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.

Identity.

culture shock (noun): a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment

assimilation (noun): a process by which members of a minority group lose cultural characteristics that distinguish them from the dominant cultural group or take on the cultural characteristics of another group.

Assimilation usually involves a gradual change and takes place in varying degrees; full assimilation occurs when new members of a society become indistinguishable from older members.

1369.87 miles. That's how far I am now from the place I called home for the most formative decade of my life. Before I moved there I was mostly still in the same geographical region; a full-fledged "Yankee" my entire life.

People keep asking if the transition has been hard. And the easy answer is no, it hasn't been hard. Dallas is still a modern and fashionable city full of interesting people and a thriving arts and food scene. I'm lucky to live in a rare urban section where I am two blocks from some of my favorite boutiques, restaurants, and salons.  In terms of convenience, with the exception of the lack of a corner bodega and readily available public transportation, it isn't much different. Here I have without a doubt an easier life and a healthier life because of that.

In New York it was only me and my daughter and some incredible friends and neighbors when I really needed them and was actually willing to ask for help. But here I have my amazing fiance and an unconditionally loving and supportive family (for the first time in my life). And he, the man who I dated via email, long late-night phone calls, and a plethora of miles on American Airlines, has done everything in his power to help me adjust and to welcome both me and my daughter into his home and friendships. The rest of the people I have met have been unbelievably welcoming and warm, and I have been overwhelmed by how many I have come to quickly adore, and the number of opportunities I've had to meet more. With the traveling that I do for my NY-based job and the time I spend with my family, I have not been able to attend or participate in so many things I have wanted to. There is no shortage of things to do and to keep me involved and enjoying life in Dallas when I have the time for them. And of course I now actually have a washing machine, a dishwasher, and a pool; luxuries that most Manhattanites can only dream of.

I am working on getting my driver's license, which will make things even easier for me, and I am on the hunt for a Dallas-based job that will keep me in town more often. My fiance and I are trying to figure out where in the world (literally) to hold our wedding and once we get that figured out we can get to planning and get that stress off of our shoulders.

The transition, logistically and superficially, has been easy.

But emotionally and psychologically it has been and continues to be a challenge. When you spend your whole life thinking of yourself and your friends in one way, and you suddenly have that thinking turned upside down, how do you handle that? It's not about New York vs. Dallas, or even North vs. South. It's simply one culture- of my family, my neighborhood, my childhood environment, my way of thinking, vs. another- the one I've been surrounded by since my move here.

When I was 16, I was awarded a scholarship to participate in a summer exchange program and lived with a family in Greece for two months. A lot of life lessons came from that trip. I had to step out of my comfort zone every day. The food, the smells, the language, the alphabet, the styles, the weather, the music, everything was different. But I adapted. And I fell in love with that country. That was the trip that made me appreciate food and hospitality to the extent that I do today and I am beyond grateful for that experience. After that I would say you could pick me up and plunk me down anywhere in the world and I would be fine. I would adapt. I am a natural chameleon.

Anywhere, I would joke, but Texas. And everyone would laugh because it made sense. I was "such a New Yorker!" friends and strangers alike always said. I grew up loving everything about that city; I had posters of the skyline on the walls of my childhood bedroom and even on the worst days during my time there, I loved it. Everything was beautiful and interesting and amazing and I knew at my core, I belonged there.

And so when I first started dating my Texan it was hilarious to everyone who knew me. I wasn't serious, was I? But I was. I fell in love with a person and everything about our relationship was right, regardless of the geographical and cultural differences. I knew this move was something I had to consider back when it was only a flirtation. It was just another state, another city. It was still part of my country; surely it couldn't be that hard.

I know it's usually a light-hearted joke when Southerners talk about the Yankees, but you all know that there is usually truth in jest. Most of it comes from confusion. Why do they do the things they do and think the way they think? It is confusing so we make jokes out of it. But it is true that the inherent culture is so drastically different. You can talk all you want about people just being people and it's a big city like anywhere else, and to some extent of course that's true. But to adapt to a new culture you have to step out of your own and this is the first time I've had to step SO FAR out of my comfort zone in order to really see the people and the culture around me for what they were. Traveling abroad I found more people who were "like me" than I've found here, in a city that is in my own country. And that's okay, but it does take some time to adjust to.

The women here are beautiful, there is no doubt. But it is hard to accept a culture where aesthetic beauty is valued so highly, when you are raised in a culture where it is devalued. Life experience, education, knowledge of the events of the world are what I always looked for in friends and colleagues, and so did they. We endeavored to improve ourselves intellectually and culturally, not aesthetically. We, as a culture, were proud of aging gracefully and used any cosmetic enhancements sparingly. So when I first came to Texas my guard was up and I was initially turned off by the southern belle stereotype and the requisite "bling," cosmetic surgery and big hair. The first girls I met in Texas were fodder for countless jokes in my NYC office for the months before my move. It's no secret that I started off with the "us versus them' mentality and it was frustrating. It was mostly frustrating because once I moved here, I really liked the majority of the people I was meeting and that caused so much inner conflict. But I have worked really hard to embrace what makes Dallas special, even if that means going out of my comfort zone as I learned to do 17 years ago.

When we got engaged last August and officially decided that I would be the one to move cross country, one of the first things I did was walk into the Sephora on 5th Avenue on my lunch break. I was asked how they could help me. I said "I'm moving to Dallas."

"OH HONEY.... WHY?!?" was the response from the lovely young male make-up artist working the floor. I told him I fell in love with a Texan. And he sighed, grabbed my hand, pulled me over to his work bench, and said "ok, then. let's get to work." And he proceeded to explain the process and required items for doing a full face of make-up, Texas-style. I had no idea what some of those brushes were for, but I do now.

It was funny,  and as much as I grumbled (especially at the credit card charge), it was fun. It was my first step towards assimilation. It was just superficial and I was okay with it. I was teased by everyone in the office but in the end they told me I looked good, even if a little too "Southern." I took it in stride. The nice thing was that my Texan man didn't expect me or ask me to do this; it was my own gesture. He seemed torn too; he liked me for who I was when we started dating, but he had to admit the "prettier" version wasn't so bad at the appropriate times. I figured if the culture here is to step up the make-up a bit, I certainly didn't want to embarrass him or myself by digging in my heels. It wasn't that big of a deal.  Getting rid of my daily ponytails, geek chic glasses, and black midtown office wardrobe has been a little more difficult and I promise that they will not disappear completely. But I admit it is nice to have society's permission to get a little prettied up sometimes. In true Rodgers and Hammerstein fashion, I'm enjoying being a girl.

But the deeper stuff is harder to accept. The jokes are different, the assumptions are different, the tastes are different. What I grew up understanding was "bad" is celebrated; what I understood was universally accepted as "good" is often a punchline. I have moments when my head feels fuzzy and the ground feels shaky and I wonder what rabbit hole I have fallen down and what alternate universe I've woken up in. I am not saying that what I knew and understood before was "right," in fact quite the opposite- I'm questioning my understood reality for the first time in my life and that is what is so hard. The more conservative ways of being and thinking, (and yet more "liberal" way of dressing), the easier, simpler, and slower life, gradually building my own Texan pride with the voice of so many mentors still cracking their jokes about life below the Mason-Dixon line; this is where adapting is hard. I am getting the "who are you now" bitterness from old acquaintances and family members up north who do not like the changes they are seeing. And I'm still teased occasionally here about being a Yankee. So the struggle is constant, and has become part of my daily life.

Right now the pendulum is still swinging dramatically. I go from being determined to remain a New Yorker to my core, to suddenly seeing the negative parts of my Northeast upbringing for what they are. On the flip side I go from being annoyed by the differences here to embracing them and subconsciously completely assimilating, bringing me to momentary states of shock. I suppose the right place to be is the exact place I will end up when this pendulum finally slows to a halt: right in the middle; maintaining my roots but being truly comfortable in my new home. I know I have no plans to leave any time soon and fighting any changes will not do me or anyone around me any good.

I've been here for half a year and have purposely made it a year of new experiences, constantly and deliberately putting myself out of my comfort zone in a wide range of ways, from singing the National Anthem at a sports event to painting my toenails electric blue to learning Mandarin. I will write about all of these experiences in detail when I reach my one year Texas anniversary in November. Right now I'm about to celebrate my first birthday in Texas, and in a few weeks we will celebrate my daughter's.With each milestone I become more deeply rooted here.

This morning in yoga class we learned about Svadhyaya, which means becoming close to oneself through meditation and self-exploration.  It refers to knowing more and more about oneself, intentionally. I laughed to myself during the lesson; I have been in a self-reflective state for eight months now and there is still so much to learn.

Spirit.

I come from a family of geniuses. My joke has always been that if I'm good they let me set the table pretty. I am the oldest of four children, born to parents who are still, 33 years later, happily married (and sometimes disgustingly so).

One of the many differences between me and the rest of my family is that I seem to be the only one who did not get the running gene. I briefly gave it a half-hearted shot in junior high, but I was much more interested in aesthetics; always content with music, dance, food, and decorating the world in various ways.

My father is a cross country coach and a past president of his local running club in Pennsylvania. He has been running for forty years, including 22 marathons (7 Bostons) and several 100-mile ultra marathons (including something ominously called the Canadian Death Race just last year). My mother has also been running for most of her life, often alongside my father, and ran her first marathon- the Marine Corps in DC- when she was 48. One brother ran the Dublin marathon and the other has run two 50K trail races. My sister has run seven marathons, including the Marine Corps, New York, and Cape Cod.

I will be running my very first 5K tonight on the Katy Trail in Dallas, Texas.

When my Texan and I first started dating seriously and I flew to Dallas to visit, he took me to Luke's Locker to get a real pair of running shoes, my first pair since college. We went for a short run on the Katy Trail and although my body was in a bit of shock, it was nice to get out of New York City and breathe in some fresh air. Back home I only ran when trying to catch a train or a cab and that was wearing 4-inch heels. But after my Dallas visit I starting running through the streets of Astoria, Queens whenever I got the chance, which wasn't often, and when I did I loved it. I started to think that maybe I did have that gene after all. When nightly talks with my Texan got to the point where we were discussing a life we would have together in Dallas, runs and walks on the Katy Trail were often mentioned.

The weather since I moved here last November has been perfect for running (I know this will change soon), and with my constant traveling and drastic lifestyle changes since leaving New York it has been necessary to get outside and get some exercise. It has been good for my body and also my mind as I've worked through so many of these changes in my head while on the trail. I have been grateful for the West Village entrance only a few blocks from my new home and have used it at least several times a week over the last few months. We recently signed up to be Friends of the Katy Trail in appreciation of the park, and of course the Ice House is one of my favorite places in the the city to meet up with friends.

The rest of my family signed up to run a marathon in Florida together in 2014. When I mentioned tonight's 5K to my dad he informed me that if I increased my running by one mile a month, I would be ready to join them by then. I am not optimistic about that one, but who knows? Tonight you can watch me crawling towards the finish line in a desperate attempt to finish my first race. I will be number 614.

For all runners, I share some words of wisdom from my father, Coach Chobot in Reading, Pennsylvania:  

"Just remember; the challenge of distance running stems from the inner conflict between mind, body, and spirit. Whenever the spirit (or soul or heart or whatever you want to call it) prevails, the runner has succeeded regardless of caliber of runner or difficulty of race. Running is the purest form of the celebration of the human spirit."

I'll see you on the trail.

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

Home.

I have spent my day running around like a madwoman in preparations for the next two weeks of constant travel. This is nothing new. I am very fortunate to have a job that requires me to go to some really great places and I do get a thrill from running through airports and getting those stamps in my passport. But a strange and foreign feeling came over me today: I don't want to leave.

It has nothing to do with where I'm going or why. While true that much of it will be spent working, that doesn't bother me. In fact I like that quite a bit because it gives me a sense of purpose and allows me to experience cultures in ways different from the tourists. I am traveling most of the time with the love of my life and am absolutely thrilled to get some time with him away from other stresses in our lives. I will be going places I've never been before, which is always a plus; for even if the travels are bad, I still get to cross a few more cities and countries off of my lists and there will always be stories to tell.

The sinking feeling came because I'm finally feeling like my new home is actually home. Every day somebody asks me how I'm liking Dallas and a smile always comes instantly and I can honestly say that I love it. I have family here, and a support system that I've never had before in my life. I am meeting some really amazing people, making real friends, and having a great time in the process. I am trying new things and discovering new things about myself every day. There is a sense of community here that, although at times off-putting because of the lack of anonymity, is actually really nice. Who knew this cold-hearted New Yorker could like this?

So although I look at my schedule for the next three months and the gypsy spirit part of me is thrilled to be hopping around the world again, there is part of me that wants to throw a 3-year old tantrum, stomp my feet and cry out "but I just got here"! I know I will regret saying this in a few months if I end up finding a job that doesn't have me traveling at all and I am begging for a reason to go somewhere, but right now an extra few weeks in my own bed would be so welcome. 

I suppose I will take it as a blessing that I am sad to leave my new home. Because that means that it is in fact my home. And I know that at the end of my next set of adventures, instead of being sad that they're over I will be happy about what I'm returning to. And that is another brand new experience for me.

I am so grateful. 

NOLA.

It was a thrown-together weekend as a result of a speaking engagement for my Texan. Upon hearing that complimentary Jackson Square apartment accommodations were offered as an incentive, two Southwest tickets were promptly purchased. Boarding dead-last onto the flight I ended up sitting snug between two male strangers who spent most of the flight trying to convince me to go into pharmaceutical sales, making it painfully obvious that my New York edge must have softened considerably since my move to Dallas. A glass of wine made this realization slightly more tolerable but I was grateful when the discussion turned to the much more pleasant topic of the cannibal nature of the alligators in the swamps we were soaring over upon arrival in New Orleans.

This was my second visit to the city and my first visit post-Katrina. Although we would be attending a conference, we also had three dinner reservations; at a classic New Orleans institution, a brand new seafood restaurant from one of New Orleans's most beloved local chefs, and a contemporary Cajun spot with an award-winning chef. My Texan, a graduate of Tulane University, also had a few casual sentimental favorites in mind for other meals, so we knew we were prepared to eat well. We were still not prepared for what ensued in the Crescent City this past weekend.

We were staying in one of the Lower Pontalba Apartments. Built in the 1840's, they are the oldest apartments in the country. Through a heavy door on Rue St. Ann we walked down a cool hallway and up two long flights of curving wooden stairs. Through another door on the top floor we entered our beautiful temporary home. I walked through the front rooms to the heavy drapes, pulled them and aside, opened the windows, and walked out onto the balcony overlooking Jackson Square. To my left was Cafe du Monde; to my right was St. Louis Cathedral. It was a gorgeous evening and music drifted up from the square below. It could not have been more perfect.

After making the obligatory appearance at the welcome reception of our conference, we joined friends for the first of our NOLA dinners, at the "Grand Dame of New Orleans old line restaurants," Galatoire's. Apparently not much has changed here since its founding in 1905 and that was fine with me. At a big table in the elegant second floor dining room of this Bourbon Street institution, I dined on Oysters Rockefeller, Pompano Crabmeat Yvonne, and bread pudding. I ate as much as I could but had to throw in the proverbial towel after only a few bites of the dessert. I was discretely informed that this would not be the best bread pudding that I would have over the weekend but I couldn't imagine this was true.

After dinner we joined the festivities on Bourbon Street, with a front row seat at the Piano Bar at Pat O'Brien's (they played a lot of Southern fight songs that I did not recognize) and sang karaoke at The Cat's Meow (too many songs that I did recognize) late into the evening. On our way home we came across a Lucky Dog hot dog stand, another New Orleans institution and, as I was told, a must-try at 2am. Not one to shy away from something new, I agreed to a chili dog with mustard. My Texan took one bite and I finished the rest, which he was not happy about. But I agree that at 2 a.m. after an evening on Bourbon Street a Lucky Dog chili dog is the best food on the planet.

Amazingly I felt great the next morning (thanks due, I believe, to the chili dog) but a late hangover breakfast was in order. This had already been planned and I was led to Mother's on Poydras Street, home of the "World's Best Baked Ham." We waited in a long line, were pushed aside and yelled at, waited even longer for our food, and it was completely worth it. We split a Ralph, which is a Ferdi with cheese. A Ferdi is a po' boy with the aforementioned ham, roast beef, "debris", gravy, shredded cabbage, sliced pickle, creole & yellow mustard and mayo, served on soft New Orleans French bread. Also on our table: grits with debris and gravy, biscuits, gumbo, coffee , a spicy Bloody Mary, and indeed the best bread pudding in New Orleans. Debris, I learned, is "the roast beef that falls into the gravy while baking in the oven." And I ate it, all of it. At the conference luncheon shortly thereafter (I happily pushed aside the hotel catering salad) our table companions found my 2am snack story highly amusing. But whether foie gras at La Tour D'Argent or a chili dog on Bourbon Street, "good food" is food that you enjoy and I stand by it! After presentations and meetings we strolled along the Mississippi, dodging the ESPN crews setting up for Final Four events and marveling at the gorgeous weather we were blessed with. We perked up with the requisite coffee and sinfully good beignets at the adorable Cafe du Monde and managed to avoid most of the flying powdered sugar (word to the wise- do not wear black here). Climbing up the steps we ran into Dickie V and took a few tourist pictures in front of the Cathedral before walking to LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop, a bar on Bourbon Street in a structure built in the 1720's and used as a smuggling base, for pints of Abita before dinner.

Borgne is the newest restaurant by New Orleans golden boy John Besh. I had met him in New York a few months ago and have cooked a few of his recipes, and was looking forward to finally eating his food. The hosts were sweet, the bartender Kyle was thoroughly knowledgeable and passionate about the restaurant, and the food was good. Located in the Hyatt Regency Hotel in the Central Business District, it at least lacked the Bourbon Street tourist crowd. The other guests at the bar were locals, which was refreshing, but at 7:30 on a Friday night the dining room was only half full. And they could have fit twice as many tables in there. I am so sorry to say that the ambiance was disappointing. It felt like a cafeteria, or part of the hotel that serves the breakfast buffet to families with screaming kids. After our experience at the bar, where Kyle helped me settle on the classic New Orleans cocktail Sazerac (cognac, whiskey, Herbsaint, and bitters, considered the oldest American cocktail) and chatted with us about his favorite menu items, we expected better service at the table than what we got. The theme, casual coastal Louisiana cuisine, had so much potential and although it did come through in the menu and a few design elements, like the cage column of oyster shells and the chalkboards, it was otherwise absent. I kept feeling like I was missing something even though I kept actively searching. The table and chair choices were uninspiring, and with the doors to the kitchen and bathrooms and the server station all exposed to the majority of the room, there really were no good tables. I was frustrated and I can not recommend it if you care about ambiance. But the Louisiana oysters on the half shell (a thicker, creamier version of the bivalve molluscs than I am used to) were presented beautifully and the black drum with  brown butter, pecans, and jumbo lump crab (also recommended by Kyle) was absolutely exquisite. I hope to try one of his more traditional restaurants the next time I am in town to see if I fare better.

A cab ride later and we were "on the hippy side of town," Faubourg Mariginy, to watch the legendary Ellis Marsalis play at the Snug Harbor jazz club. This was more like it. Dark and crowded and filled to the brim, this place was everything I had hoped it would be. After the show we took a pedicab through the drizzle to meet up with some friends back on Bourbon Street, which had become even more blue and red, before heading home. On the way we stopped for another chili dog. I am not ashamed.

Saturday morning's breakfast was at the new location of Camillia Grill on the corner of Chartres and Toulouse. It looks like an old 50's diner and the line is out the door, but once again this is totally worth it. Our waiter, Penut (used to be Peanut, he says, but now that he's got money he upgraded to "Pe-Noo"), worked at the original location for 30 years and is now part owner of the slightly larger French Quarter version. He also, we learned, went to the same New Orleans high school as my Texan's father. We had coffee and split orders of grits and a chili cheese omelet with fries. This was the unhealthiest I have ever eaten in my life but it was euphoric. I also had a Bloody Mary that may have been nothing more than ice, vodka, and a lot of Tobasco sauce. What the service lacked in precision it made up for in personality; this place was a blast and it was fun being surrounded by the unofficial (and maybe some official) cheering squads of the four teams playing that night.

We caught the don't-say-trolley-it's-a-street-car up St. Charles, the old oaks and pecan trees along the way still dripping with beads of all colors, leftover from the recent Mardi Gras festivities. My Texan pointed out his old apartment and fraternity house and a few key landmarks along the way to stop #43 in the Riverbend section of Uptown, home of Cooter Brown's Tavern and Oyster Bar. This was dark, dingy, and sticky, with pool tables and over 400 brands of domestic and imported beers, 40 of them on tap. The oysters and po' boys looked amazing but I was still hurting from that chili cheese omelet (did I really eat that?) so I tried an Abita Purple Haze instead and we sat outside at a picnic table with more basketball fans in town for the games. The street car ride back to the French Quarter was amusing; the car filled up quickly with basketball fans who may still have been drunk from the night before, everyone was decked out in the most outrageous combinations of their teams' colors, and nobody was shy about where they were visiting from. But at every stop that we passed, there were larger crowds more disappointed than the last that they wouldn't be able to board. We tried to tell them through the windows that they best start walking; the cars behind us weren't likely to have any room either. The two of us sat comfortably in our seat, thankful that neither had packed any blue or red for the weekend.

We had a mission when we arrived back from our jaunt uptown: my very first crawfish experience. (I am new to the South!) Where better to try these little mud bugs than in New Orleans? Having had allergic reactions to some shellfish in the past I was nervous but still willing. Unfortunately we were back in the tourist areas and it was explained to us that the majority of the crowd that day- from Kansas, Kentucky, and Ohio- were not spicy food fans, so this wasn't to be as authentic as we'd hoped. But we strolled around until we found J's Seafood Dock in the French Market, with their bin of oysters on ice and a big pot of steamed crawfish just pulled out of their hot watery grave. This would do. We grabbed some beers, plopped ourselves down on the stools, pulled a few paper towels off the roll, and ordered up some crawfish and oysters. After a quick tutorial and a couple of bites, I didn't care if I was allergic. Thankfully my skin stayed welt-free and I could eat my share before rolling away for some more French Market shopping. Another successful new experience was under my belt and I was giddy. We stopped at Tropical Isle for one hand grenade to split (because have you ever had one of these? Good lord.) before heading back to the apartment to pack.

Our last reservation was at Cochon, a Cajun restaurant in the cool warehouse district that makes frequent appearances on top 10 lists for New Orleans and held the number twenty spot on The Daily Meal's 101 Best Restaurants in America for 2012. Executive Chef (and CEO) Donald Link was also recently chosen as a finalist in the James Beard Foundation Awards Outstanding Chef U.S. category. I had high hopes and wasn't disappointed. The decor was a beautiful combination of provincial and modern, with an exposed kitchen and bare wood furnishings. It reminded me Wyle Dufresne's WD-50 in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but with much more room and light (of course). The food was nothing like it though, and rightfully so. This was, as NYT's Sam Sifton said it best, "big flavors that lie at the intersection of urban New Orleans and rustic Cajun country." Our delightful server explained the difference between Creole and Cajun cuisines and had a special ginger beer cocktail made for me.We dined on wood-fired oysters, fried boudin with pickled peppers, soft-shell crab, and finished with a chocolate pecan tart with salted caramel before heading to the airport for our flight home.

Cochon, it should be noted, means pig. How wonderfully appropriate for the last meal in our impromptu food tour of NOLA. Supposedly an unidentified French Quarter policeman ate 32 Lucky Dogs in one night in 1998 but I'm still impressed that I had two over the course of 48 hours. Suffice it to say you will be able to find me on the Katy Trail over the next three months trying to burn off the calories that I consumed on this trip. It will take at least that long, but it was worth it.