some great food at a beautiful restaurant with some incredible women. But the acoustics were off and I had to struggle to understand my friends, and because of this I have no desire to return. A few weeks ago I ate at one of the "Best New Restaurants" in New York City and although the food, decor, and wine were all as great as promised in the reviews, and my dining companions were expertly curated I must say, the server's attitude made us close out early and continue our evening elsewhere. I wanted great food but my limited time with my friends was more important.

Some of the best meals of my life come with really great stories. There is a Spanish tapas restaurant in Greenwich Village called Alta that I read about in a travel magazine years ago as a place where top chefs go when they go out, always a good sign. I chose it for my birthday celebration with my fabulous  group of friends, and I still smile when I think about that dinner and will recommend the restaurant without hesitation. I have no idea how many stars that place has, or what any of the critics had to say about it. I know that we had a Bacchanalian feast for the record books and laughed harder and left with bellies and hearts full. Everything was perfect. I remember running into Calvin Klein and John Leguizamo, and the cougar hitting on my friend at the bar. I remember friends from different parts of my life meeting each other for the first time and it makes me so happy to see that they are still friends. I remember the sounds of the kitchen and the music and the laughter, the taste of the bacon-wrapped dates and white anchovies and the Cava, the love I felt surrounded by so many wonderful friends and the man sitting next to me who would ask me to marry him a month later. 

I remember every beautiful moment of a dinner in Paris, laughing at the intimidation we felt looking at the triple-phonebook-sized wine list and welcoming course after course of food far more rich than we were used to eating, but enjoying the rare gluttonous indulgence with friends from around the world. I remember being with some of those same people in Cancun clinking the biggest margarita glasses I've ever seen. I remember Sex and the City-like conversations on sidewalk tables in New York with my girlfriends with mimosas, a business dinner on Central Park South with a table full of South Americans, and another one in East Berlin where we laughed so hard with a group of Austrians that beer came out our noses. And I remember everything being absolutely perfect at that first date dinner with my Texan at WD-50 in the Lower East Side when he came to visit me in New York one autumn evening three years ago.

The first "epic dinner" I experienced was on a beach sixteen years ago. I was in Greece as an exchange student, eating with my host family and their friends at tables under white lights and stars on the edge of the calm and warm Aegean Sea. On my plate was a whole grilled fish, something I'd never seen before, but I followed the lead of everyone around me and I can still taste and hear everything from that dinner if I close my eyes and think back. I have no idea what that restaurant was called, or what most of the people around me were talking about in Greek, but it's not important. What was important was what I sensed, what I experienced, and who I was with. That dinner started the evolution of this "foodie," shaping me to appreciate the beauty of these multi-sensory experiences around a table.

But this all works the other way, too. I have been fortunate to dine at some of the best and most critically-acclaimed  restaurants in the world, but sometimes, unfortunately, with people I didn't love or enjoy. Pained conversations, lack of any kind of intellectual or (in the case of a date) sexual chemistry, uncomfortable situations, and quite simply a bad day physically or emotionally have ruined their share of meals for me and I would imagine for most of you. Some of the restaurants I have no desire to return to because the memory is just too bad, boring, or even worse, so completely forgettable that I committed little to nothing to memory.

While on a run on the Katy Trail here in Dallas earlier this year, I spotted a restaurant that looked like my favorite little bistros in Manhattan and Paris. The doors were all opened up to the warm air, the wicker chairs were the French cafe standard issue; t was exactly what I missed since moving to Dallas. I wanted to call up some friends to grab a table, order a couple bottles of wine and S. Pellegrino, and eat and drink and talk for hours until we were kicked out.  How did I not know it was there? Why haven't I been there before? Until I realized... I had.

During one of my first visits to Dallas, I sat at one of those charming little tables for a brunch with some people I was meeting for the first time. Suffice it to say there is a reason I blocked it out. The food was fine, standard French-American bistro brunch fare, the service was sufficient, and as mentioned the decor was charming. But the conversation was so forced, unenlightening and uncomfortable that it dominated the entire experience for me. Usually I can find something to talk to anyone about; it's always been my strength. Whether with newly-immigrated busboys who barely speak English, with an international billionaire CEO, a shy spouse of a business colleague, or with a Prime Minister backstage before a big speech, I can always find something of interest for us to talk about and to make them comfortable and open. But this was beyond my reach. When a person can't talk about anything but Real Housewives, Twilight, or eyelash extensions, announces that "pretty girls don't have to work," refers to my hometown as "um... interesting" and has no idea who Malcolm Gladwell is... I honestly had no words. I couldn't rescue it and I didn't want to. I was powerless and passionless and couldn't wait for the meal to be over. The conversation may actually win the unofficial award of the most vapid of my life, and I do remember that part when I force myself to. But how in the world could I be expected to notice the food when I was concentrating on not jamming a fork into my temple to relieve the pain?

The point of this silly little story is that a good or bad restaurant experience depends on so much more than the food. I've returned to Toulouse since and I have loved it despite my miserable first experience. Thankfully it got that opportunity. I know it wasn't the restaurant's fault, but bad company will make or break an experience faster than anything else. It doesn't matter how it rates on every other factor. And that brings me back to why I am so grateful for those amazing epic dinners where the conversation flows as easily as the wine, and you leave knowing more and loving more than you did when you arrived. Sharing plates, sharing stories, opening yourself to new experiences and new senses... that's what a truly great dinner is all about.

Last night I had another one of these good experiences, and I woke up with a smile, knowing that I felt more at  home here in Dallas more than ever before because of it. A group of the most interesting, funny, talented, smart, and kind people that this city has to offer all sat around a table at Marquee Grille in Highland Park Village and toasted to Christmas and every other winter holiday we could think of. We laughed, we shared, we ate and we drank. The Chef dropped by a few times to say hello, and white twinkle lights glittered outside of the windows. I was in love, with my betrothed sitting next to me, with the ambiance, with my pork belly and tuna tartar, and with my friends.

Maybe I am a foodie, but I think I'm more of an experience junkie. Bring on the epic dinners of food, laughter and intellectual conversation, and let's not waste any more time with people who aren't lifting us higher and heightening our senses. Because in the end it's always about the company.

Drive.

 

It is a long story as to why I didn't get my first driver's license until 2 weeks prior to my thirty-third birthday. While I did live in New York City for most of my adult life and certainly didn't need to drive during that time, I'm not actually from NY so that's not really an excuse. Mostly I was just too damn busy. I spent the summers of my teen years living in a small beach town where I could walk or bike everywhere, and during the rest of the year I was so involved in school and local theater that I couldn't be bothered to find the time to learn to drive. We weren't allowed to have cars on campus at my small university in Pennsylvania anyway, and then I high-tailed it up to the big bad Big Apple as soon as I could. I lived in walkable South Beach while in Miami, and while in west midtown in Atlanta for a few months I really never needed to drive as my jobs and social life were all in a small easy radius of my loft. The more time that went by, the more I learned to live without driving a car, and to be honest the more the idea of it frightened me. When you're older you have had the chance to see the damage that driving can cause, and you've probably lost a friend or two in accidents. I was in no hurry to take on that level of responsibility, thank you very much.

But it was always understood that when I moved here to Dallas I would need a car, and a license to drive it. It was usually one of the first remarks made when I brought up the subject of moving; "I guess you're going to have to learn how to drive then!" I accepted this reality and knew I would have to get over my fear. Friends in NYC graciously offered to watch my daughter while I took a few lessons from the local driving school, but driving in Queens is nothing like driving on Texas highways. Nothing. And my Texan's shiny black Audi A5 is a little different than the driving school Toyota Corollas. So taking "lessons" from him when I arrived here was like starting over completely. Not knowing my way around didn't help. I couldn't have found Dallas on a map before a year ago.

Luckily, living in West Village has been really wonderful, with multiple boutiques, salons, a Starbucks, yoga studio, grocery store, and restaurants within walking distance, as well as my daughter's school. It's been a lot like back home, only cleaner and quieter. The free Uptown Trolley takes us down to the Arts District and everywhere in between, and cabs, my Texan and his family have been sufficient for the rest until now. I'm sure I've been quite the sight around here, walking between Albertson's and the bank and our townhouse carrying groceries and drycleaning in my reusable canvas shopping bags, with the other hand holding a cup of coffee and phone, just like I did in New York. That aside, it has been nice to get out and learn my neighborhood and I like to think I may have inspired a few other people to leave their cars behind when running local errands.

But with the approaching summer and the beginning of my job search, we knew that it was only a matter of time before a car was a necessity. My Texan has been an incredibly patient instructor over the last eight months, whenever we had the time for him to teach me, which wasn't often. With every work trip I went weeks without getting behind the wheel, delaying my progress considerably. Still, he would insist that I drive during our weekend pilgrimages up to Allen, giving me the highway experience that I had lacked. I was scared to death, with you people in your big SUVs and trucks speeding down 75 and my daughter singing or sleeping in the back seat. But he coached me and encouraged me, teaching me everything I needed to learn for my test and also the more practical lessons about Texan drivers and roads.

Finally I felt somewhat ready and realized that I wanted to get this thing before my first birthday in Texas. I filled out the necessary paperwork, stood in multiple lines at the DL office in Cedar Hill, and made the soonest possible appointment for the driving test, 2 days before my birthday. If I didn't pass I wouldn't make my goal, making me even more determined. The day arrived and, with the loving encouragement from my fiance and little girl, I got in the car with the stoic man who would decide my fate. I bombed parallel parking (I'm blaming nerves) but aced the rest. I parked the car and he said "you passed," and a few tears came to my eyes and I couldn't wipe the grin from my face. I waited twice as long as most Americans for this milestone and that made it so much more thrilling. And a relief. My birthday was a celebratory occasion for so many reasons this year, but this was the biggest.

***

Bread Winners was one of the first places I went to in Dallas for brunch. I'd forgotten about that until returning the other evening. My Texan told me even before I moved here that it was a top brunch spot for Dallasites, and after experiencing it I understood why. There were (and are) always lines of people waiting for tables weekend mornings, and deservedly so. But last week, I was invited to a lovely event at the Inwood Village location highlighting their sexy new cocktail menu. As a new girl in town, I am so appreciative the invites that come my way and I was excited to see some of my favorite new people there, and of course any opportunity to sample new cocktails is always welcome. I mean, really.

But attending this event meant driving all by my lonesome for my first driving night out. I would need those cocktails when I arrived as it was. But the day before, while cramming into the back seat of the 2-door car to replace a freshly laundered car seat lining, I heard a thump in the front and turned around in horror to find my 4-year old daughter holding the rear-view mirror, the wires still attached to the windshield. My Texan handled it surprisingly well, and he and I spent the next half hour trying to re-affix the mirror, to no avail. It was clear that we needed professional help but there would be no opportunity for a few days. The more experienced driver of us was fine of course, but I was not happy about this at all. Not one bit.

Determined to make it to the event at Bread Winners out of appreciation for their hospitality and a need to get out of the house (working from home is not always ideal), I kissed my loves goodbye and set out for Inwood Village. With a brand new license, 5-inch heels, and a useless rear-view mirror dangling from the windshield, I made it to Bread Winners and was rewarded generously with good friends, new friends, and their mulitple new cocktails. I couldn't drink too many of those, being far too nervous about my ride home, but I sampled quite a few and they are not too shabby. This ain't just brunch-land anymore.

But all of the sampling aside, it was wonderful to catch up with some friends in the light and airy atmosphere and make some new friends too. I am sure most of the people there had no idea what a monumental evening that was for me. I delayed my exit for a bit because of my nerves, chatting up all of the other fabulous attendees as long as I could, but eventually is was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I did. I grabbed my bag of Bread Winners cookies and walked solo across the parking lot towards that beautiful shiny black car with the dangling rear-view mirror, opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and smiled.

***

I made it home sans incident that night, despite the availability of so many beautiful cocktails. The mirror was fixed the next day. This weekend I had my first opportunity to drive around a borrowed Cadillac Escalade monster to escort my visiting family around town and was reluctant with that too at first but didn't do too badly. My driver's license card came in the mail this week and although a few friends tried to bribe me to NOT drive in their neighborhoods for a few months, I am really looking forward to the next invitation and solo night out. And of course the next big step of buying my first car. I will still be walking around my neighborhood a lot regardless; it's convenient, it's healthy, and above all I like to do it and it reminds me of my old life. But I admit that it will be so nice, for the first time in my life, to have the option to get in my car and drive.

Momentum, Part II.

I love my job. I learn and grow with every project I do, with every interaction I have. It has allowed me to have some amazing experiences that I may not have had without it. When I leave my company this September, I will have traveled around the world, spoken one-on-one with world leaders, played with schoolchildren in Cape Town, toured a chocolate factory in Vancouver, danced at a gala in Prague, and biked through Montmartre just hours the after the Dallas Mavericks won the 2011 NBA Championship. I even met my soon-to-be husband through my company, 3 years ago this month. I have the pleasure to work for over a hundred top executives around the world, the smartest and most successful in their industry. My job requires me to function well in high-stress situations, to be diplomatic, organized and self-motivated, and to work collaboratively with a wide variety of people from many different cultures and backgrounds. 

Whenever I end up explaining exactly what it is that I do, which is quite often, the next question I am almost always asked is "what kind of background do you have to get a job like that"?"

I always smile and simply tell them that I worked in hospitality.

Of course sweating over a fryer in the hot kitchen of the seaside pizzeria that I worked in when I was fourteen, I never would have imagined that restaurant work could lead me here. But it did, and this wasn't even my goal. At the time I just needed a job and working where the hot lifeguards of Fenwick Island hung out didn't seem like a bad option. It was hard manual work, it was really hot, and we would have all rather been on the beach. But without realizing it we were learning skills that would carry over into all areas of our lives. With lines of impatient sandy tourists out the door all needing special attention, a rowdy group of teenagers who hailed from four plus states came together and got it done. Sometimes singing and dancing while we worked, teasing each other in a language only we spoke, we worked our stations and sometimes the ones next to us if needed, and every customer left fed and, if we had any control over it, happy. It gave us a paycheck and a sense of purpose, and it was a lot of fun.

And this is why I went on to work in many other restaurants in the next few years, through college and beyond, in both little towns and major cities, with various cuisines, clientele, and ownership, and in various positions. And at each one I learned more. Between the customers, the kitchen staff, the bar staff, the floor staff, the managers, the owners, and the venders, you need to be able to communicate with people from every stage on the socio-economic spread, from celebrities to illegal immigrants. I worked with people speaking at least ten different language, none of which I speak fluently. But you learn how to communicate regardless. You learn how to negotiate and you learn how to problem solve and you learn how to do it quickly. Blaming an error on someone else isn't going to cut it; if the person next to you doesn't pull their weight then you pull theirs along with your own to get through the service. There are no excuses. And sometimes the customer is wrong but you figure out a way to make everyone happy while maintaining your dignity (a very useful skill I've found). Sometimes the dishwasher has to seat a guest and sometimes the manager has to wash dishes. Sometimes you are working an 18-hour day because you are needed, and you don't take sick days. In the kitchens especially are some of the hardest working people I know. 

Eric Ripert, Executive Chef of what is known to be one of the best restaurants in the world, Le Bernardin in New York City, recently posted on his Facebook page: "In my 1st year cooking, my arms had burns & scars; my hands had many cuts but year later I would achieve the same tasks in the kitchen without a scratch. My lesson? Master the craft; be organized & proactive. Stop finding excuses and reasons."

I really loved that world, long before I realized it could turn into a career for me. I was in my teens and 20's, moving around like a gypsy with a bounty on my head, having a great time just trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. But as I grew over the years I was given more responsibility in the restaurants, and towards the end of my time in the industry I was marketing and selling the spaces for events that I would then coordinate and manage. And I still spent a lot of time on the floor and had come to know my midtown Manhattan clientele as well as my staff, making important connections that I still maintain today. One of these clients ended up offering me the job that I have now, a job I didn't realize I wanted or could do. But it turns out that I did and I could, and I am so fortunate to have had the opportunities to get here.

Mine is not a rare story. People that I worked with in the restaurants, some of which had started out with no ambition whatsoever, have gone on to work in healthcare, foreign affairs, education, entertainment, journalism, and sciences, and I am certain that they are the hardest working people in their offices. Other friends have stayed in hospitality and have gone on to work directly for Laurent Tourondel, Jean-George Vongerichten, Mario Batali, Vikram Chatwal, Andre Balazs, and Jose Andres, and some have started their own successful restaurants and catering companies, in New York and across the country.

The point is, training in the restaurant world is hardly a dead-end. 

At a dinner last month, Chad Houser, Executive Chef at Parigi and co-founder of a non-profit social enterprise in Dallas called Café Momentum, asked the fifty or so distinguished-looking attendees to raise their hands if they had ever worked in a restaurant. Roughly 90% indicated that they had. When asked who still worked in the industry, I saw about four. Which of course goes to show that although there are amazing jobs to be had in restaurants, the skills can be carried far beyond.  

Café Momentum takes disadvantaged youth ages 14-17 in Dallas, teaches them culinary and service skills, gives them the opportunity to work alongside the best local chefs and restaurant professionals, and eventually leads to paid positions within the industry. These kids, deemed "throwaways" by our courts after entering the juvenile justice system for committing non-violent crimes, are welcomed into an environment where they learn respect and discipline while finding a sense of purpose. They have first completed a culinary training program at their juvenile justice facility, and then these young men enter the internship-style program and are nurtured and inspired and given opportunities they may not otherwise have had. Graduates leave the program with a list of professionals that they can go to for references or employment.

But training for work in hospitality is not just about working in a restaurant. Danny Meyer, the revered New York restauranteur responsible for Union Square Cafe, Gramercy Tavern, The Modern, and Shake Shack, among others,  wrote his book "Setting the Table" about using the power of hospitality in any business you are in. I have quoted from it often; "Within moments of being born, most babies find themselves receiving the first four gifts of life: eye contact, a smile, a hug, and some food. We receive many other gifts in a lifetime, but few can ever surpass those first four." Knowing how to make someone feel welcome in your space, whether it be your home, your business, your cubicle, your park bench... it is invaluable. It makes you a better person. Give someone a seat, some food, a smile, and you can change their life, even if only for that hour. When you learn that, it opens a world of possibilities. 

"To succeed in the hospitality business you must succeed in making other people feel good," said Ben Pollinger, Executive Chef of Manhattan's Oceana, a restaurant I used to frequent and do business with before moving to Dallas. I recently asked him his thoughts on the Café Momentum program. "You must minimize your self-importance and must make others the center of your attention. That’s a pretty radical concept for some people, especially if you’ve come up in a challenged or disadvantaged upbringing where you’ve needed to focus on yourself to survive.

"Long term success in the hospitality business is realized over the years, but the short term results are immediate and can reinforce and support a young person’s efforts. You can know that someone enjoyed your food, you can see it when you take care of a table. You begin to feel appreciated and good about yourself for what you do," Pollinger continued. 

However, as many of my Chef friends were quick to point out and Chef Pollinger specifically remarked "This is all dependent upon positive and strong leadership. All the things that can help a young person, or any person, become a better individual can also drive someone into some dark places without proper guidance and leadership. You need to learn that it’s OK to make honest mistakes and to learn from them. You need to be steered from many of the distractions in this business." 

Café Momentum, an organization founded only last year, puts disadvantaged youth in a positive atmosphere with that strong leadership that is so essential. These young men are given role models who are not only gifted and respected professionals in their industries, but who have become celebrities in today's foodie-obsessed pop culture. This provides inspiration for people who may have otherwise given up on life, or who have had too many people give up on them.

If my Yankee liberal rant about the good you they are doing for these young men doesn't tug at your heartstrings, then maybe this will: The disadvantaged Texan youth in these facilities have a recidivism rate of 50%. Because of a lack of support, positive role models, education or skills, half of these young men will end up re-incarcerated. Each of which costs taxpayers $100-$300 per day. For every one youth who successfully completes the Cafe Momentum program and goes one to be a law-abiding self-sufficient individual, $1.7 million to $2.3 million in lifetime costs to taxpayers and victims is avoided.

Believers and supporters are coming fast. Their next pop-up dinner, being held tonight at Tiffany Derry's Private Social, sold out in three hours. Even I, who waited eagerly for the opportunity to attend another dinner, missed the window to purchase tickets this time but I couldn't be happier for them. But there is so much more to do. Cafe Momentum will become a full service restaurant, with the staff being rotating graduates of the program. 165 young men have already graduated from the program, and 116 have received their ServSafe Food Handler's license and identification, making them more eligible for employment than most. It is a fantastic and impressive start.

The Cafe Momentum concept is sustainable and replicable. More and more "disadvantaged youth" could get their chance through this program. As Chef Pollinger concluded, "In the right venue, a job in the hospitality business can be a powerful force in positive change for a person’s life." 

And who knows where it could lead? 



Related:
Momentum. (Part 1) 
Dee Lincoln's Bubble Bar Celebrates Cafe Momentum

In a NY Minute: A Traveler's Guide to Germany and Poland

I am full-on in the weeds in my professional life these days and have no idea what time zone I am in right now. But I didn't want to wait too much longer to write about some of our experiences in Germany and Poland last week as jet lag has a wretched effect on memory. So to get this done I will revert back to my New York disposition and give it to you quick, to the point, and without all of the niceties that get in the way of efficiency. That is, after all, also the German way.

Should you ever need to fly through Frankfurt, stop there instead and rent a car for the weekend. Drive the hour and a half to the quaint little town of Bacharach on the Rhine River and stay in a charming hotel built onto a Medieval wall where your window view includes a castle and the remains of a cathedral. Walk through on the cobblestone streets and hike up into the vineyards and have a cup of coffee in that castle and enjoy the view of the river valley early in the morning. Should you take a boat up the Rhine to see the Rheinsfels Castle in St. Goar, be sure to confirm the return times. If you don't and the boat doesn't arrive, take the train and don't worry if the ticket machine doesn't work- the conductor is cool.

Ignore all of the restaurant suggestions online and in the guide books and instead go to Münze restaurant. Make friends with Lutz the owner (because of course that's his name) and let him choose everything that you are going to eat and pair everything with local wine. Hear about his years living and cooking in Ibiza and his business interests in Morocco. Make friends with Otto the chef, and if you're lucky maybe he'll take off his hat for you. I won't ruin the surprise. When an American soldier from Illinois wanders in with his backback looking for an ATM, invite him to your table and buy him a beer. Eat more of Lutz's food and drink more of the local wine with Lutz and Otto and buy the soldier some more beer and meet a grumpy man named Dimitri from Moscow whose role is fittingly mysterious. Play with a dog named Snob, smoke cigarettes and talk food and wine and international politics long after all of the other customers leave. Celebrate Lutz's lady's birthday and then stumble out all together well after midnight with a couple of bottles of wine, selected and packed up by Lutz, to take home for your next dinner party (you may start lobbying for invites now).

Cure your hangover the next morning by hiking through the woods in the freezing cold up to Burg Eltz in the Mosel Valley and feel like fairytale characters when the castle suddenly appears on the horizon. Defrost with a a hot bowl of potato soup at the bottom of the hill after you've hiked back down. Drive cross-country to Berlin. 

In East Berlin eat at Cafe Einstein. In West Berlin eat at Gendarmerie surrounded by art, or Felix in the Hotel Adlon next to the Brandenburg Gate. If an Austrian suggests that you and your friends go to a "really posh bar" at midnight, don't listen to him. But if he asks you to drink beer with him, don't hesitate for a minute. But brush up on your drinking games skills before you do. And be advised that the German phrases that you learned in junior high school may have rather crude alternative meanings while at a table of Dutch, German, and Austrian men. Follow dinner by going with a group of friends to Hotel du Rome and charge your drinks to your friend's room at his insistence. Cure that hangover with Chinese food prepared at a counter on the gourmet floor at the top of KaDeWe. 

FlyNiki to Krakow and laugh through a crash course in Polish phrases. Butcher said phrases once on the ground but make friends with the locals each time you try. Wander around Old Town Krakow and be overjoyed with the knowledge that you're in on the secret- it is one of the coolest and most beautiful cities in Europe. Eat too much, drink too much, and walk everywhere. Try everything. Go into St. Mary's Basilica and let yourself gasp when you look up. Eat at a milk bar. Eat in an outside cafe. Climb up ancient staircases and take photos; climb down ancient stone staircases and listen to the live music in an underground jazz club. But do not order the Hungarian wine. Smoke more cigarettes in Rynek Główny, the Main Market Square, as you listen to street musicians and the hourly bugle song from the top of the tower. Run through the rain in the Jewish Quarter Kazimierz and watch a pre-taped hockey finals game at a Soviet-themed bar called Propaganda. Do shots of flavored Polish vodka with the locals but then slink out after reading on your phone that the favored team will soon lose.

Take a day trip to Auschwitz even if you're not sure you want to. Cry and be angry, but don't forget what you see. Come back to Krakow and warm up with hot borscht and pierogi. But save room for one of the best meals of your life in a contemporary restaurant called Ancora, complete with a cucumber sorbet and bison grass vodka intermezzo that you won't forget about for weeks. 

Try to get home without 4 layovers. Fly business class when possible. Be in love. Vow to return to Poland. 

"Oddity has always amused me and encouraged reflection. There is so much of it around that you only need to keep your eyes peeled. And if there is nothing in sight, you need to look further afield, beyond the horizon, in another country, another city, among other people."   

~ Polish travel writer Olgierd Budrewicz

Crave.

My write-up about last night's Cafe Momentum pop-up dinner at Dee Lincoln's Tasting Room and Bubble Bar can be found on CraveDFW at this link: 

http://cravedfw.com/2012/03/19/dee-lincolns-bubble-bar-celebrates-cafe-momentum

Balance.

I have gained ten pounds, give or take, since moving to Dallas in November. This has several causing factors, including a 20-fold increase (at least) of my annual consumption of Tex-Mex cuisine, a decrease in the necessity for running for a train in 3-inch heels several times a day, a Texas-sized refrigerator right upstairs form my work-at-home office, and an overall lessening of hourly stress (like trying to dodge tourists around Rockefeller Center). Thankfully, as my Texan so eloquently puts it, the weight "is in all the right places," supposedly. Still, when you're used to feeling lighter on your feet, the extra pounds can inspire you to make a few changes.

The last time I was in a gym was 2004. But in my ongoing quest to relax and get both my body and mind healthier now that I've left the big bad big apple, I decided to take a mere two block stroll from my new house and try yoga for the first time in my life. I always had real excuses not to try yoga before: no time, no money, the logistics of getting to a studio using public transportation, too much work to do, and a simple lack of necessity in my logical mind. But like everything else in relation to my move down here, the obstacles all moved aside in one cohesive sweep and a path was cleared for my next step in my journey of new Texan self-discovery.

It feels good. I stretch and challenge muscles I was never aware of before. It is a warm - literally- and welcome environment, as peaceful and full of positive energy as I've come to expect after years of pop culture exposure to the practice. The instructors at Gaia Flow Yoga are amazingly patient, making sure that even the most novice of their students (me) is learning and growing at their (my) level of ability. What I am learning goes so much further than the physical, however. I am learning to relax, I am learning to take time for myself, and I am learning to balance, in all areas of my life.

~

This past Friday was much like some of my favorite spring evenings in Manhattan. On Oak Lawn Avenue we enjoyed an early and light dinner at the utterly charming Parigi, a restaurant owned by one of my new favorite people in Dallas, Chef Chad Houser, and his lovely partner Janice Provost, who as luck would have it was behind the bar that night. As it was early, we only dined on a few chef-recommended appetizers, but they were all perfect. Janice helped us to pair wines with our meal and we thoroughly enjoyed the company of staff and fellow patrons immensely. Unfortunately we had to move on, but for good reason. We had, courtesy of a dear friend, tickets to the TITAS Command Performance La Fête du Ballet. Sitting in the orchestra of the beautiful Winspear Opera House later that evening, we sat in awe as some of the world's most celebrated and accomplished dancers performed. The classical pieces were gorgeous, but MOMIX's Millennium Skiva impressed even my Texan, and TUU featuring Steven Ezra Marshall and Rebecca Rasmussen moved me to tears. The entire evening was pure elegance. We gasped and applauded in distinguished appreciation and amazement.

On Saturday I drove (which, as an ex-New Yorker I am still learning how to do) north to Allen for another dinner and another show. And it could not have been more of a contrast. It was raining, so we parked and ducked into the first restaurant that would have us, the adorable Cotton Patch Cafe. My 3-year old daughter colored her place mat and drank her chocolate milk while I contemplated the amount of butter in the basket of bread placed on our table. It wasn't exactly a Manhattan crowd, to say the least, and it certainly wasn't a meal that will help me lose that extra Texas weight, but it was warm and it was cozy and the server was sweet. After dinner we crossed the street and spent the next two hours watching the Allen Americans hockey team defeat the Missouri Mavericks 4-3 at the Allen Event Center with family and old friends. Hockey players fought on the ice. Young local girls danced during halftime with the Ice Angels. The mascot Biscuit and Ronald McDonald posed for photos with little (and big) fans. We clapped, we cheered, we rang cowbells. It was fun.

It was the poignant juxtaposition of the two evenings that I found fascinating. Friday was black satin and a low chignon, champagne and single malt scotch. Saturday was cotton denim and a ponytail, popcorn and domestic beer out of a can.

Both evenings were wonderful. Both were needed. Both were Dallas.

~

It is less and less surprising to me how relaxed I find people here to be. Relaxed and healthy. And I realize that it is due to the balance that you (we) have here. We can get all of the extremes that we want but if we look for it, running down the center, through our core, is a beautiful balanced life of art and comfort, elegance and fun, culture and family, work and play.

Namaste.

Acclimation.

My post Acclimation can be found at CraveDFW: 

http://cravedfw.com/2012/03/01/acclimation

Oak.

photo borrowed from OakDallas.com

Uptown, I see your inventive menu, impeccable service, and warm ambiance at Private Social, and I raise you a chic multimedia interior, classy and diverse clientele, and a champagne bucket of elegance at Oak in the Design District.

Fittingly, the space feels like a gallery where an artist has decided to do an installation piece in the design of a pop-up restaurant. It feels temporary, which is very unique and, (please forgive my lack of eloquence here) really cool. We were in on a secret location, having a special one-night-only dinner, and as soon as the night was over, all of the set pieces would be whisked away to make room for the next exhibit. And to take the analogy a step further- the design and service are so much about you, the guest, that the space feels like the canvas and you are the art- a revolving group of people in and out of the door that the designers chose specifically for their purpose. There was no rowdy and anxious crowd building up at the reception stand; everyone was accommodated perfectly as they arrived and yet every table was full. There were no groups of giggly girls snapping phone photos of themselves in mini-dresses getting in the way of cocktail servers and ruining the mise-en-scène - it was all perfectly executed class, right down to every guest.

But the food and cocktails were art in their own rights. First ordering off of the Imbibe menu, I made an easy choice in the LOLita, an elixir of Hendricks Gin, St. Germaine Elderflower liqueur (thanks to dear friend and occasional barmaid Shannon, who introduced me to this last summer), English cucumber and bitters, just about every one of my favorite cocktail ingredients in one glass. My handsome companion chose The Mighty Oak, with Eagle Rare Bourbon, mint, ginger lemon, and soda, and then moved on to the Hamilton Dark & Stormy with Gosling’s Black Seal Rum, Gosling’s Ginger Beer, and lime. It was difficult to change drinks after our first round but we were determined to try more options from Abraham Bebell's cocktail menu. What a relief to see a list heavy on gin and whiskey! It is always a joy to go back to the classics after years of the overdone craft cocktails.

Our lovely server Z came by and answered all of our questions about the menu aptly, and patiently waited for our selections. I went with a bird-centric dinner with the foie gras torchon appetizer and roasted duck breast entree. My Texan turned to the sea and started with diver scallops before his main course of Mediterranean bronzino. I wanted to inelegantly scrape my first plate clean of the foie gras, candied kumquat and black pepper gastrique. It was that good. And the duck! I ordered it Chef's recommendation and received it cooked to pink perfection, served with puy lentil, crispy brussels sprouts and burgundy foie gras jus. It was heavenly. With our server's assistance I paired it with a glass of Louis Jadot Macon Chardonnay. The bronzino was a lighter dish but no less perfect. The server brought the charming Mr. Bebell to our table to create a new cocktail based on my fiance's tastes to pair with his dinner, another special touch to our evening. If only we could have tried more but we had reached our breaking point.

Not ready to leave, we moved to the bar to experience the space from another angle. Barkeeps in suspenders and dark rimmed glasses kept busy but never flustered, managing every sitting and standing patron with professionalism, energy, and ease. Instead of my usual single malt scotch dessert, I decided on the appropriately named Distinguished District Man with Johnny Walker Black Label, Cinzano Bianco, clover honey, and bitters, and enjoyed distinguished district conversation with men on both sides of the bar, an eclectic group light on Dallas natives. Suddenly realizing the toll of the generously poured liquor, we sadly called it a night but vowed to return soon.

Kudos to owners Tommy DeAlano and Richard Ellman, the Plan B designers, the previously mentioned Mr. Abraham Bebell, and Executive Chef Jason Maddy. I'm new to Dallas but your reputations preceded my experience at Oak. Thank you for a wonderful restaurant in my new home city.

Gourmand.

 

"There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” 

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Moving to a new city, region, or even neighborhood is overwhelming for many reasons and of course most of it is logistical. But I knew that one way to feel at home was to immediately get my taste buds on the pulse of the food scene in Dallas the way I had in New York, and that has become a personal mission since arriving. I have been a Texan for twelve weeks, during six of which I was not actually in Texas, so I'm doing the best that I can. Although I've rarely ventured outside of Uptown, and I have plenty still on my 'to do' list, I have already found some shining stars.

Favorite Food Experience

Private Social: By far this is the best restaurant I have been to in Dallas. The food is inventive yet comfortable, the service is perfect but not stuffy, and the decor is elegant yet fun. We had the most wonderful Saturday night dinner here and I can't wait to go back. Chef Tiffany Derry (Top Chef) leads guests through her kitchen, welcoming each warmly and inviting them to take photos. I know this because we were lucky enough to get a table right next to the window into the kitchen, and it was a joy to watch. Every staff member was warm and beyond hospitable, and a lot of fun to talk to. Favorite foods sampled included the Kumamoto oysters (a special for Valentine's Day, but I hope they will stay on the menu), The Top Chef Pork Buns (rivaling David Chang's in my memory), and Pastrami Cured Hiramasa. I let the server (shout out to Justin) choose our wine and cocktails and wasn't disappointed.

Notable Neighborhood Gems in West Village:

These places get bonus points because I can walk to them- a luxury in my new city.

For Bar & Atmosphere:

 Overview: If I want a swanky martini lounge (and I often do), nobody tops what Manhattan does in that department. What I've enjoyed in Texas thus far are laid back places like these: 

Katy Trail Ice House - There is no place like this in New York. (Except maybe Astoria Beer Garden, but this place is better.) I'm told it's typical of Austin, which makes me want to take the drive down there as soon as possible. Sit outside at picnic tables right off of the Katy Trail, under trees and twinkling lights, order from the list of 50 beers on tap (quite a few of them rare locals) and listen to great music. The crowd is unpretentious young professionals, and dogs are welcome. FTW.

The Union Bear - This place is pure Brooklyn. That's a good thing. We went opening night and I felt right at home. It rocked an atmosphere of a gastropub with the cuisine of my beloved gourmet food trucks (I miss you Rickshaw Dumplings!) Like the KTIH, the service and crowd are unpretentious and fun. I sincerely hope this is a new trend in Dallas, a city that is getting far too much press for it's "Real Housewives" and "Most Eligible" scene.

Cru Wine Bar in West Village- Rumor has it that "nobody goes there anymore." But they should. And here's why: the atmosphere is intimate, elegant and romantic, the wine list is impressive, the food is great and meant for sharing, and the service is delightful. It reminded me of some of my favorite Manhattan wine bars. Maybe the Dallas scene-sters have moved on but I loved it and plan to return often.

For Food:

The Fish - The sushi is above passable and at times quite creative, the service is friendly and good, the bar is above par, the decor is beautiful, and I can walk to it from my house. But they did something wrong- the layout of the restaurant doesn't work. It's not cozy or inviting and not quite sexy either. Like a lot of places in Texas, it's just too open and exposed. Of course for a town of people who love to be seen, maybe that's what they were going for.

Baboush- Simply adorable. The menu was authentic, the service and food were outstanding, the presentation was perfect. It's small and intimate but, like The Fish, very exposed because of a big window wall facing the street. A lower ceiling and more cushy couches around small tables meant for sharing plates would make this place perfect. I want to bring a big group of friends, order everything on the menu, and end the night with mint tea and hookah.

Mi Cocina - This is where I had my first Tex-Mex meal in Dallas. The sexy bar area is hopping at night and the tables are full for lunch and dinner. I am not an expert in this cuisine yet but I've enjoyed every bite and sip here thus far. And Taco Diner - A more casual version of Mi Cocina right across the street. I want to give everyone who works here a hug. Fun and energetic atmosphere, great margaritas, exposed kitchen, friendly waitstaff, and good food. My 3-year old loves the quesadillas and the staff loves her.

Crimson Asian Cuisine- It's amazing that it made it on to my list as it's BYOB. But I checked it out for lunch and was pleasantly surprised with the pho, which I am thrilled to find a block away from my house. Everyone dining there looks like they know they're in on the secret- the food is great.

 Del Frisco's Grille

This place gets it's own paragraph because it was thoroughly frustrating. Having passed many happy hours at Del Frisco's in Manhattan (as it was one elevator ride from my office), I was expecting at least some of the old-world elegance. Instead I got a sports bar that happened to serve good steaks and comfort food (both easy to find in Texas) and have wine racks for walls, as if that was to give it class. The decor was a mesh of contemporary and classic, but not in a good way. It was like a Broadway show with too many producers who all wanted a different story (see: the first version of Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark) and just agreed to disagree. Of course this is perfect for the group of friends who can't all agree on one type of restaurant (the not-so-secret to success outside of the Five Boroughs). The food and wine list were good of course, and yes- I understand it's supposed to be less formal as the 'grille' concept. But it did not work for me and I was as much distracted by this mishmash of concepts as at the difference between the classy Mad Men types seen at my NY haunt and this 'Look At My Striped Shirt' and 5-inch heels 30K millionaire Uptown crowd. It made my stomach turn and the "Cheesesteak Eggrolls" (as a native Pennsylvanian, these hurt my heart a little) harder to digest.

The "Club Deuce Award" Nomination

For places that you gravitate towards after a night of drinking elsewhere, which I've named after the bar on South Beach that I often 'ended up at' in my early 20's:

The Loon - The drinks are really strong, the music is really loud, the decor is non-existent, and it's located in a shopping strip in a big lit parking lot. And yet, everyone flocks to it. Supposedly the food is good but because of the tendency to end up rather than start there, I can't give this an accurate review yet. And I don't think I want to. Because the important part is, everyone is having a great time, which is exactly what you want in a neighborhood dive.

Digestif

Generally the same qualities I miss in people, I miss in restaurants: edgy, adventurous, and authentic. I want the people I spend time with, and the places I spend time at, to be smarter than me, to teach me something new, to expand my proverbial horizons. I'm frequently told that I should leave the Uptown neighborhood (see: Del Frisco's Grille paragraph) to find more of what I'm looking for. I will. Thankfully, there are so many more restaurants to try here, and that excites me. Hopefully once more of life's chaos subsides (fingers crossed) and the weather warms (guaranteed), I will experience and re-experience more of what this cosmopolitan southern city has to offer its gourmand residents.

“If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion and avoid the people, you might better stay at home.” ~  James Michener

Blog.

Approximately 25 strangers were united by one brilliant moment on the N coming into Queens tonight. Three intoxicated twenty-something girls boarded the train at Queensboro. Despite their volume, they were not obnoxious but instead were joyous and amusing. We all- trained in this situation after years of city living to pretend we don’t notice anything and instead seem to be increasingly distracted by our ipods, books, iphones, the map on the wall- stayed in our little islands of isolation for the first few stops. (At least those of us not sitting directly across from them, who ended up handing over their snacks at the girls’ insistence.)

And then- the train stopped. And the girls realized they needed to get off. And two did. And then the doors closed. We were all secretly watching and then we stopped hiding it. The third girl stood in vodka-induced shock. The other two, laughing uncontrollably, pounded on the doors and tried to get the conductor’s attention. We've all thought of this- this moment, what would and could happen if we were separated at the will of the train. But how many of us has it actually happened to? And how many of us, if it did happen, would be so drunk as to not be able to find our companions after the fact? I let out an audible burst of laughter. The men and women around me followed and soon we all had a moment that we rarely get- we noticed each other. And we made eye contact. Amazingly, after a moment of doubt, the doors opened again and the girls were reunited on the other side of the glass. But it was too late- the connection happened. The kid to my right actually spoke out loud. “Thank you drunk girls. That made my night.”

Walking down Ditmars I reflected on a decade of highs and lows that come with living in a city of extremes. Surprisingly sober after a Saturday night out, I realized I’d only had three drinks over the course of the entire evening (red with dinner, gin before, whiskey after), but was buzzed enough by either the alcohol or the city to the point of nostalgia.

It was a typical and perfect New York night out. A bus to a train to another train. A band (a saxophone, a bass, and drums) played on the platform as I waited for the L. Delays. A half mile walk in 4-inch wedges and a Nicole Miller. Dinner with an amazing friend and two new friends. An ironic anti-Kosher restaurant with small inventive plates of pork and shellfish. Beautiful people. Gorgeous weather. Intelligent and snarky humor and debate. Shared life tragedies. Exposed kitchen. Laughter.

Invigorated, I bummed a cigarette off of a ponytailed girl who had been on the train. She also gave me a light. I walked a few blocks, realizing the Q69 wouldn’t come anytime soon, and then realized I didn’t like smoking. I discarded it and kept walking. And thinking.

Before dinner I visited my brother at his Williamsburg apartment and was reminded what life was like ten years ago when I first moved to this city. When I, along with all of my friends, was struggling to pay the rent but happy. Found objects made furniture and art. Ramen was a meal. A party was potluck- bring a bottle of wine or a box of crackers or your own demo tape for entertainment. Just come, with your roommate or your recent hookup or with some people you met on the street. Sit on the floor, light the mass of melted candles on the low box you’re pretending is a coffee table, and enjoy the company of the most interesting, creative, and brilliant people you never thought you would know.

Tonight I stood there admiring the creative use of space by him and his roommates in their walk-up apartment on Montrose with the toilet in a closet in the kitchen, suddenly hyper aware of my designer dress and double process hair color and impending reservations down the street. The nostalgia was palpable, a warm feeling and an involuntary smile spreading across my face at the sight of makeshift living that was once so familiar.  But there was more- a comfort, a contentment, a joy that came from realizing how far I’ve come since my first days, pre- 9/11, in a little railroad apartment in Hoboken with two other would-be actresses from Pennsylvania.

I’ve conquered. And I’m suddenly simultaneously satisfied and frustrated by this. Because what’s next? Akin to finishing a really great book; the sadness that comes when you reach the last page, wondering if you’ll ever be able to find another book to read that will bring you the same wonderment and joy, knowing that even going back and reading it again will never bring the same experience.

So what’s next?

The gypsy spirit must be nourished.

I miss my daughter. I wish I could sneak into our shared bedroom and nuzzle my face into her perfect cheek and fill her head with thoughts of amazement and contentment through osmosis. She exhausts me but fills me with joy like no other human being can. She’s been gone a week and will be back in two. The separations are necessary but they keep getting harder.

I miss my partner. I’m used to the distance but increasingly annoyed by it. Five more days until we’re reunited in California, where we both seem to be happiest.

The glow of my laptop is lighting the dining space of my little apartment. This is the first time I’ve written in awhile and it feels good.

I know there are big steps in the near future. Regardless of the decisions of other people, there is a pressure building in my life and at some point soon it will push me in a new and different direction. Nobody will be surprised.

Nights like tonight bring to question two coinciding but opposite thoughts:

1. How could I ever leave this place?
2. How am I still here?

So much of tonight’s conversation centered on how I would (could) adapt to what may become my new world. So much is different. Different has never scared me but as I age I realize how much easier it is when you are in a community of people who are like you. A subject was approached and my dining partner said “in New York it would never be questioned, but where you might move to, it would be shocking.” A moment of silence. He was right. Will I have to explain myself over and over again? Will I want to?

But it’s a challenge, isn’t it? A new adventure. A new path. A new book. The gypsy would be satisfied.

Every now and then I read a wonderful book that makes me think “how could I ever have thought that the last one was the best?”

I am taking a big breath and turning the last page. This has been an amazing time. But what I’ve recently found- my future- is not here. It’s somewhere else.

It's time to start a new book.