A half hour goes by. An hour. Two brandies, and now the guys in the kitchen are gone for sure, the snow is building up outside, and there’s the puff of his exhaust and his parking lights.  I’m calling the police. 

Sometimes, when your restaurant is in a basement, and the building is older than the State itself, sometimes the restaurant or the store or the street above you weeps, and the tears get all over you.

There is something so beautiful in the theater of dining, and a restaurant is the stage for the memories that shape our lives

The Connectedness of it All–as shown to me through napkins in an unlikely place.

I’m going to tell you some facts about pigs. They’re weird. Sorry in advance.

How to be the life of the party. And also how to get red wine out of white clothing. Hint: be like Carol.