How did that happen?

Let me get my cards on the table first. I was rooting for Fran. I’m bummed that Francesca Hong won’t be our next governor. She ran on things that matter to people like me and the people I work with every day.

affordable healthcare

childcare that doesn’t cost more than rent

paid family leave

decriminalizing marijuana.

She was one of the few people in this race actually asking hard questions about data centers gobbling up our water and power, and about Flock cameras quietly turning our neighborhoods into surveillance grids. Those aren’t fringe issues. Those are kitchen-table issues, and I mean that literally. I hear about them from cooks, servers, and dishwashers across two restaurants.

So yeah. This sucks.

But if we’re going to move forward, it helps to understand what actually happened. Here’s the story of how a race Fran was leading by double digits came down to about 3,000 votes and wasn’t called until the middle of the night.

The comeback nobody saw coming

David Crowley had actually dropped out of this race roughly a month ago. His campaign was struggling to gain traction, and he stepped away only to jump back in days later with outgoing Gov. Tony Evers’ endorsement.

That endorsement changed everything. Evers is still popular, he chose not to run for a third term, and when he went to bat for Crowley on the trail arguing that he was the most electable Democrat in the field. This right there consolidated the establishment lane at exactly the right moment. A month ago Crowley’s campaign was floundering. Last night he won the nomination. That’s one of the more improbable comebacks in recent Wisconsin politics, whether you’re happy about it or not.

The electability question

Hong led the polls in the final stretch, but she faced growing scrutiny over past controversial positions and constant questions about whether a democratic socialist could win statewide in a purple state. Some Democrats argued openly that she’d struggle in November especially with a Trump-endorsed Tom Tiffany waiting on the other side.

I have complicated feelings about the electability argument. It has a way of becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. People tell people a candidate can’t win enough times and then eventually those people believe just that.

Electability clearly moved votes.

The chaos factor

This race was a mess in ways that had nothing to do with Fran or Crowley. Two top rivals’ campaigns imploded most notably Lt. Gov. Sara Rodriguez exiting amid a campaign finance scandal and former Lt. Governor Mandela Barnes which reshuffled the field late.

And here’s the part that really gets me. The ballot was still crowded on election day. Kelda Roys, Joel Brennan, Mandela Barnes, and other Democrats who had dropped out but remained on the ballot collectively took 10x more votes than the margin between Crowley and Hong.

Read that again. T

he fragmented field is why this was a nail-biter instead of a clear win for anyone.

The polls were just wrong

Public polling had Fran up double digits. The actual result suggests either a serious late break toward Crowley, or that surveys badly overestimated progressive turnout. Hong’s team was hoping to extend the democratic socialist winning streak

Mamdani in New York

El-Sayed in Michigan

National reporters were literally in Madison to watch it happen. It didn’t.

That polling miss should humble everyone, on every side, about what we think we know about the Democratic electorate right now.

So where does that leave us?

Fran conceded rather than requesting a recount, even with a margin under one percent. That was a classy move, and her point stands.

The movement she built doesn’t disappear because of 3,000 votes.

The coalition of young people, working people, and folks who’d checked out of politics. That’s real, and hopefully it’s not going anywhere.

Here’s my hope, and it’s a sincere one. David Crowley should adopt her ideas. Affordable healthcare. Childcare. Paid family leave. Marijuana decriminalization. Real scrutiny of data centers and Flock cameras. Not because he owes the left a consolation prize, but because those ideas are popular, they’re right, and they’re the reason a state rep from Madison nearly beat the entire Democratic establishment with the sitting governor campaigning against her. That should tell Crowley something about where the energy in this party lives.

In November? This adage will prevail: anyone but Tiffany. I’ll show up for Crowley, and I hope you will too, because the alternative isn’t a debate about how progressive our governor should be, it’s a governor who’d take a blowtorch to everything both wings of this party care about.

But between now and then, those of us who believed in what Fran was building shouldn’t go quiet. Make the calls. Show up at the listening sessions. Tell the Crowley campaign what you want from them. 3,000 votes is a loss, but it’s also leverage.

Onward.

If this resonated, share it with someone who’s also processing today. And if you disagree with me, good — reply and tell me why. That’s the whole point.

I don’t do this often. I’m a chef. Not a political expert. My job is to feed people. Most nights that feels like enough, but on August 11, Wisconsin Democrats pick their candidate for governor, and I’ve endorsed Francesca Hong.

I want to tell you why the way I’d tell you face to face at Bernie's .

I trust people who have worked a line

Before Fran Hong was a state representative, she was a chef. Co-owner of Morris Ramen in Madison. She came up the way most of us came up: on her feet, on the clock, sweating, doing payroll math waking up at 6am, and wondering how the numbers were ever going to work.

If you’ve never done this work, it’s hard to explain what it teaches you. A kitchen is a machine that runs on trust. You learn who shows up early and who shrinks when it gets tough. You learn that the dishwasher is as essential or more than the sous chef, that the whole thing collapses if anyone gets treated as disposable. You learn to make a hundred real decisions a night with incomplete information, and to own the ones you get wrong.

That’s the resume I want in a governor. Not another lawyer or another career ladder-climber. Someone who has actually run a small business in this state, made payroll in this state, and looked her own employees in the eye when its tough and jumped right the fuck in.

She didn’t forget where she came from

Here’s the thing that happens when goes into politics: they stop being restaurant peeps. The industry becomes a biography line, just a story for the stump speech.

Fran went the other direction. In the legislature, she’s been the loudest voice in the building for the people who make Wisconsin actually run — line cooks, servers, farmers, childcare workers, the folks who close at midnight and open at six. she fights for free school meals, so no kid sits in a classroom hungry. Universal childcare, because our management team needs to decide on childcare before all else. Healthcare that doesn’t depend on being lucky. Restoring the union rights this state stripped away fifteen years ago.

You can call that ambitious. I call it a prep list. Every item on it is something the people I work with every day actually need.

The personal part

Most of you know I have Kennedy’s Disease. My body doesn’t do everything it used to do, and it’s not going to get easier. I’ve stood in a kitchen and I’ve stood in line at a pharmacy or looking at treatments not covered by my expensive and mostly useless health insurance, doing a different kind of math than the payroll kind.

So when I look at candidates, I’ve stopped listening to what they say about healthcare and started asking a simpler question: when they talk about people like me — disabled people and sick people. Do they talk about us like a budget line, or like neighbors?

Fran talks about us like neighbors. She always has, since long before she was a frontrunner. That’s not a position paper. That’s character.

About the “electability” thing

I know what some of you are thinking, because people say it to me directly: she’s too far left. She can’t win in November.

I’d just gently point out that we’ve run the “safe” playbook bag of nuts plenty of times, and the results speak for themselves. Meanwhile Fran has built something I recognize from the restaurant world, a genuine crowd. Small donors and packed rooms. Volunteers who show up in August, in the rain, because they actually believe in this thing. Polls have her leading this primary for a reason, and it’s not because she sanded herself down.

People don’t turn out for the safe bet anymore. They turn out for someone real. I’ve watched her be the same person in a kitchen, in a committee hearing, and on a debate stage. In my industry we call that consistency. In politics it’s apparently a superpower.

So here’s my ask

The primary is Tuesday, August 11. Early voting is open right now. You ca early vote and it takes less time than roasting a chicken.

If you cook for a living, serve, farm, clean, care for someone, or you love somebody who does. I’m asking you to give Fran Hong a serious look. Read her platform. Watch her talk for five minutes. Then go vote like your “industry” depends on it.

Because honestly? It kind of does.

Everything you need to vote — your early voting site, hours, and what to bring — is at myvote.wi.gov.

I’ve spent almost my entire adult life in restaurants. I’ve worked stations next to line cooks who came here with nothing but a work ethic and a dream. I’ve watched dishwashers send money home to families they haven’t seen in years. I’ve built two restaurants — Dandan and EsterEv — with people who show up every single day, exhausted, underpaid relative to what they give, because they believe in something more. A life here in the good old US.

We all memorized the line in school:

all men are created equal, endowed with certain unalienable rights, among these life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It sounds like a slogan until you’ve spent enough time in a kitchen to watch what it actually looks like when people are denied it. A line cook who can’t see a doctor. A dishwasher afraid to leave his apartment. A prep cook working two jobs and still not able to save enough. That founding promise wasn’t supposed to have an asterisk next to it depending on your job title or your papers.

So when people talk about immigration like it’s an abstract policy debate, I have to laugh a little. It’s not abstract to me. It’s my kitchen. It’s my team. It’s the people who make it possible for YOU to eat and receive the plate that’s gonna make YOUR night. Most of us are immigrants, or we’re one or two generations removed from someone who crossed an ocean or a border hoping their kid could have a shot at those same unalienable rights. That’s not a talking point. That’s just true.

And that’s why I can’t stay quiet about ICE. I’ve seen what fear does to a workforce. I’ve seen good, hardworking people afraid to go to the doctor, afraid to report a wage theft, afraid to just live their lives, because the threat of being ripped away from their families hangs over everything. That’s not what liberty looks like. That’s cruelty dressed up as enforcement. We can secure a border without terrorizing the people who are already here doing the work nobody else wants to do. Abolish ICE isn’t a slogan to me — it’s basic decency, and it’s the bare minimum of what “life and liberty” should mean for our communities.

But it doesn’t stop there, because the same fight for dignity runs through everything else on the ballot this year.

Healthcare. I’ve had employees put off going to the doctor because they couldn’t afford it, and then show up sicker, missing more work, in worse shape than if we’d just taken care of them from the start. You can’t pursue happiness — you can’t pursue anything — from a hospital bed you can’t afford to be in. Affordable healthcare isn’t a luxury. It’s how you keep a workforce, and a family, standing upright.

Free and fair elections. The Declaration is built on one idea underneath all the others: that governments derive their power from the consent of the governed. Not from whoever controls the rulebook. Not from whoever rewrites the outcome before the votes are even counted. I don’t think I need to explain to anyone paying attention why a so-called “Save America Act” designed to manipulate results should terrify every single one of us, regardless of party. The moment consent stops meaning anything, none of the rest of this holds.

Food security for kids. I feed people for a living. The idea that any child in this country goes to school hungry, in a nation as wealthy as ours, is a moral failure we’ve just decided to live with. There’s no pursuit of happiness on an empty stomach. I refuse to accept that as normal and I don’t even like kids.

Childcare and paid family leave. I run a business with about 70 employees between two restaurants. I know exactly what it costs when someone can’t afford childcare, or has to choose between a paycheck and staying home with a sick kid or a newborn. That’s not a personal failing on their part — that’s a system that was never built for working people in the first place, and it makes a mockery of the idea that everyone gets an equal shot at life and liberty.

Affordable education. The next generation of cooks, servers, owners, whoever they end up being — they shouldn’t have to mortgage their entire future just to get a shot at it. That’s not equality. That’s a toll booth on the pursuit of happiness.

I didn’t get into restaurants to get into politics, but when you spend your life around people who are doing everything right and still getting squeezed at every turn, you start to see how connected all of this actually is. It’s not a coincidence that the same people fighting for immigrant dignity are fighting for healthcare, for fair elections, for kids not going hungry, for parents not going broke. It’s one fight, and it’s the same fight this country was supposedly founded on: that ordinary people are entitled to life, liberty, and a real shot at happiness — not just the ones who can afford it.

That’s why I’m not staying on the sidelines this cycle. That’s why I’m speaking up. And that’s why, on August 11th, I’m voting like my restaurants — and my staff, and my community — depend on it.

Because they do. And because two hundred and fifty years later, we’re still fighting to make that promise mean what it says.

Community is the whole point of small industry events like Utility and the Philadelphia Chef Assembly—not an extra perk. It’s the part you carry home, into your restaurant, long after the lanyard goes in the trash.

The magic of being in a room full of “our people”

Utility bills itself as “for the industry and by the industry,” a progressive trade show built so hospitality folks can actually connect, learn, explore, and grow together. The Chef Assembly talks about “the power of one room,” bringing together veterans and new voices for organic, unscripted conversations that turn into long‑lasting relationships.

Those phrases sound like marketing until you’re actually in those rooms. Then you realize how rare it is to be surrounded by people who understand, without explanation, what a bad Tuesday looks like, what a perfect service feels like, and how it feels to wonder if the math will ever add up.

Back home, we’re often competitors or just names on each other’s Instagram feeds. At events like these, we get to put the knives down and be colleagues again. We get to talk like humans first, chefs and owners second.

Why small beats massive

The big national conferences have their place: huge stages, big sponsors, major announcements. But the smaller, more focused gatherings do something different.

Utility deliberately curates a tight group of vendors and independent operators, and frames the whole thing as “a party and a gathering of like‑minded hospitality souls,” not just a trade floor. The Chef Assembly has this intimate, education‑first feel even as it expanded to other cities.

Because the scale is smaller, the conversations can go deeper. You’re not sprinting between twelve ballrooms with 4,000 people. You’re talking to the same dozen chefs three times in a weekend. You’re having coffee with someone you just heard on a panel. You’re not just trading business cards—you’re trading actual playbooks: how they pay their people, how they’re handling benefits, what they did when the dining room emptied out on a Saturday and never really bounced back.

What small events uniquely create

• Real access to people who, at big shows, would be behind green rooms and handlers.

• Space for emerging voices and indie operators who don’t always get main‑stage slots.

• Repeated collisions with the same folks, which is how acquaintances turn into real relationships. That shit really happens.

How these rooms make us better operators

These events aren’t just social. They’re R&D, group therapy, and continuing education rolled into one weekend.

The Chef Assembly is built around meaningful dialogue on the things that are actually shaping the future of restaurants: labor, mental health, equity, culture, money. Utility layers in conversations about the state of the industry plus highly curated vendors built for how we actually run restaurants right now.

When you hear another operator say out loud the thing you’ve only admitted to your sous—about burnout, payroll, or feeling invisible in your own city—it does two things. First, it reminds you you’re not crazy and you’re not alone. Second, it gives you practical tools: the tech stack they’re using, the schedule they switched to, the way they’re explaining price increases to guests.

You go home with more than swag. You go home with language, strategy, and a few numbers in your phone you can actually text when the wheels get wobbly.

What comes back with you

• Better decisions around staffing, menus, and systems, because you’re not problem‑solving in a vacuum.

• New collaborations—pop‑ups, guest chef dinners, mutual charity work—that keep your restaurant part of something bigger than its four walls.

• Renewed energy for leadership and mentorship, because you’ve just spent a weekend around people who care as much as you do.

The ripple effect beyond the room

Community at these events doesn’t stop at the conference center or party venue. The ideas and relationships that start at Utility and The Chef Assembly end up feeding whole cities.

The Chef Assembly is explicit about wanting to uplift its host city through collaborations and experiences that put local talent and visiting chefs in the same space. Utility ties its gathering to advocacy and support organizations, turning a trade show into a platform for independent restaurants, not just brands. As a member and board member of the Independent Restaurant Coalition we hosted a dinner and a panel discussion to talk with operators about the importance of our voicing joining together.

That matters because independent restaurants aren’t just businesses; they’re part of the social and economic fabric of their neighborhoods. When we connect with each other, we get better at taking care of our teams, our guests, and our communities. We’re more likely to show up for local fundraisers, share resources instead of hoarding them, and see the other restaurants on our block as part of an ecosystem we’re responsible for.

How guests feel it, even if they never see it

• Stronger, more resilient restaurants that can weather the next curveball a little better.

• A richer, more diverse food scene—because ideas and techniques spread faster when chefs are actually in conversation with each other.

• A deeper sense that their favorite spots are connected to something larger than one dining room or one brand.

Why I keep showing up

For all the chaos and scarcity in this business, I keep finding myself back in these rooms—on planes to Philly, and driving to Chicago wherever—because they refill the tank in ways a day off never quite does.

You get reminded that the thing you love about restaurants—the hospitality, the mentoring, the nerdy obsession with ingredients and technique—exists in other people too and that you’re not carrying it alone.

Small industry events don’t fix broken margins or magically fill the books. But they do something just as important: they make it feel possible to keep going. They give us a sense of belonging, shared language, and a network that lives on well past one weekend.

And when we bring that back to our own bars and dining rooms, our teams and our guests feel it—even if they never see the name badge that helped put it there.

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The Hard Truth First

There are days when the numbers don’t make sense.
Food costs creep up, labor is a constant puzzle, and the fixed costs don’t care whether it’s a packed Saturday or a dead Tuesday through Thursday.
You put your whole self into a service and still lie awake doing math in the dark, trying to figure out how to pay everyone and keep the lights on.

There’s also the emotional exhaustion.
You absorb guest frustrations, staff anxieties, and your own fear that the industry you love might not love you back in the same way.
Anyone on the outside would look at this and say, “Why don’t you just walk away?”

I think about that more than I’d like to admit.
But every time I get close to imagining a life beyond the restaurant, something pulls me back.

Making Memories, Not Just Meals

The thing that keeps me here, more than anything, is watching people live their lives in real time at our tables.
Birthdays, first dates, reconciliations, job offers, quiet solo dinners when someone clearly just needs to be seen and taken care of.

I’ve watched couples walk in tense and leave laughing.
I’ve seen regulars come in after a funeral and order “the usual” because they needed one thing in their world to feel familiar and comforting.
I’ve watched kids try a dish they were sure they’d hate and then light up when they realize they love it.

Those moments aren’t abstract ideas to me.
They’re the tiny scenes that play out every service, the ones I catch from the pass or the host stand and think, “OK. This is why I’m still here.”
We’re not just selling dinner; we’re staging a backdrop for people’s lives, their memories.

Hospitality As a Calling

Hospitality, for me, is not a marketing word or a vibe.
It’s a decision I make over and over: to care, even when it would be easier not to.

It shows up in the way we remember a guest’s favorite table, or how we quietly swap out a dish when we see someone pushing it around their plate.
It’s the way we walk someone to the door instead of just pointing and saying, “Have a good night.”

There’s a particular fulfillment in anticipating someone’s needs before they say them out loud.
In reading their body language and adjusting the volume, the pacing, the attention.
It’s almost like learning another language, one spoken in eye contact, timing, and the way you drop the check.

For some people, this all sounds exhausting.
For me, when it’s working, it feels like flow.
It feels like the team is doing exactly what they’re built to do.

Leadership in the Weeds

I didn’t realize, when I started, that the restaurant would also become a kind of school.
Not just for guests discovering dishes, but for the people who choose to work beside me and Danny.

Leadership in this business isn’t a TED Talk; it’s showing up when you’re wiped, owning your mistakes in front of the team, and doing the unglamorous work nobody sees.
It’s talking someone through their first brutal Saturday night, and then finding out the next day when you are out of town that they watching they crushed then next service.

I get to watch dishwashers become line cooks, servers become managers, shy hosts find their voice and become a social media manager for 2 restaurants. A bartender become the GM of Dandan and eventually my left hand for everything around me.
I get to see people realize they’re capable of more than they thought.
Sometimes, I’m the first person who has ever told them, “I believe in you. I see how hard you’re trying.”

Those moments don’t show up on a P&L, but they might be the most valuable part of this whole thing.
I stay in the business because I don’t just want to build a restaurant; I want to help build people.

Mentorship and Being Mentored

The funny thing about mentorship is that it’s never one way.
I teach, but I’m constantly being taught.

A cook will show me a flavor combination from their childhood that rearranges how I think about a dish.
A server will handle a difficult table with a grace I’m not sure I could match.
Someone will ask a question that forces me to admit, “I don’t know—let’s figure it out.”

And then there are the people who mentored me: the chefs who pushed me harder than I thought was fair, the GMs who called me out when I was coasting, the owners who showed me what it looks like to care about standards even when nobody is watching. Paul Bartolotta picking up garbage on the ground became the thing that I do more than I’d like to admit.
Staying in this business feels, in some way, like honoring them—and passing that on.

Never Done Learning

If you’re bored in the restaurant world, you’re not paying attention.
There is always a new ingredient, a new technique, a new wine, a new neighborhood place doing something that makes you rethink your own menu.

But it’s not just the food.
It’s culture, language, music, the way people gather.
It’s watching how different communities celebrate, grieve, flirt, and connect over a table.

I can trace my education through the dishes we’ve put on and taken off the menu, through the travel I maybe couldn’t afford but did anyway because I needed to taste something at the source.
Every service teaches me something—about patience, about humility, about letting go of perfection when the printer won’t stop and the walk-in is somehow both full and missing the one thing I need. (Always Chives….)

This industry keeps me on the edge of my competence, and as tiring as that can be, it also makes me feel alive.

Why I’m Still Here

So yes, the money is tight. Tighter then its ever been.
The hours are long.
The future of restaurants. Fuck!!! Anything in the big-picture sense, is uncertain.

But every time I think about leaving, I picture a full room on a night when everything is clicking: the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the line moving in quiet sync, the staff making invisible adjustments that guests will never consciously notice—but they’ll feel it.

In that moment, the spreadsheets and the staffing headaches and the “no one goes out anymore” narratives all fade into the background.
What’s left is this: a room full of people, cared for by a team I believe in, sharing something we created together.

I still want to be in the restaurant business because, for better or worse, it’s where my heart recognizes itself. It where I feel most alive.
It’s the place where all the difficulty gets alchemized into memories, growth, and connection.
And as long as I can keep doing that—even on the hard days—I’m not ready to walk away

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Nobody teaches you how to make mistakes as a leader.

They teach you food cost.

They teach you labor percentages.

They teach you how to expo a busy service and write a prep list and keep the walk-in organized.

They don’t teach you what to do when you are the problem.

Early in my career, I thought leadership meant having answers. Being decisive. Being right. I thought if I showed uncertainty, I’d lose credibility.

So when I messed up — which happens to every single person in charge — my instinct was to defend. Explain. Justify. Power through.

That’s ego.

And ego is expensive.

Here’s the truth: if you lead long enough, you will screw things up.

You’ll misread a situation.

You’ll say something the wrong way.

You’ll make a call that impacts people’s lives.

You’ll move too fast. Or too slow.

You’ll assume instead of asking.

Sometimes the mistake is operational.

Sometimes it’s emotional.

Sometimes it’s forgetting that the people who work for you are humans before they’re employees.

What matters isn’t whether you make mistakes.

It’s what you do after.

For a long time, I treated mistakes like something to survive instead of something to learn from. I wanted to get past them quickly. Sweep them up. Keep moving.

But unresolved mistakes don’t disappear.

They show up later as resentment. Turnover. Burnout. Broken trust.

I’ve learned that owning your mistakes doesn’t make you weaker as a leader.

It makes you believable.

There is real power in saying:

“I got that wrong.”

“I should’ve handled that better.”

“That one’s on me.”

Not as a performance.

Not as a PR move.

As a genuine acknowledgment that you’re still learning.

Some of the most important moments in my career didn’t happen during service or menu development or big wins.

They happened in quiet conversations.

Pulling someone aside and apologizing.

Admitting I missed something.

Listening without interrupting.

Letting someone tell me how my actions landed.

That’s hard.

It requires you to sit in discomfort. To resist explaining yourself. To accept that impact matters more than intent.

But every time I’ve done it honestly, something opened up.

Trust deepened.

Communication improved.

Teams got stronger.

You don’t lose respect when you own your mistakes.

You lose respect when you pretend they didn’t happen.

Leadership isn’t about being flawless.

It’s about being accountable.

It’s about creating an environment where people feel safe telling the truth — including when that truth is about you.

I’ve also learned that growth doesn’t come from avoiding mistakes.

It comes from studying them.

Why did I react that way?

What was I protecting?

What was I afraid of?

How can I do this differently next time?

Those questions matter.

Because the goal isn’t perfection.

The goal is progress.

These days, I try to lead with more humility.

I still screw up. Probably more than I realize.

But I’m quicker to own it. Quicker to apologize. Quicker to adjust.

I care less about being right and more about being better.

That shift changes everything.

If you’re leading people — in kitchens, in restaurants, in any business — here’s what I’ll tell you straight:

Your team doesn’t need you to be a superhero.

They need you to be human.

They need consistency.

They need clarity.

They need to know that when you mess up, you’ll face it instead of deflect it.

That’s how culture gets built.

Not through slogans on the wall.

Through actions.

Through accountability.

Through choosing growth over ego, every single day.

And when you do that — when you really own your mistakes — you don’t just become a better leader.

You become someone people actually want to follow.

I was at the gubernatorial debate on Wednesday at the Cooperage in Milwaukee. I went in with an open mind and here are some of my thoughts.

Wisconsin doesn’t need louder politics. We need more functional ones that actually work for the people on the ground.

I’m a small business owner. I employ people. My wife and I have made a home here. I cook for a living. I am the biggest cheerleader of the state I call home, but I am one of many people who are tired of paying more and getting less, and where common-sense solutions keep getting stuck behind ideology.

Here’s what I think Wisconsin needs going into the midterms.

Access to affordable healthcare.
Healthcare should not be a luxury item or a competitive disadvantage for small businesses. If you work full time, run a business, or are self-employed, you shouldn’t have to choose between coverage and survival. We need systems that let small employers compete for talent without being crushed by insurance costs—and that means protecting and expanding access, not rolling it back.

Affordable, accessible childcare.
You can’t say you support working families and then make it impossible for parents to work. Childcare is infrastructure. Full stop. If people can’t afford safe, reliable childcare, they leave the workforce—or never enter it at all. That hurts families, businesses, and the economy. I say this even though we do not have kids.

Fair taxation between small businesses and massive multi-state corporations.
Local businesses are not asking for handouts. We’re asking for fairness. When huge companies use loopholes to avoid paying their share, the burden shifts to the rest of us. Wisconsin should reward people who invest locally, hire locally, and stay rooted in their communities—not just those with the best accountants.

Regional Transportation Authority
This is a future-focused investment for Wisconsin because transportation is economic infrastructure, not a luxury. When workers can’t reliably get to jobs, when students can’t access schools, and when seniors are isolated because driving isn’t an option, the entire region loses. A well-designed RTA connects cities, suburbs, and rural communities, reduces congestion, supports local businesses, and gives people real choices beyond owning a car. It helps employers hire from a broader workforce, lowers household transportation costs, and makes regions more attractive to talent and investment. Bottom line: better regional transit keeps people moving, keeps dollars local, and makes Wisconsin more competitive without leaving anyone behind..

Better, more accessible education.
We used to be known as the education state. From K-12 to technical schools to higher education, Wisconsin should be making it easier—not harder—to learn, retrain, and build a career here. Education is economic development. If we want people to stay, we have to give them a reason to grow.

Legalizing recreational marijuana and decriminalizing it.
This one is simple. Legalize it. Regulate it. Tax it.
Free up resources in the criminal justice system so police and courts can focus on real public safety. Use the tax revenue from marijuana sales to fund healthcare, childcare, education, and community infrastructure. We’re already surrounded by states doing this successfully. Pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t leadership—it’s avoidance.

Wisconsin doesn’t need extreme answers. We need practical ones.
Ones rooted in dignity, fairness, and the reality of how people actually live and work.

That’s what I’ll be looking for in the midterms.

Last Wednesday, an ICE agent shot and killed an innocent woman.

I want to be precise with my words here, because precision matters when lives are taken. Facts are still emerging. Investigations will unfold. Lawyers and spokespeople will do what they do. I’m not here to play detective or pundit.

I’m here because a woman is dead—and she shouldn’t be.

And because the weight of that reality has been sitting on my chest in a way I can’t ignore.

I keep coming back to one question:
How did we get so comfortable with this?

Power and Distance

There’s something uniquely chilling about violence carried out by the state. Not because individuals aren’t responsible—but because systems are.

When someone wearing the authority of the government pulls a trigger, it isn’t just one person acting. It’s policy. It’s training. It’s permission. It’s a culture that has decided certain lives are acceptable collateral.

That’s the part I can’t reason my way around.

I’ve spent my life in kitchens—hierarchies, pressure, chaos. I know what happens when power goes unchecked. When urgency replaces empathy. When “doing the job” becomes more important than the people standing in front of you.

Mistakes compound. Harm escalates. And eventually, something breaks that can’t be fixed.

In a kitchen, the worst outcome is a ruined service.
In real life, it’s a dead woman.

The Language We Hide Behind

We love euphemisms in this country.

“Officer-involved shooting.”
“Use of force.”
“Operational error.”

Language designed to sand down the sharp edges of reality.

But here’s the truth, stripped of spin:
A woman went about her day and did not come home.

Her family’s life is permanently altered.
No press release will change that.
No internal review will undo that.

And no amount of “procedure” makes it acceptable.

The Lie of Safety

We’re told this is about safety.
We’re told this is about law and order.

But safety for whom?

Because if safety requires killing innocent people, then what we’re really talking about is control. And fear. And a willingness to dehumanize people we’ve decided matter less.

I don’t believe most people want this. I don’t believe most agents wake up wanting to take a life. But belief doesn’t absolve outcomes.

Intent does not outweigh impact.

And if a system repeatedly produces the same devastating results, the system—not just the individual—has to be interrogated.

Why This Hits Me

I think about this as a business owner. As an employer. As someone responsible for people’s livelihoods and well-being.

If someone under my watch caused irreversible harm, I wouldn’t hide behind policy. I wouldn’t say, “We followed procedure,” and call it a day. I’d look hard at what allowed that moment to happen in the first place.

And I’d ask the hardest question of all:

What do we need to change so this never happens again?

If I owe that level of accountability to a dining room, how do we not owe it when a human life is taken?

Sitting With the Uncomfortable

This isn’t a post with a clean ending. There’s no neat takeaway, no three-point solution.

There’s just grief. Anger. Confusion. And a deep discomfort with how quickly we move on.

I don’t want to move on.

I want us to sit in this long enough to feel it. Long enough to stop pretending this is normal. Long enough to demand better from the systems that claim to protect us.

Because an innocent woman is dead.

And if that doesn’t stop us in our tracks—if that doesn’t force us to question who we’ve become and what we’re willing to tolerate—I don’t know what will

.

It sits between Christmas and New Year’s Day, untethered from routine, operating on adrenaline, muscle memory, and something close to collective insanity. The days blur. The nights stretch. You stop knowing what date it is, only how many covers are left and whether the freezer is holding temp and if there will be heat in the kitchen tomorrow.

For restaurants, this week isn’t a wind-down. It’s a full sprint.

While most of the world exhales, kitchens inhale—hard. Office parties turn into family dinners. “One last meal of the year” becomes a thing people say out loud. Reservations stack. Bottles gets popped faster than it can be chilled. The pass is on fire.

You run services on vibes and instincts. Prep lists get rewritten mid-shift. Someone always calls out sick. Someone else always steps up. You make it work because that’s what this job demands: adaptability under pressure, grace in chaos, hospitality when your feet hurt and your voice is shot.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s exhausting.

And it’s kind of beautiful.

The Privilege of Being Chosen

In the middle of that madness—between wiping down stations and firing the next course—you catch moments that stop you.

A couple celebrating a hard-won year.
Parents introducing their kids to a place that matters to them.
Regulars who don’t need menus.
A server nailing a table that came in hot.
A cook executing something perfectly on hour ten of their shift.

These moments are easy to miss if you’re only focused on survival.

But they’re the reason we’re here.

People choose to spend their most meaningful nights with us. Their holidays. Their milestones. Their last dinner of the year. That choice is not accidental, and it’s not guaranteed. It’s earned—night after night, plate after plate, interaction after interaction.

That’s worth being thankful for.

Gratitude, the Real Kind

Gratitude in restaurants isn’t abstract. It’s specific.

It’s for the cooks who show up early and stay late without being asked.
For the servers who carry more than plates.
For the dishwashers who quietly save the night.
For managers who hold the line when things wobble.
For partners and families who accept that this season takes us away from home.

It’s for guests who honor their reservations.
For farmers and vendors who hustle just as hard behind the scenes.
For colleagues who remind you that you’re not alone in this.

And, if we’re being honest, it’s for the fact that we get to do this at all—still standing, still creating, still feeding people in a world that’s made it increasingly hard to do so.

That perspective only comes after living through weeks like this one.

What the New Year Brings

January doesn’t arrive with fireworks in kitchens. It arrives quietly.

A slower pace.
A chance to clean, reset, rethink.
Conversations that were postponed because there wasn’t time.
Ideas that were scribbled on scraps of paper and stuffed into pockets.

The new year isn’t about reinvention for us—it’s about refinement.

Doing the work better.
Taking care of people more intentionally.
Protecting what matters while still pushing forward creatively.
Building businesses that are sustainable, humane, and still a little bit dangerous in the best way.

There’s optimism in that. Not the loud, hashtag kind—but the earned kind.

Stepping Forward

If you made it through this week—if you cooked, served, hosted, cleaned, managed, supported—take a breath.

You did something hard for other people. You made space for joy during a season that asks a lot of everyone.

That matters.

Here’s to the teams, the guests, the chaos, the quiet moments, and the work ahead.

Happy New Year.
Let’s keep going.

In restaurants, that idea of “showing up” has a very literal meaning.

When you make a reservation — especially during the holidays — you’re not just holding a table. You’re setting off a chain reaction that touches real people, real product, and real livelihoods. And as we head into one of the busiest, most fragile times of the year for independent restaurants, I want to ask for something simple:

If you make a reservation, please honor it.

Or, if you can’t make it, please cancel it.

What a Reservation Actually Means

From the outside, a reservation can feel casual. A few taps on a phone. A placeholder. Something you can always figure out later.

Inside a restaurant, a reservation is a commitment.

It informs how much food we order.
How many cooks we schedule.
How many servers we bring in.
How we plan prep, pacing, and payroll.

During the holidays, we’re already walking a tightrope. Ingredients cost more.

Labor is stretched thin.

Many of our staff are working nights, weekends, and holidays instead of being home with their families.

When a table doesn’t show up — and we don’t know it’s coming — that’s not just an empty chair. That’s food prepped that can’t always be reused. That’s team members who just lost a meaningful chunk of income. That’s a cook who stayed late to prep for guests who never walked through the door.

One no-show doesn’t feel catastrophic, but enough of them can be.

The Math Is Brutal, Especially in December

Independent restaurants run on thin margins in the best of times. The holidays don’t magically change that — they amplify it.

We staff heavier because we have to.
We order more because demand is unpredictable.
We commit to costs days or weeks in advance based on the reservations on the books.

When reservations disappear without notice, the math doesn’t work. And unlike a big corporation, we can’t absorb that loss across hundreds of locations. It hits one dining room, one payroll, one team.

Most of the time, it hits hardest at the exact moment we’re trying to take care of our people.

Why This Matters More Than Ever

The restaurant industry is still rebuilding. From labor shortages, rising costs, and everything that’s been piled onto small businesses line tariffs, ICE, etc.

What hasn’t changed is this:
Restaurants are built on trust.

We trust that our team will show up.
They trust that we’ll schedule fairly and pay them honestly.
And when you make a reservation, we trust that you’ll show up too.

That trust is what allows independent restaurants to exist.

This Isn’t About Guilt — It’s About Awareness

I don’t believe most people no-show out of malice. Plans change. Kids get sick. Life happens.

All we’re asking for is communication.

If you can’t make your reservation, cancel it as soon as you know. Even an hour can make a difference. That table might go to someone else. That server might still get sat. That food might still have a purpose.

A quick cancellation isn’t a failure.
It’s a kindness.

Showing Up Is a Form of Support

If you want to support independent restaurants this holiday season, here are a few meaningful ways to do it:

• Honor your reservations

• Cancel early if plans change

• Arrive on time

• Be patient with staff who are working long, emotional weeks

• Tip generously when you’re able

These things matter more than you realize.

They help keep doors open.
They help keep teams employed.
They help make sure restaurants remain places of joy — not just stress.

One Last Thing

We love what we do. Truly.
We love feeding people. Hosting celebrations. Being part of your traditions.

All we ask in return is that when you say you’ll be there, you show up — or let us know you can’t.

This holiday season, honoring your reservation is one of the simplest ways you can support the people who make your favorite meals possible.

And it means more than you think.

Thank You — Truly

Before we head into 2026, I just want to say thank you.

Thank you for showing up in 2025.
Thank you for supporting independent restaurants — ours and so many others — during a year that demanded patience, grace, and understanding from everyone involved.
Thank you for celebrating milestones with us, trusting us with your nights out, your anniversaries, your quiet Tuesdays, and your loud Saturdays.

We don’t take any of it lightly.

Every reservation honored, every meal shared, every kind interaction with our team adds up to something bigger than a single service. It allows us to keep building places that matter — places rooted in care, creativity, and community.

We’re deeply grateful for you, and we’re already excited for what’s ahead.

Here’s to finishing the year strong, taking care of one another, and stepping into 2026 together — rested, hopeful, and hungry.

We can’t wait to welcome you back.

Testifying felt heavy in the best way. As chefs, we’re used to adrenaline — the ticket machine, the quiet dread when the walk-in door doesn’t close all the way, to many dietary restrictions on a given night. But this adrenaline was different. This wasn’t about getting through a service. It was about telling lawmakers what the real world looks like for the people who run and work in independent restaurants — the people who don’t get interviewed on CNBC or work with lobbyists on the Hill.

It was about telling my story, and our story, in a room where it might actually change something. Honestly I’m not sure it did, but it felt good to say it.

Small Businesses Aren’t the Underdogs — We’re the Backbone

I opened with the simple truth: I run two restaurants in Milwaukee — Dandan and EsterEv — and the dozens of people who work for me rely on these businesses not just for a paycheck, but for stability, dignity, and a path forward. That’s not unique to me; that’s the entire independent restaurant sector.

Before the ACA, the playing field was tilted beyond repair. Big corporations could negotiate their insurance rates with the kind of leverage only thousands of employees can create. Small businesses? We got whatever scraps the system threw at us. And often, those scraps were expensive or flat-out unusable.

As I told the Senate, the ACA leveled that field — finally giving small employers access to affordable plans and preventing insurers from punishing us for being small. Without those protections, we’d go right back to the old system: unpredictable spikes in premiums, inferior coverage, and a competitive disadvantage we can’t out-cook or out-hustle

.

For an industry where over 70% of establishments are independently owned, that’s not a minor issue. That’s existential.

The Part That Was Hardest to Say Out Loud

There’s no way around this:
I told them about Kennedy’s disease.

I told them that my diagnosis — this rare neuromuscular condition that affects how I move, walk, carry trays, cook, navigate stairs — would have made me uninsurable before the ACA. Not “more expensive.” Not “harder to find.” Uninsurable.

Without the ACA’s protections for people with preexisting conditions, I would have been faced with an impossible choice:
Give up running restaurants…
or risk my health and financial future to keep doing the work that gives my life meaning.

I told them, bluntly: the ACA is the reason I’m able to keep showing up. To employ people. To contribute to the Midwest food scene. To remain part of the workforce, not sidelined by an illness I didn’t choose.

That’s not politics. That’s reality.

This Isn’t About Me — It’s About Every Worker in Every Small Business Kitchen

My testimony wasn’t a chef’s story. It was a small business story. A workforce story. A human story.

Nearly half of all jobs in America come from small businesses. More than 80% of companies in this country have fewer than 20 employees. That means if the ACA falters or disappears, most American workers feel the pain first and worst. If independent restaurants can’t offer healthcare, people leave the industry. They choose larger corporations with better benefits because they have families, mortgages, chronic conditions, or just basic human needs.

And here’s the thing: in restaurants, our people ARE the business.
They are the craft, the culture, the experience. If we can’t compete for talent, we don’t survive.

When I looked at the Senators yesterday, I wanted them to understand something that seems obvious to every restaurateur:
Healthy workers build healthy businesses, and healthy businesses build healthy communities.

You can’t separate the two.

Entrepreneurs Are Not Disposable

One of the Senators asked about innovation and entrepreneurship — what motivates someone to start a small business in the first place. And the truth is, entrepreneurship already requires a level of acceptable risk that borders on delusion.

But without the ACA?
That risk becomes impossible for millions of Americans with preexisting conditions.

We lose out on the ideas, jobs, inventions, cuisines, and community gathering places those people would have built. We lose the next generation of independent restaurants — the ones that define neighborhoods and carry cities on their shoulders.

The ACA doesn’t just insure people. It insures possibility.
It insures the right to dream, even when your body throws you a curveball.

Why I Spoke Up — And Why I’ll Keep Going

I didn’t testify because I love politics. I testified because I love people.
My employees. My guests. My community. My industry.
And, honestly, my own ability to keep doing what I do.

I told the Senate what I’ll tell you:
If we weaken the ACA, we weaken small businesses. If we weaken small businesses, we weaken America.

Independent restaurants can’t take that hit. Working families can’t take that hit. People with chronic conditions certainly can’t take that hit.

We can’t afford to go backward.

My Ask — To Lawmakers, and to You

To the Senate, I said:
Protect and strengthen the Affordable Care Act.
Small businesses depend on it. Our workers depend on it. And the long-term economic stability of this country depends on it.

To you — the readers, diners, cooks, restaurateurs, neighbors — I’ll say this:
Pay attention. Speak up. Support the people who keep your community’s food scene alive.
Most importantly, support the policies that allow small businesses to exist at all.

This isn’t abstract.
This is the livelihood of your favorite barista, bartender, line cook, pastry chef, dishwasher.
This is the stability of your city’s food culture.
This is the ability of people like me to keep showing up and building something meaningful.

Yesterday, I told the Senate what was at stake.
Today, I’m telling you.

No.

The most honest cooking happens at staff meal.

Before EsterEv, before DanDan, before Top Chef and and keynote speeches… I was just another hungry line cook in the early 2000s. I was working at Spring in Chicago—a kitchen that, in hindsight, was stacked with people who would go on to open restaurants, earn stars, end up on TV, and teach the next generation how to not burn their knuckle hair off.

But none of us knew that then.

We were just kids trying to prove something.

Shawn (chef owner of Spring) didn’t let us really “cook” on the menu. That wasn’t our place. The dishes were precise, composed, elegant, and absolutely not ours to riff on. But staff meal? Staff meal was the arena.

The Rules Were Simple: Don’t Suck

Every day, one cook was on the hook to feed the entire staff—front and back. At some restaurants, staff meal is an afterthought. A bucket of rice. Some shredded mystery meat. Maybe a wilted salad that’s been manhandled and over dressed.

But at Spring?

Staff meal was a blood sport.

We didn’t call it a competition, but it was absolutely a competition.

You cooked like your reputation depended on it—because it did.

There were unspoken categories:

• Big Flavor on a Budget

• What culture is in this One Dish?

• Creative Use of the Walk-In Orphans (that one sad fennel bulb, 5# of chicken thigh, and 14 quarts of trimmings)

• Did Jan go back for seconds? (This was the Michelin star of staff meal.)

And everyone remembered the good ones.

Everyone definitely remembered the failures.

If you torched your staff meal, you would hear about it for weeks. The sous chef would imitate your decisions like a bad SNL sketch. The servers would whisper “Remember that one time Dan made that thing?” like it was a tragic historical event.

Vegetable Curry anyone????

You didn’t want to be that guy.

So you swung.

The Kitchen That Would Become Something

Looking back, what blows my mind is who was in that kitchen. People who would go on to headline their own restaurants. People who would win awards. People who would become chefs that other chefs talk about with a little envy in their voice.

But at the time?

We were nobodies. Young. Hungry. Competitive in a way that bordered on emotional instability.

Trying to out-cook each other with staff meal because we weren’t allowed to do it anywhere else.

And here’s the thing:

Those meals were some of the best cooking of my life.

Not technically flawless. Not always beautiful. Not plated with tweezers. But full of heart, ego, instinct, and the kind of creativity that only happens when you’re broke, exhausted, and trying to impress people who don’t actually care and care more than anyone else in the world at the same time.

What Staff Meal Taught Me

Cooks that will become chefs care about staff meal. They break it down. 

One dish at a time.

Solve the problem in front of you.

Feed the people.

Staff meal had hardwired something into me:

Even when everything is on fire, you still cook.

Maybe it came from the not so competitive competition at Spring.

Maybe it comes from staff meal.

Maybe it comes from those years where we fought for respect using only food that wasn’t even meant for the dining room.

But I know this:

When chaos hits, the cooks who survive are the ones who learned to thrive when the stakes were low, the ingredients were scraps, and the only audience was your own crew.

Staff Meal Made Me a Chef

I didn’t realize it then. 

Maybe I didn’t realize it until writing this.

But staff meal wasn’t the side show.

It wasn’t the warm-up act.

It was the training ground.

The gym.

The proving ground.

The place where failure was cheap and lessons were priceless.

Every restaurant I’ve opened, every menu I’ve written, every disaster I’ve survived—there’s a little bit of Spring’s walk-in in there. A little bit of that competition. A little bit of the kid trying to get the Jan or Dave or Steph or Bull to say, “Damn, that was good.”

I learned more from staff meal than from half the cookbooks on my shelf.

And honestly?

Some days I still miss it. You can catch me cooking staff almost every Saturday at EsterEv. It’s still my happy place. 

New Year’s Eve 2021 was the second kind.

The Setup: Foolproof… in Theory

We’d spent two weeks planning for this night. A tasting menu in the 30’s and 40’s of Dandan serving EsterEv. Inside, we had a small number of masked-up, distanced diners doing the hybrid COVID-era version of Dandan’s regular menu.

Outside… We had the beast: New Year’s Eve takeout.

Enough food to feed half of Milwaukee, boxed into little containers that probably cost more than some people’s first cars, because everyone was short on them.

To stay sane, we worked with Aloha to limit online orders:
5 orders every 30 minutes.
Manageable. Human. Reasonable.

They said, “Got it.”

They did not got it.

The Moment Everything Went to Hell

At 5:05 PM the printer started warming up.
By 5:07 PM the thing sounded like a helicopter trying to take off in my expo station. It was like the nightmare that goes through every cooks head, the non-stop ticket machine.

Tickets began pouring out one per minute.
Every. Single. Minute.

Not 5 per 30 minutes.
Thirty. Per. Thirty. Minutes.

We were fucked.
Like… real fucked.
Like “I looked at Bergen (CDC at the time) and for the first time in our 12+ years of workingish together, he looked genuinely scared” There was no helping him, there was no helping us. We were dug in and had to dig out.

Our 7:00 PM pickups weren’t even started until 7:30… maybe 7:45..

The Parking Lot Riot

By 7 PM, the Dandan parking lot looked like a phish concert letting out of Alpine Valley…. If you know, you know..

Cars were double parked, triple parked, honking like a flock of pissed off geese.
People were calling the restaurant like they were reporting a kidnapping:

“WHERE IS MY ORDER?!”
“I’VE BEEN OUT HERE 40 MINUTES!”
“MY SHRIMP IS GOING TO BE COLD AND MY MARRIAGE IS ALREADY ON THIN ICE!”

Inside, our staff was working like they were trying to defuse a bomb.
Outside, it looked like we were hosting the world’s angriest tailgate.

We comped. We apologized.
We handed out so many gift cards I’m still not convinced the math adds up.

Every time we thought we’d caught up, another stack of tickets just waiting to be read.

The Calm in the Middle of the Storm

And then there was Dan Van Rite, standing outside in the chaos like some culinary Buddha.

He paced up and down the parking lot, leaning into car windows, apologizing, explaining, smoothing over rage with that mellow, steady energy he has.

People would roll down their windows with murder in their eyes…
and 30 seconds later he’d have them nodding like, “Yeah, okay, it is a weird night.”

He was basically the bouncer for the world’s saddest drive-thru.

If that man ever quits cooking, he could walk into hostage negotiation and immediately get promoted.

Inside Wasn’t Much Better

Inside, we were running two restaurants in one:
A tasting menu in the middle of a war zone.

Servers carried plates around stacks of takeout boxes.
Woks for flaming, people were pushing, it was messy, greasy, and the worst service I’ve ever been through..

Every time a guest inside asked, “So… is it always this busy?”
I wanted to set them on fire.

The Breaking Point

There was a moment—maybe around 8:15 that I said to myself

“If I walk out that back door and just keep walking… what happens?”

But I didn’t.
We didn’t. No one did.

Because cooks don’t walk out.
Not on New Year’s.
Not when your teammates are drowning.
Not when people are depending on you to get them their celebration dinner, even if it’s 97 minutes late and the shrimp is a little or a lot sad.

We stayed.
We cooked.
We pushed.
We suffered.
We survived.

Barely.

The Aftermath

By the time the last order left, we were shells of ourselves.
Sweaty, exhausted, mentally vaporized.

We collapsed in the dining room like we’d just survived an avalanche.

Someone popped Champagne.
Someone else cursed Aloha for the thousandth time.
Someone cried.
Maybe all of us cried.

It was the shift that almost broke me.
Not because of the food.
Not because of the chaos.
But because it reminded me how thin the line can be between “we’ve got this” and “we are absolutely, undeniably underwater.”

But we made it.

We always do.

And that night became one of those stories I’ll remember forever—
the kind that makes you laugh three years later
and makes you wince five years later
and makes you proud for the rest of your life.

It was hell.
But it was our hell.
And we got through it together. Big poppa props to Bergen. That guy HELD it down!

That’s the thing about restaurants:
The shift might almost break you…
but the people around you will always help you put yourself back together.

There’s a quiet truth everyone in the Midwest’s dining scene already knows: the best cooking in America isn’t confined to the coasts. It’s happening in the neighborhoods, the immigrant corridors, the blue-collar pockets, the creative corners, and the restaurant communities of places like Milwaukee, Detroit, and Minneapolis.

These are cities built on grit and hospitality, on immigrant tradition, on working-class ingenuity. And yet, when it comes to the most globally recognized culinary standard—the Michelin Guide—we’re often left off the map entirely.

This isn’t about ego. It isn’t about wanting a trophy. It’s about something much bigger.

It’s about how recognition shapes perception, how perception shapes investment, and how investment shapes the future of cities like ours.

1. Michelin Validation Changes the Narrative

When Michelin lands in a major city—New York, Chicago, LA—it reinforces an existing storyline. Those cities are already seen as global food capitals, already stacked with media attention, tourism infrastructure, and deep pockets. A star there is a celebration.

But in a smaller city?
A Michelin presence rewrites the narrative.

It tells the world:
There is world-class cooking happening here. This city belongs on the map. You should come see it.

For Milwaukee, Detroit, and Minneapolis—cities often fighting outdated reputations—this kind of legitimacy is transformative.

2. A Star Does More for an Underdog City Than a Superpower

In big cities, Michelin Stars move the needle—but they’re a part of a massive, crowded landscape where buzz, press, and investment already flow freely.

In smaller markets, the impact is amplified:

• More culinary tourists

• More weekend travel

• More hotel nights

• More demand for local farms and producers

• More attention from national press

• More investors willing to back ambitious restaurant projects

A single star in Milwaukee is not just a nod to a chef—it’s a rising tide.
It grows the entire ecosystem.

3. It Helps Retain Talent Instead of Losing It

Every chef in a smaller city has heard the same refrain:
“If you want to be taken seriously, you have to leave.”

And many do. They go to Chicago, New York, LA, San Francisco—cities where the accolades exist.

Michelin in the Midwest gives young cooks a new reason to stay.
To build here.
To invest here.
To believe that their craft can achieve global recognition without abandoning their home.

Talent retention is economic development.
Cooks become sous chefs, sous chefs become chefs de cuisine, chefs de cuisine eventually open their own places—and suddenly a city’s dining culture becomes multigenerational. That’s how a true food city is built.

4. It Honors the Diversity and Depth of Midwest Foodways

The Midwest isn’t monolithic.
Milwaukee’s Eastern European roots, Detroit’s Arab American influence, Minneapolis’ Somali and Hmong communities—these are some of the richest and most distinctive culinary tapestries in America.

Michelin has the power to spotlight cuisines, neighborhoods, and traditions that don’t always get national attention.

It’s not just about fine dining.
It’s about cultural acknowledgement.

When a city’s foodways are recognized, its communities feel seen.

5. It Expands the Local Economy for Everyone—not just restaurants

A star restaurant does not operate in a vacuum. It feeds a network:

• Local farmers and growers

• Cheese and dairy producers

• Fishing communities

• Craft breweries and distilleries

• Ceramicists, carpenters, metalworkers (yes—even the plateware matters)

• Neighborhoods that thrive when foot traffic increases

Michelin is an economic engine.
Smaller cities feel that boost more acutely because a little momentum goes a long way.

6. It Brings National Attention That Would Otherwise Never Come

Let’s be honest: media tends to flock where media already exists.
A New York Times critic is far more likely to hop a subway than hop a flight to the Midwest.

Michelin acts as a bridge.
Once the guide arrives, other voices follow—editors, influencers, producers, writers. It changes what outsiders think a trip to the Midwest can be.

Suddenly, the food stories here aren’t hidden—they’re amplified.

7. It Gives the City a Cultural Calling Card

Cities compete—not just for tourism, but for talent, industry, conferences, conventions, brands.

Chicago has Alinea.
Copenhagen has Noma.
Paris has, what doesn’t Paris have.

Smaller cities deserve calling cards too.

Not just breweries.
Not just sports teams.
Not just festivals.

A Michelin presence tells the world that culture lives here.
That creativity lives here.
That excellence lives here.

8. It Validates What We Already Know

Anyone who cooks or eats here already understands the truth:
Midwestern chefs are putting out food that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with any city in the world.

We don’t lack talent.
We don’t lack ambition.
We don’t lack identity.

We lack recognition.

And recognition is not the point—but it is a powerful catalyst.
It brings opportunities.
It brings tourists.
It brings investment.
It brings the next generation of cooks who might otherwise leave.

We don’t need Michelin to tell us we’re good.

But we do need Michelin to help the rest of the world understand what we’re building.

Cities like Milwaukee, Detroit, Madison, Oklahoma City, St. Louis, and Minneapolis aren’t trying to be the next Chicago or New York. We’re trying to be fully ourselves—and to have the world see the value in that.

A Michelin Guide in the Midwest would shine a light where it’s long overdue.
And once that light arrives, it won’t just illuminate restaurants.
It will illuminate communities, culture, and the future of what American dining looks like.

After weeks of silence, delays, insurance red tape, and pop-up after pop-up, we’re finally close to reopening EsterEv. The lights are back on. The tables are not quite set—but it’s close enough to taste.

This moment doesn’t happen without a lot of people showing up when things were tough.

To every restaurant that let us pop into their kitchens—Birch, BLVD, Lupi & Iris, Lou Lou by Lula Café, L’Etoile—you opened your doors, lent us your teams, and gave us space to keep doing what we love. We will never forget that.

To the EsterEv team. You didn’t waiver. You kept the fire lit even when we didn’t have a stove. You’re the reason we’re still here.

To those that moved on. Syd, Val, and Tyler you will forever be a part of who we are and will grow to become. Thank you for all your hard work and effort.

And to our guests, friends, and community—thank you for showing up wherever we landed, whether that was a fine dining room in Madison or a back patio with folding chairs and makeshift prep space. You kept us going.

We’re beyond excited to welcome you back into our space. It’s going to look a little different. Feel a little different. But the heart of it—the food, the hospitality, the joy of sharing a table—that’s stronger than ever.

And while we’ve been rebuilding, something else has been taking root.

I’m not ready to spill all the details just yet, but let’s just say a new adventure is on the horizon. One that blends food, competition, and a whole lot of heart. It’s not a replacement for anything—it’s an expansion of everything I’ve learned and everything I want to share next.

More on that soon.

But for now, just know this:

We’re coming back. And we can’t wait to cook for you again.

See you soon.

—Dan

A restaurant isn’t just a place to eat.

It’s where birthdays are toasted, anniversaries are celebrated, and hard days are softened with a plate of something comforting. It’s where first dates turn into lifelong stories, and where families gather around a table they didn’t have to set or clear.

Restaurants are where moments happen—on purpose and by accident.
That’s the real magic.

More Than a Meal

When guests walk in, they’re not just hungry. They’re looking for something that fills more than their stomachs.

Maybe it’s connection.
Maybe it’s comfort.
Maybe it’s just a moment where they don’t have to think about what’s next.

A great restaurant delivers that in spades. Through food, service, sound, light, pace, and care.
It’s hospitality as a whole mood.

It’s Personal

For most guests, it’s not about the perfect plating or the expensive caviar. It’s about how a dish reminds them of something deeper. It’s the warmth of a server who remembers their name. It’s feeling seen in a crowded room.

That’s what we aim to create every night. Not just meals—but memories.

The Friendaversary Table

Back in 2016, early in EsterEv’s run, we seated guests at two communal tables of ten. It was a bit of a social experiment—intimate, interactive, occasionally awkward. But I’d say 90% of the time, it worked. People connected. Conversations sparked. Strangers became something more.

One night, two separate couples—both 2-tops, both new to Milwaukee—were sat side by side. Over the course of a two-and-a-half-hour dinner, something happened. They clicked.

By the end of the night, they weren’t just full—they were friends.

Every year since, they’ve come back to celebrate their “friendaversary.” This year will mark their ninth.

They’ve grown up together in a way. And every time they return, we’re reminded of what a restaurant can be: the beginning of something lasting.

The Why

In an industry facing constant change—rising costs, staffing issues, burnout—it’s easy to forget why we do this.

But then someone raises a glass and thanks you for giving them a space to fall in love, to reconnect, to celebrate, or to heal.

And you remember:

We don’t just serve food.
We set the stage for people’s lives to unfold.

Last month, we lost two of our 2 longtime chefs. My collaborators and my left and right hands. That’s a gut punch no matter what. But what made it worse—what stung in a way I didn’t see coming—was how it all went down.

I had set up a stage for our chefs at Smyth. A chance for them to learn, observe, and absorb. I thought I was offering them an opportunity, a gesture of support, a vote of confidence in their growth.

Turns out, while they were staging, they were also taking new jobs.

I was furious. Not just as a chef or an owner, but as someone who believed in the people I was working alongside. It felt like betrayal. Like I’d been played. And yeah, for a minute, I aimed that anger at Smyth, too. It felt like poaching—like one of the restaurants I deeply admire and respect had reached into my kitchen, my heart and taken 2 people I couldn’t replace.

But after sitting with it—turning it over in my head and heart—I realized something:
this is just what change looks like.

It’s rarely neat. It’s never on your schedule. And it usually doesn’t ask for permission.

The truth is, people leave. They grow. They want more or different. And if I’m being honest, that’s something I’ve always wanted for them, too. I don’t want to run a kitchen that keeps people small.

So now the question isn’t what I lost—it’s what I get to build.

New blood means new energy. New minds, new palates, new stories. I’ve always believed in fostering talent, in creating a place where creativity can thrive. Now I get to do it again—with fresh eyes and maybe, a little less fear.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
But it does mean I’m moving forward.

Change is never easy. But in this business, it’s the only constant. And sometimes, it’s exactly what we need to wake up, refocus, and remember what we’re building—not just who we’re building it with.

Thanks for reading.
—Dan

But even in the stall, we’re still moving.

This week, we brought the EsterEv experience to L’Etoile for a pop-up. Madison showed up big. We sold out, we served some new dishes celebrating our short sojourn into spring before full blown summer weather hit, and we did it in one of the most iconic dining rooms in the Midwest. Cooking there—especially in the middle of this drawn-out shutdown—felt like oxygen. Big shout out to Tory, Christine, and team. Y’all the shit.

Meanwhile, DanDan is slinging dumplings and noodles at Summerfest. If you’re looking for Sichuan Pork Dumplings and Happy Chicken between your favorite acts, we got you. It’s chaotic, it’s loud, it’s not what we usually do—but it’s keeping us out there and connected to the community, which means everything right now. Plus, School of. Rock every morning has been a real treat.

A Quick Shoutout...

This week also brought some well-deserved recognition and celebration across the industry:

🎉 Huge congratulations to all the James Beard Award winners and nominees—what an incredible group of chefs, restaurateurs, bakers, bartenders, and visionaries.

🔥 And to everyone representing at Aspen Food & Wine—cheers to you. That stage is packed with talent and it’s inspiring to see.

And Still… That Voice Creeps In

And here’s the honest part: it’s also hard. Not because I’m not happy for my peers—I truly am. But because when your own kitchen is shut down, when you're hustling pop-up to pop-up, when you’re wondering when or if your dining room will reopen, it’s easy to slide into the comparison trap.

You see the awards. The Instagram stories from Aspen. The glowing press.
And even if you know your path is your own, you still feel that twinge: Should I be doing more? Should I be there?

But here’s what I’m trying to remember—and maybe you need to hear it too:

You can be proud of your lane, even when it feels slow.
You can clap for others and still lament your own delays.

We’re still here. Still working. Still feeding people. Still telling stories.
And that’s enough. For now.

More soon.

We’re still not back at EsterEv.

Still fighting with insurance. Still chasing emails. Still wondering how it’s this hard to fix something that was never our fault in the first place. Every week feels like a new chapter in a book called You’re Not Gonna Believe This Sht*.

But while the red tape keeps stretching, we’ve kept moving.

A week ago, we packed up and headed to Chicago for a pop-up at Lou Lou—the new spot by the incredible folks at Lula Café. It was one of those rare nights where everything just clicked. The room felt alive. The team was flowing. And my family showed up, which made it even more special.

Somewhere in the dinner , my 9-year-old niece rated the family’s “riz score” we got the highest Riz score of the night. I didn’t ask for a why, but I’ll take the win.

Meanwhile, back in Milwaukee and online, we’re still recording episodes of Over the Line, the podcast I’m doing with Billy Zurikat, the best pop-up chef in Chicago and my co-conspirator in this ridiculous part of my journey. We’re talking food, sports, culture, and whatever else we can’t stop arguing about. It’s fun. It’s messy. It’s keeping us connected while the kitchen’s still dark.

And because I like to keep the calendar chaotic, I took a class at Harvard—yeah, that Harvard—on the business of sports, media, and entertainment. It’s been a mind-bender in the best way. Case studies, strategy, big-picture thinking about the industries that shape how we eat, watch, play, and tell stories. And yes, I did feel like a slightly confused culinary student wandering the halls of the Ivy League. But it was good. Really good.

None of this makes up for the fact that our dining room is still closed. But it reminds me that even in the waiting, we’ve built a rhythm. Creativity doesn’t pause just because the power’s out. You find other ways to plug in.

We’re still not home yet. But we’re getting closer.

More soon.

—Dan

You don’t realize how much your identity is tied to a space until that space is gone.

The last few weeks have been a strange kind of limbo. No dinner service. No nightly rhythm. Just...space. And a lot of waiting. Waiting on contractors who ghost you. Waiting on insurance adjusters to “circle back.” Waiting for someone—anyone—to give you a straight timeline so you can build a plan instead of a patchwork.

But you can only wait so long before the creative energy starts to boil over. So we moved.

We popped up at Birch, which felt like cooking inside a beautiful whisper—soft light, sharp details, food that felt like a conversation. Then over to Lupi & Iris, where the elegance and generosity of that kitchen reminded me why I love this community so damn much. Huge thanks to both teams and especial Kyle Knall and Adam Segal for making space for us in more ways than one.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, we decided to start a podcast—because why not add one more thing to the chaos? It’s called Over the Line, and I’m co-hosting it with my guy Billy Zurikat, the best pop-up chef in Chicago, full stop. It’s food meets sports, with a little bit of trash talk, a lot of heart, and more hot takes than hot plates—though we’ve got plenty of those, too.

We’ve been recording whenever we can. It’s become this unexpected creative outlet, a way to stay sharp while everything else feels blurry.

Because we needed something hopeful on the home front, My buddy Josh started building planters outside EsterEv. Nothing fancy. Just some wood, some dirt, and the idea that we’ll come back to something green and living. Danny is over there right now planting herbs for the kitchen. Maybe tomatoes, or just a reminder that even when things fall apart, you can still plant something and wait for it to grow.

This isn’t a comeback story. Not yet. It’s a “we’re still here” story.

A reminder that even without our kitchen, we’re still feeding something.

More soon.

—Dan