Juleanna Glover stands at the nexus of social and political Washington. As one of the city’s best-known conveners, she’s been a fixture at events around the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner, which during her 33 years working in Washington has evolved from a dinner to a weeklong cavalcade of networking, influence and money-making leavened by the occasional toast to a free press.

But this year, with the annual festivities back to their familiar frenetic pace, amidst a degree of back-to-normal excitement beyond anything in years, Glover is experiencing a distinctly unfamiliar feeling: Dread.

It has nothing to do with the virus or the war in Ukraine or even the superficiality that critics of the dinner have long denounced. Over the last few months, Glover has actually thrown book parties, hosted events, and otherwise gathered with the Washington village. Instead, it’s about politics itself and the whole idea that official Washington can get together and pretend that nothing’s changed.

Continue reading at Politico →Michael Schaffer is a senior editor at POLITICO. His Capital City column runs weekly in POLITICO Magazine.

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As I walked into Tosca on a recent visit, I was seated next to a person who, in a political and moral sense, represented everything I opposed. This person was the antithesis of my views, but here we were, breaking bread together. That's what makes this place work.

Strategically located within a few blocks of the White House and just off K Street, Tosca occupies a unique position at the intersection of public policy, lobbyists, and law firms. It's a culinary home that transcends personal preferences, catering to the powerful in America. The decisions likely made in this dining room have the potential to shape American policy and even global policy. The roster of patrons is a testament to the restaurant's ability to bring together individuals from diverse political backgrounds. It includes former and current Presidents of the United States, Vice Presidents, Senators, Members of Congress, White House staff, cabinet members, Governors, Supreme Court Justices, the World Bank, International Monetary Fund, and Ambassadors, to name a few. While New York has The Grill and LA’s celebrity go-to’s Craigs and Dan Tana’s, DC is where true power presides, and Tosca is at the heart of it all.

Stepping into the kitchen to meet Chef Fortunato, I was greeted by a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. Large stock pots simmered with bones and vegetables, preparing the 'liquid gold' for the evening's sauces. Chef Fortunato Nicotra's resume would make James Beard jealous. A culinary rock star, he earned Michelin stars at two restaurants in Sicily before his 30th birthday. Nicotra then made his mark in New York City, where he served as the Executive Chef of Lidia Bastianich’s award-winning Felidia for over two decades. The restaurant earned three stars from Ruth Reichl of the New York Times only three months after his arrival. In 2006, Frank Bruni wrote another raving review, awarding Felidia a three-star rating. Wine Spectator named Felidia one of the “Top Ten Italian Restaurants in the United States,” and USA Today ranked it number two in its year-round up of restaurants around the world. Nicotra has appeared on several television food segments, including Lidia’s Kitchen and Lidia’s Italy and the Food Network’s Iron Chef. He prepared meals for Pope Benedict XVI and Pope Francis I during their visits to New York.

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The team at Tosca serves everyone with precision and humility. Jonathan ten Hoopen, the genius-like, human Rolodex of the powerful and wealthy in Washington, also knows the first and last name of every cook, steward, waiter, and dishwasher in the restaurant. Here comes Johnathan with a canape or a small serving of fresh pasta with shaved black truffles, always complements of the chef. His constant warmth and welcome make the often-difficult discussions around the table just a bit easier to manage. John Neata, quiet and reserved, holds a wealth of knowledge as possibly the best sommelier in Washington. I am grateful for his friendship and advice about all things wine. Lisa Fotter, always with an eagle eye on the dining room, manages this sensitive group of patrons with the finesse of a seasoned conductor of a symphony.

I recently told managing member and owner Paulo Sacco, “You treat every single person who walks in the door like a head of state.” Paulo replied simply, “It's our hospitality; everyone is welcome here.” Tosca is more than just a restaurant; it is a testament to the power of food to bridge divides and foster connections. Whether it’s political adversaries sharing a meal or the meticulous hospitality that makes every guest feel like a head of state, Tosca embodies the true essence of dining. It’s not just about the food; it’s about the experience and the people who make it extraordinary. As I left, I couldn’t help but think that Tosca might just be the most powerful restaurant in America.

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On Saturday morning, as Americans woke to news of airstrikes on Venezuela and a sitting president in U.S. custody, young Europeans were already three hours into their weekend ritual: dancing stone sober in Parisian bakeries, surrounded by baguettes and pain au chocolat, DJ spinning against a backdrop of rising dough.

The juxtaposition isn’t subtle. It wasn’t meant to be.

The bakery rave phenomenon—which began in Paris in 2019 and has since spread to Brisbane, Mumbai, and Toronto—tells us something about what a generation is choosing when they can choose anything. They’re choosing bread over bottles. Dawn over midnight. Carbs over cocktails. And increasingly, they’re choosing Europe over here.

Alexis Duvivier didn’t set out to create a sobriety movement when he launched the first bakery rave at The French Bastards in Paris’s 11th arrondissement. The French DJ and producer, who performs as Aazar, was solving a simpler problem: homesickness. After years working clubs in Miami and Los Angeles, what he missed most wasn’t the nightlife—he had plenty of that. He missed the Boulangerie.

“It was such a big part of my culture in my everyday life here in France,” Duvivier said in a recent interview. “It was the first thing I wanted to do when I went back. I was always on the lookout for the best baguette or the best pain au chocolat.”

So in 2019, to celebrate releasing his single “Diva,” he did what made sense to him: he threw a free early evening party at a bakery, spinning tracks while trays of pastries circulated through the crowd. The visuals were odd enough to go viral—DJs Bob Sinclair and Peggy Gou later played sets there, cementing The French Bastards as one of Paris’s most unlikely hot spots.

But Duvivier insists the concept wasn’t gimmicky. “I didn’t choose a bakery because I was looking for an unusual location, but because for me it represents France and represents what I love.”

What he loved was the thing itself, not the Instagram version of it. The actual butter. The actual crust. The actual gathering place where neighbors see each other daily, not the performative authenticity that passes for culture in algorithm-optimized America.

That distinction matters more this weekend than it did last weekend.

The bakery rave movement has found its biggest following among Gen Z and younger Millennials who are drinking less and prioritizing what previous generations might have called boring: sleep, health, wellness, showing up clearheaded. From a certain angle, it looks like retreat. From another, it looks like the sanest response available to people who’ve watched the world they inherited catch fire in real time, and decided the least they can do is not pour alcohol on it.

The kids dancing in Paris bakeries at 8 a.m. on a Saturday aren’t protesting. They’re not marching. They’re not posting manifestos or arguing on Twitter about what just happened in Caracas. They’re doing something both smaller and larger: they’re building the world they want to live in, one baguette and one sober dance floor at a time.

They’re also doing it over there, not here.

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Europe has become aspirational to Americans in a way it hasn’t been since before 9/11. Not the Europe of backpacking tourists or study abroad semesters, but the Europe of people who take August off and eat lunch for two hours and don’t think healthcare is a luxury good. The Europe where a bakery is a daily democratic ritual, not a $8 artisanal experience you Instagram. The Europe where young people can imagine a future that doesn’t require them to explain away their government’s foreign policy at dinner parties for the rest of their lives.

You can hear it in how Americans talk about Europe now—not with the old defensive superiority (”they don’t have free speech/air conditioning/ambition”), but with something closer to longing. We sound like Duvivier in Los Angeles, homesick for a boulangerie.

The bakery rave works because it’s performing authenticity by actually being authentic. Duvivier didn’t focus-group the concept or hire a brand consultant. He missed bread. He liked music. He put them together. The fact that it became a movement says less about his marketing savvy than about how starved people are for experiences that aren’t optimized, monetized, or weaponized.

In Washington, where I write this, we’ve spent two decades watching policymakers perform concern about foreign interventions while authorizing them. We’ve watched both parties promise to end forever wars while finding new forevers to war in. We’ve normalized a level of military involvement around the globe that would have been unthinkable to the generation that actually fought World War II, and we’ve done it while telling ourselves we’re the reluctant hegemon, the force for good, the grown-ups in the room.

The kids aren’t buying it anymore. They’re not even shopping in the same store.

When American twenty-somethings look at Europe now, they’re not seeing a museum of old cathedrals and socialist policies. They’re seeing a place where it’s possible to be young and hopeful without being naive. Where you can dance at 8 a.m. with a croissant in your hand and not feel like you’re fiddling while Rome burns, because you’re not the one who lit the match.

The French Bastards, the bakery that started all this, distinguishes itself with what it calls an “irreverent and innovative menu.” But the real irreverence isn’t in the food. It’s in the premise that young people might gather for joy rather than to numb themselves to the news. That morning might be better than midnight. That the smell of baking bread might be more nourishing than another round of drinks you don’t want to pay for and won’t remember.

That watching the sun come up might be better than staying up to see what fresh hell tomorrow brings.

As Duvivier’s concept spread—he now hosts Bakery Sessions across Europe—it stayed true to its origins. No sponsorships. No bottle service. No VIP section where you pay more to stand closer to the baguettes. Just music, pastries, and people who chose to be there clearheaded.

Meanwhile, back in America, we’re conducting operations to secure another country’s oil reserves while a military official quotes a president saying we’ll “run it for them for a period of time.” We’re doing this on a Saturday. We’re doing this in January. We’re doing this while half the country argues it’s justified and the other half argues about whether they’re allowed to say it’s not.

The kids dancing in Paris aren’t having that argument. They opted out. Not in the cynical Gen X way of the 1990s, where opting out meant you were too cool to care. In a way that suggests they care deeply, but they’ve decided caring doesn’t require participating in a system that will grind up their caring and use it as fuel.

They’re building something else instead. It’s smaller. It’s quieter. It happens at bakeries.

And for those of us who stayed, who are still here in America trying to write sense into senselessness and reason into rage, there’s something almost unbearably poignant about watching a generation choose bread and music and sobriety while we chose empire and oil and the certainty that this time, finally, we’ll get it right.

Duvivier says his bakery raves were never meant to become a social media trend. He was just trying to recreate the thing he loved about home. But maybe that’s exactly why it worked. Maybe the only authentic thing left is to stop trying to solve the world’s problems and start trying to solve your own homesickness.

Maybe the revolution isn’t a march or a manifesto. Maybe it’s just deciding that at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, you’d rather be dancing in a bakery than doom-scrolling the news from Caracas.

Maybe the kids who are dancing—sober, joyful, surrounded by bread—have figured out something we spent fifty years of foreign policy missing: that the thing people actually want isn’t democracy at gunpoint or oil secured by airstrikes.

It’s a good baguette and a place to gather.

And it turns out, you can’t export that at the end of a cruise missile.

James Bell writes The American Table from Washington, D.C., where he watches what we eat and what it means.

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This Christmas wish list for The American Table is not really about things. It is about a way of living: the people at the table, the food on the plate, the stories that get told and retold, and the values that quietly run underneath all of it like a root system. HTSI, the Financial Times magazine, fills its pages with diamonds and watches, selling a fantasy of time and legacy and control. This year, after the deaths of two friends—Kent Knutson and Bobbie Grove—that fantasy feels thinner and the question beneath it feels sharper: if the time is not actually ours to hold, what does it mean to use it well?

For readers of The American Table, the answers almost always start in the same place: at the table. Picture a winter night when the city outside has blurred into a soft glow, and the rooms inside are a little too warm from the oven and the bodies and the candles burning down too quickly. The table is long, or at least it feels that way. The linens are not perfect, but they are real. The plates do not match, because life rarely does. The glasses might be a mix of inherited crystal and thrift‑store rescues, each one with a history you only half know. On that table sit one or two bottles that at some earlier point were deemed “too good” for an ordinary night. They were meant for a future special occasion. But this year has insisted, with a kind of brutal clarity, that “later” is an illusion. So the corks come up now, for this group in this room on this night, because this is the occasion.

At that table, in that light, Kent and Bobbie belong. Their chairs may be empty this year, but their stories are not. Kent, a Republican and a super‑lobbyist by Washington standards, somehow managed to be one of the city’s rarest breeds: a brilliant dreamer of a human being with a gentleness and kindness that cut through the usual noise. He stood on the opposite side of the aisle from a Democrat like me and yet occupied the same inner circle of friendship. That is not an accident. Kent had an anchor that predated and outlasted the Hill: his family’s black Angus heritage in South Dakota. The cattle, the land, the family history—they gave him a kind of balance and perspective that no committee hearing could touch. Karen and the kids, whom I adore, were part of that anchor too, tethering him to something solid whenever Washington tried to spin him off his axis.

Bobbie Grove, the black Angus genius of Somerville, carried a parallel story in a different key. The Grove family’s black Angus in Somerville were not just animals on pasture; they were the living expression of a way of life. Bobbie knew his cattle the way a watchmaker knows his movements, with an intimacy earned over years and seasons and setbacks. Like Kent, he staked his identity on something older and steadier than any headline. His pride, his wisdom, his sense of self were wrapped up in that herd and that land and that family name. Two men from different geographies and different daily worlds—one in the high‑pressure circuitry of K Street, one in the pastures of Somerville—both found their center in the same rural DNA.

That is the strange geometry of an American life. You can have a Washington lobbyist and a Somerville cattleman, and their lines still meet at the same table through a mutual love of black Angus cows, farming families, and one shared friend who straddles both worlds. Somewhere between South Dakota and Somerville, between the Grove pastures and the Knutson memories, a quiet braid was tied—through conversations, shared meals, and the understanding that who raises your food, and how, is not a minor detail but a moral one. A Christmas wish list that ignores their absence would feel thin. So this one does the opposite: it lets them in and lets them lead.

In practical terms, that means some of the “wishes” on this list are scenes rather than items. There is the wish for more nights when the good bottle gets opened not for prestige but for love. A grower Champagne someone drove across town to find, or a serious red with years on it, is uncorked after a simple grace and a mention of the people who taught us what good cattle, good land, and good friendship look like. The cork eases out, the room goes briefly quiet, glasses are raised, and for one moment everyone present understands that this is not a rehearsal. No tasting notes are necessary. The only important fact is that the wine is finally being used for what it was meant for: to mark a real moment with real people.

Another wish lives in the room where the books collect. On a side table or a chair by the window there is a stack: a new novel, a sharp book of essays, a serious history, a volume on food or farming, a bracing read on democracy or citizenship. They lean into one another like a group photo from different decades. For American Table readers, this stack is its own kind of luxury. It represents time claimed back from the endless scroll, attention directed toward something more demanding than a headline. In a year marked by loss, reading becomes an act of respect—for your own mind, and for the minds that have tried to leave us something sturdy and wise. A wish list that includes books is not making a token nod to “self‑improvement”; it is arguing that a life well lived asks you to go beyond your priors, to learn the stories of places like South Dakota and Somerville, to understand the systems and histories that brought food to your plate and neighbors to your street.

HTSI sells the romance of watches: tiny movements, perfect complications, polished cases that promise mastery over time. The American Table version of that romance is a plane ticket or a train ticket, a purposeful journey in which time is not conquered but savored. A trip to New Orleans in February, to Charleston before the heat, to a small Midwestern city quietly emerging as a food town, or to a hill town in Italy if you can stretch that far. The true “complication” is how vividly you can remember the first morning walk: the café you stumble into for coffee, the bakery where the door sticks, the exact way the light hits a side street you will almost certainly never see again. A dinner in a small, unassuming restaurant in a city where you barely know your way around can take on the weight of an heirloom when one of the people at that table is no longer alive to tell the story. So one wish on this list is simple: that you mark the coming year not by acquisitions but by meals and trips and conversations that etch themselves into your memory.

And then there is the kitchen, the American atelier. HTSI devotes spreads to workshops where a single ring or watch is brought into being by hand. The corresponding fantasy here is humbler and more accessible: a Sunday afternoon with no agenda but to cook. A heavy pot, a slow simmer, a wooden spoon stained by decades of sauces, a cutting board carved with knife marks like notches on a timeline. The wish is partly for the right tools: a knife that feels like an extension of your hand, a Dutch oven that can go from braise to bread to soup without protest, bowls and pans that have followed you from one life to the next. But more than that, it is for the courage to use them as often as you can, with the people you love, instead of waiting for some perfect, uncluttered ideal of domesticity. The meals you remember after someone dies are almost never the elaborate ones. They are the slightly chaotic Tuesday dinners, the over‑salted roasts, the breakfasts where the coffee was too strong and the conversation unexpectedly tender.

Because this is The American Table, the story does not stop at the edge of the countertop. Our tables are private spaces with public consequences. Just as HTSI eventually pivots from things to “foundations” and legacies, this wish list has to move outward into the civic square. One wish is for a country in which people like Kent and people like me—Republican and Democrat, lobbyist and critic—still sit down together in good faith, anchored in something older and sturdier than any party line. Another is for readers to support the ecosystems that make a real American table possible: local newspapers and nonprofit newsrooms that tell uncomfortable truths; food banks and community kitchens that keep neighbors from slipping through the cracks; legal clinics, arts organizations, and small farms hanging on at the edge of viability.

And then there is the specific inheritance of black Angus. To honor Kent and Bobbie is to recognize that the steak on your plate did not appear by magic. It came from land someone stewarded, from animals someone bred and tended, from a family that staked its identity on producing something excellent and honest. So the wish list includes a quiet directive: know your farmer. Learn who in your region is raising cattle, vegetables, grain, fruit with care and intelligence. Buy from them when you can. Tell their stories when you sit down to eat. Support the next generation who might otherwise decide that this work is too hard and too lonely to continue.

All of this adds up to a Christmas list that looks very little like a standard catalog and very much like a map. It points toward full tables, yes, and good bottles, and far‑flung meals when fortune allows. But it also points toward a life lived generously and awake. A life where a Republican and a Democrat can argue and still leave the table closer than when they sat down. A life where black Angus heritage in South Dakota and Somerville is not a quaint detail but a source of balance, wisdom, and pride. A life where we do not hoard the good wine, the blank pages in the passport, the sturdy books on the shelf, or the better angels of our nature for some future year when things are calmer.

So when you sit down to make your own list this season, imagine it less as a ledger of acquisitions and more as a set of promises. To open the bottle. To book the trip. To buy the book and actually read it. To cook the meal even if the kitchen is a mess. To support the journalist, the farmer, the neighbor doing unglamorous work. To raise a glass to Kent and Karen and the kids, to Bobbie and the Groves, to South Dakota and Somerville and every place in between that sends its labor and love to your plate. The American Table Christmas wish list, at its heart, is about this: using what we have—time, attention, resources, affection—fully and bravely now, because the people who taught us how to live that way have just reminded us, in the hardest way, that “someday” is not a plan

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We all begin in the same place: at that quiet moment before everyone arrives, when the house smells like butter and onions and something just starting to brown, and the question sneaks in—what, exactly, are we giving thanks for this year? But this time, imagine that table anchored by two very different loaves of bread: Margaret Carlson’s starter‑fed sourdough on one end, and a simple pan of cornbread or Parker House rolls on the other, the way a good Thanksgiving table holds both the elevated and the everyday, the storied and the humble.​

The American Table has always lived in that space between. Over the past year, the stories have ranged from the glittering world of private chefs—designing tasting menus in glass‑walled condos and embassy dining rooms—to the harsh arithmetic of food stamps and the looming expiration of expanded SNAP benefits that threatens to push millions of families deeper into hunger. There were stories about chocolate mousse and Champagne, and there were investigations into how a policy vote in Washington can mean the difference between a full pantry and an empty refrigerator in a town most decision‑makers will never visit.​

Threaded through it all were people. A farmer and a migrant worker, searching for hope beyond the nation’s capital while politicians traded talking points. Advocates warning that America is on the brink of the worst food insecurity crisis in generations if it allows SNAP expansions to quietly disappear. Chefs and sommeliers explaining why hospitality still matters when the headlines feel like a slow‑moving storm. And, of course, new voices at this publication—like Margaret Carlson, the trailblazing journalist who has turned her attention here, writing about baking bread in the midst of chaos and proving that a sourdough loaf can be as much a political act as a comfort.​

That sourdough is not just a recipe; it is a metaphor for what this year at The American Table has tried to be. Sourdough starts with something small and alive that you have to feed, day after day, when no one is watching, and there is nothing Instagrammable about it. Eventually, and only with care, it becomes a loaf that can anchor a table—a crust that crackles, a crumb that holds. In the same way, building a more just food system starts with quiet, unglamorous work: reading the farm bill fine print, listening to a migrant worker talk about wages, standing up in a church basement or a county meeting room to say, “This is not acceptable,” long before the cameras arrive.​

This year, the cameras did arrive in one very specific place: Somerville, Virginia. The film Somerville, released through this platform, told the story of White Ridge Farm and the Grove family’s fight against massive transmission towers that threatened to carve through their land and their sense of home. It was framed as a David and Goliath story because that is exactly what it was: a century‑old Black Angus farm, a family that had worked that soil for more than a hundred years, staring down a multibillion‑dollar energy company.​

Somerville is, at its core, a story about refusal—the refusal to accept that rural land, and the people rooted there, are expendable. It is also, now, a story marked by loss. This Thanksgiving, The American Table dedicates this essay, and this holiday, to the memory of Bobby Grove of Somerville, Virginia, whose life and courage are woven through every frame of that film and every acre of White Ridge Farm. Bobby’s battle with cancer, his determination to keep the farm going, and his quiet insistence that this land and this way of life were worth fighting for, gave the country a model of what rootedness looks like in an age obsessed with velocity and profit.​

In Bobby’s world, gratitude was not theoretical. It was sunrise over a pasture, calves dropping in a cold spring, neighbors showing up with casseroles when treatments were rough, and his sister—Donna—who kept telling their story even when it would have been easier to grant the interview, sign the papers, and disappear into private grief. To be thankful, for the Groves, was to wake up one more day on the land their family had held for generations and say, “We’re still here.” This piece is for Bobby, for that stubborn “still here,” and for every farm family in America wondering how long they will be able to say it.​

If the story stopped there—with lobster and polyester on one end of the holiday spectrum and a farm in a Dominion Energy right‑of‑way on the other—it would be a bleak kind of Thanksgiving. But America has always been a country of “and.” A 70s‑themed Thanksgiving survival guide on this site gave permission to laugh this year—to serve lobster instead of turkey, to cue up disco, to let people wear something outrageous and forget, for one night, about government shutdowns and flight delays. That wasn’t escapism for its own sake; it was a reminder that joy is fuel, not a distraction—that people fighting for land, for justice, for policy change also need to dance, to eat well, to relax into the arms of their own families without doomscrolIing every break in the conversation.​

So what is there to be thankful for in America on this Thanksgiving? Start with the obvious: the readers who have turned The American Table into a living, breathing community rather than a lonely website, pushing its audience into the thousands and proving that long‑form writing about food, politics, and rural life still has a home. Be thankful for the legendary journalists like Margaret Carlson and Annie Groer who have chosen to bring their voices and their recipes here, bridging the world of Washington panels and Sunday shows with the alchemy of flour, water, and salt. Be thankful for the chefs and private cooks who have opened up a new frontier of hospitality, showing that luxury can be about care and intention, not just price.​

Be thankful, too, for the advocates and policymakers who are still willing to be unpopular in defense of hungry families, who understand that SNAP is not charity but infrastructure, as critical as any bridge or highway. For every teacher who quietly keeps snacks in a desk drawer, every church basement pantry that stretches donations further than seems mathematically possible, every neighbor who drops off a pie or a loaf of bread on a doorstep simply because “it’s been a hard year.” That web of small, local, often invisible acts is the country at its best—messy, improvised, not nearly enough on its own, but undeniably good.​

And finally, be thankful for the possibility that runs, like a current, under all of this: the possibility that a story can still change something. Somerville exists because one family said yes to having cameras in their kitchen and their fields, trusting that if people could see what was at stake, they might care enough to act. The SNAP coverage exists because sources shared hard data and harder truths. The lobster-and-polyester piece exists because someone in your life once decided that Thanksgiving could be weird and wonderful and still count. Margaret Carlson’s sourdough exists because she kept feeding a starter when the wider world felt like it was coming apart.​

This morning, as ovens click on and someone in your house asks where the roasting pan went, an invitation is embedded in this holiday. Break bread—sourdough, cornbread, Parker House rolls, tortillas, injera, whatever your table looks like—and, in doing so, make a quiet promise: to notice who grew the wheat and who harvested the cranberries, who is being left out of the feast, which farms are being asked to sacrifice their horizons so someone far away can have cheaper power. Raise a glass to the memory of people like Bobby Grove, who showed this country what steadfast love of land and family looks like, and to the living communities still fighting in his name.​

And then, after the dishes are stacked and the candles burned low, let this be the year America decides that gratitude is not the end of the story but the beginning—that being thankful for abundance is inseparable from the work of making sure more people share in it. If this table, this newsletter, this little corner of the internet has any mission at all, it is to keep telling the stories that make that work feel not just necessary, but possible.

Thank You!

1. Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc

A rich, full-bodied white with orchard fruits, floral notes, and subtle spice, ideal for fall dishes like squash soup, roasted poultry, or creamy pastas.

2. Dry Riesling

 Its crisp acidity and citrusy brightness balance richer dishes like roasted duck, glazed vegetables, or sweet-and-savory sides.

3. Pinot Noir

 Elegant, versatile, and perfect for roasted turkey, chicken, or earthy mushroom dishes. Its red fruit and silky tannins make it a seasonal favorite.

 4. Petite Syrah

Petite Sirah is a great wine for colder months like November due to its rich flavor profile and ability to stand up to robust dishes.

Its bold red fruit flavors, spices, and moderate tannins make it perfect for hearty stews, roast pork, or spiced dishes.

5. Amarone Della Valpolicella

Amarone is a fantastic wine to enjoy during the colder months, especially when paired with hearty dishes. It’s also a great wine for special occasions or for those who enjoy bold, complex reds

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So—following official Washington’s lead—I’ve decided to “reduce operations” in the stress department. My plan? Revive seventies food nostalgia and serve lobster for Thanksgiving. Yes, lobster: fun, glam, a tad rebellious, and just the distraction we need while Rome burns and relatives speculate about the fate of democracy (or worse, try to explain the latest Epstein documentary at the dinner table).cnn+2​

This isn’t a new idea. In 2023, my guests cracked shells and dunked hunks of sweet lobster in drawn butter, discovering that the only thing more satisfying than a win in November was licking the plate clean. The Financial Times assures me this is “very Seventies.” Back then, food was maximalist, presentation mattered, and rules weren’t just bent—they were flambéed. We can do better: serve flair, not despair.mainelobsterfestival+4​

Of course, if you’re reading this stuck at Dallas/Fort Worth with 700,000 fellow stranded travelers, don’t despair—airlines say operations will return to “normal soon,” which in TSA-ese means your mashed potatoes will arrive just in time for Lent. Delta’s CEO has taken to national television, reassuring all that by week’s end, everyone will be home and only mildly traumatized by the experience. Remember the good old days when Thanksgiving headaches involved overcooked turkey, not federal funding lapses?nytimes+4

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Most importantly—and this cannot be stressed enough—do not, under any circumstances, bring up Epstein at Thanksgiving. Some conversational water is too murky, even for lobster. Instead, lean hard into seventies food trends: devilled eggs, towering trifles, ginger-laced pumpkin soup, disco music, and polyester that repels both gravy and difficult subjects. If the national mood swings wildly, just match it with a punch bowl, a fondue set, and “Copacabana” on repeat.

Some “Very Seventies” (and Lobster) Recipes for Your Rebellion

• Classic 1970s Deviled Eggs
  What’s more vintage than a platter of these beauties perched proudly on the coffee table, right next to the shag carpet? Hard-boiled eggs, halved and filled with a luscious mix: mashed yolks, mayonnaise, a squirt of classic yellow or Dijon mustard, sweet pickle relish, vinegar, salt, pepper, and (if you’re feeling wild) a dash of Tabasco. Pipe or spoon into whites, sprinkle with plenty of paprika, and garnish with chives or dill. Bonus points for arranging them on a molded glass platter. Optional: go full 70s kitsch with a spoonful of curried yolk or a bacon crumble on top.​ https://nerdswithknives.com/classic-deviled-eggs/

• Pumpkin Soup With Creole Lobster
  Hearty, spicy, with a sweet undertone—fresh lobster meat, cinnamon, nutmeg, 1 sugar pumpkin (or butternut squash), a dash of cayenne, and finish with crème fraîche. Start the meal this way.
  mainelobsterfestival​

• Mini Brioche Lobster Rolls
  Maine-style, with chopped lobster, tarragon, and lemon zest on mini brioche buns. Serve as a passed appetizer, preferably with disco-era cocktails.
  capeporpoiselobster+1​​

• Lobster and Bacon Stuffing
  Lobster, cherrywood smoked bacon, sautéed onions, garlic and semolina bread. Bake hot until the table gathers in awe (and a little confusion).
  mainelobsterfestival​

• Retro Dessert: Towering Trifle
  Layers of chocolate pound cake, custard, tinned fruit, Jell-O if you dare, and clouds of whipped cream. The higher it tips, the bigger the laughs.
  epicurious​

This Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos—with claws, camp, and a refusal to talk politics (beyond mild jokes about federal shutdowns for dessert). When the kitchen fills with laughter, disco, and the insane optimism of the Seventies, remember: the best way to survive family and national crises is with joy, butter, and a refusal to let the headlines take the wheel.

So here’s to lobster, laughter, and pure culinary insurrection. May your stuffing be bacon-laced, your flights ungrounded, and your conversation blissfully Epstein-free.

Happy Thanksgiving, America. The only thing being shut down this year is boredom.

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So—following official Washington’s lead—I’ve decided to “reduce operations” in the stress department. My plan? Revive seventies food nostalgia and serve lobster for Thanksgiving. Yes, lobster: fun, glam, a tad rebellious, and just the distraction we need while Rome burns and relatives speculate about the fate of democracy (or worse, try to explain the latest Epstein documentary at the dinner table).cnn+2​

This isn’t a new idea. In 2023, my guests cracked shells and dunked hunks of sweet lobster in drawn butter, discovering that the only thing more satisfying than a win in November was licking the plate clean. The Financial Times assures me this is “very Seventies.” Back then, food was maximalist, presentation mattered, and rules weren’t just bent—they were flambéed. We can do better: serve flair, not despair.mainelobsterfestival+4​

Of course, if you’re reading this stuck at Dallas/Fort Worth with 700,000 fellow stranded travelers, don’t despair—airlines say operations will return to “normal soon,” which in TSA-ese means your mashed potatoes will arrive just in time for Lent. Delta’s CEO has taken to national television, reassuring all that by week’s end, everyone will be home and only mildly traumatized by the experience. Remember the good old days when Thanksgiving headaches involved overcooked turkey, not federal funding lapses?nytimes+4

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​

Most importantly—and this cannot be stressed enough—do not, under any circumstances, bring up Epstein at Thanksgiving. Some conversational water is too murky, even for lobster. Instead, lean hard into seventies food trends: devilled eggs, towering trifles, ginger-laced pumpkin soup, disco music, and polyester that repels both gravy and difficult subjects. If the national mood swings wildly, just match it with a punch bowl, a fondue set, and “Copacabana” on repeat.

Some “Very Seventies” (and Lobster) Recipes for Your Rebellion

• Classic 1970s Deviled Eggs
  What’s more vintage than a platter of these beauties perched proudly on the coffee table, right next to the shag carpet? Hard-boiled eggs, halved and filled with a luscious mix: mashed yolks, mayonnaise, a squirt of classic yellow or Dijon mustard, sweet pickle relish, vinegar, salt, pepper, and (if you’re feeling wild) a dash of Tabasco. Pipe or spoon into whites, sprinkle with plenty of paprika, and garnish with chives or dill. Bonus points for arranging them on a molded glass platter. Optional: go full 70s kitsch with a spoonful of curried yolk or a bacon crumble on top.​ https://nerdswithknives.com/classic-deviled-eggs/

• Pumpkin Soup With Creole Lobster
  Hearty, spicy, with a sweet undertone—fresh lobster meat, cinnamon, nutmeg, 1 sugar pumpkin (or butternut squash), a dash of cayenne, and finish with crème fraîche. Start the meal this way.
  mainelobsterfestival​

• Mini Brioche Lobster Rolls
  Maine-style, with chopped lobster, tarragon, and lemon zest on mini brioche buns. Serve as a passed appetizer, preferably with disco-era cocktails.
  capeporpoiselobster+1​​

• Lobster and Bacon Stuffing
  Lobster, cherrywood smoked bacon, sautéed onions, garlic and semolina bread. Bake hot until the table gathers in awe (and a little confusion).
  mainelobsterfestival​

• Retro Dessert: Towering Trifle
  Layers of chocolate pound cake, custard, tinned fruit, Jell-O if you dare, and clouds of whipped cream. The higher it tips, the bigger the laughs.
  epicurious​

This Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos—with claws, camp, and a refusal to talk politics (beyond mild jokes about federal shutdowns for dessert). When the kitchen fills with laughter, disco, and the insane optimism of the Seventies, remember: the best way to survive family and national crises is with joy, butter, and a refusal to let the headlines take the wheel.

So here’s to lobster, laughter, and pure culinary insurrection. May your stuffing be bacon-laced, your flights ungrounded, and your conversation blissfully Epstein-free.

Happy Thanksgiving, America. The only thing being shut down this year is boredom.

Subscribe now

​

Today, November 4th, millions of Americans will cast their votes to determine the future of the country. While headlines focus on hot-button issues and familiar candidates, there is an urgent, everyday matter that shapes our families, farms, and communities: the food system. Now more than ever, it’s time to “Vote With Your Fork”—to consider how food policy, from SNAP to global trade and farmer support, affects the health and well-being of all Americans. research.open+1​

SNAP, America’s foundational nutrition assistance program, supports over 40 million people at risk of hunger. Election-year proposals and debates have put SNAP and other food programs in the spotlight, with some candidates advocating for work requirements and tighter eligibility, while others push to expand access and modernize benefits. The stakes are immense—especially as the cost of living soars and more families rely on help to put food on the table. Experts stress, “Everyone must eat, but food must be accessible to all… These issues have all become part of the 2025 debate”.​

American farmers face unique challenges as trade tensions with China persist and new policies around beef imports from Argentina test market stability. Tariffs, subsidies, and regulatory changes impact the price of everything from soybeans to steak, ultimately shaping what ends up in grocery stores nationwide. Large-scale proposals in 2025, such as Project 2025, have sparked controversy by promising deregulation and shifting favor to industrial agribusiness, threatening support for family farms and local food production. theconversation+1​

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Food policy is much more than price tags and export numbers. It’s about healthy options in schools, dignity for all at the dinner table, climate resilience, and whether community farmers can compete against global corporations. Deregulation of dietary guidelines and food assistance could undermine years of progress, increasing reliance on ultra-processed foods (which now make up over 70% of the average American’s intake). As one food systems expert recently noted: “Politics will never divorce itself from food prices… the cost and availability of food are always on the front lines of public debate”. ft+2​

Quotes for Reflection​

• “There is nothing more political than food. The things that we eat are the direct reflection of our histories.” – Anthony Bourdain facebook+1​

• “Food is our common ground, a universal experience that brings us all together.” – James Beard restaurantmode​

• “Politics will never divorce itself from food prices. Whether it is US President dwelling on the price of eggs, or bread riots in Sudan, the cost and availability of food are always on the front lines of public debate.” – Financial Timesft​

• “The decisions that we make here will impact hungry people around the world.” – David Beckmann dtnpf

• “An empty stomach is not a good political advisor.” – Albert Einstein foodreference​

Recent Coverage and Global Perspective

For a deeper look at international food security and election impact, readers can explore: FT.com Food Security News.ft​

No matter your party or politics, the choices made this election will shape the food system for years to come. When you vote tomorrow, think about the farmers, families, and communities whose future is determined not just by policy, but by each of us at the ballot box.research.open+3​

Billy Shore, a longtime leader in America’s fight against childhood hunger, offers a dire warning. “SNAP isn’t just a program for the poor. It is one of America’s most powerful tools for fighting childhood hunger, and it feeds children and families, strengthens our schools, and supports the health care system. If we allow SNAP benefits to disappear, kids won’t just lose meals — they’ll lose the opportunity to grow, learn, and thrive. Ending childhood hunger is not just about compassion, it’s about our country’s future, security, and competitiveness. No child should have to worry where their next meal comes from in the richest nation on earth”.denver-frederick+1​

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In a conversation with Billy Shore, he described America’s hunger problem not as one of scarcity, but of inequity and access. Food exists in abundance, yet millions of children go to bed hungry simply because their parents can no longer afford what’s sitting on grocery shelves. The end of expanded SNAP — a pandemic-era lifeline — threatens to widen that gap at a time when food costs are soaring and rural food deserts are multiplying. heartsonfire+1​

The expiration of these benefits, experts warn, could become the worst food catastrophe since the Great Depression. In small towns and big cities alike, food pantries are already reporting record demand. Teachers are seeing more children arriving at school without breakfast. Across America, working-class families who once stood on solid ground now find themselves on the edge of hunger. denver-frederick​

Organizations like No Kid Hungry, local food banks, and community-based programs are stepping up, but private action can’t replace a strong federal commitment to food security. SNAP has long been one of the most effective programs in reducing childhood hunger. Letting those benefits fade away now would mean turning our backs on millions of families at precisely the moment they need help most. nokidhungry+1​

This is not a story about politics. It’s a story about children — and about the moral and economic cost of allowing hunger to grow unchecked in the wealthiest nation on earth. denver-frederick​

Sidebar: Billy Shore on SNAP and Childhood Hunger

“SNAP isn’t just a program for the poor. It is one of America’s most powerful tools for fighting childhood hunger, and it feeds children and families, strengthens our schools, and supports the health care system. If we allow SNAP benefits to disappear, kids won’t just lose meals — they’ll lose the opportunity to grow, learn, and thrive. Ending childhood hunger is not just about compassion, it’s about our country’s future, security, and competitiveness. No child should have to worry where their next meal comes from in the richest nation on earth.”heartsonfire+1​

I’m Irish. I’d say potatoes, but that’s a quibble. In case you’ve been on a low-carb diet, José Andrés is the chef who left the classroom at 15 to attend a renowned cooking school in Barcelona, and then apprenticed at a celebrated restaurant in Catalonia called El Bulli. A few years later, he boarded a ship to America with little more than a paellalero and a smile. It wasn’t long after working in several restaurants in Washington, D.C., that he opened Jaleo in 1993, a tapas bar that introduced small-plate dining. It rolls merrily along to this day with offshoots at Disney World in Florida and in the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas.

Andrés was soon creating something completely different. After he and his family traveled the Mediterranean, he returned with an irresistible mashup of Aegean, Turkish, and Lebanese dishes. Recently, by the authority vested in me to write this piece, I went to see how Zaytinya was doing. Back when Andrés chose it for his whitewashed Greek taverna with sun streaming down through soaring windows, the neighborhood was run-down with vacant buildings and boarded-up storefronts, the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery a dead spot closed for renovation.

But the rent was right. Its neighbors now include the Capital One Arena, along with Tatte, the hot casual food chain, and swank Chanel and Hermes boutiques. Zaytinia is almost near capacity from lunch through dinner, even with the government closed down. It also has a Michelin Bib Gourmand award recognizing that it is priced reasonably enough for families to celebrate birthdays and chic enough for the expense account crowd to take a meeting. In the kitchen are line cooks who have been rolling phyllo dough for decades (nothing frozen allowed) and a front of house where it’s not just the second bowl of tzatziki (hold the pita, bring a spoon) that makes it work, or the addictive Crispy Brussels Afelia, but the “always glad you came” ambience of Cheers. You may arrive alone, but you won’t feel that way for long

In between Jaleo and Zaytinya (there are six others from Palo Alto and LA to South Beach), Andrés created some three dozen additional restaurants. His newest foray is easing the misery that is now air travel with a lounge at Reagan National, and another opening any day in the renovated Terminal B at La Guardia, a massive 10,000 square foot bistro with a view of Manhattan from the skybridge. Henceforth, the word “Delayed” popping up next to your flight will no longer induce dread so much as an eager “I’ll have another.'“

It’s more efficient to talk about what Andrés doesn’t do: he doesn’t do discouragement. In “Change the Recipe,” he fires up a metaphor to make a point about The Three Stages of Brunch. It starts with eggs meant to be fixed fancy. “You’re cooking a Spanish omelette full steam ahead. You show off and flip it, it falls apart. Stage two: Now you have a deconstructed egg and tomato mess on your hands. What do you do?”

A mess like that? I’d run next door for eggs, or to the store for something frozen, but not our hero. “People freeze and governments freeze, because we are trained to follow the plan, to be perfect. ” In crises, André sees those in charge sitting around arguing over how to amend the plan rather than how to save a country. Still, I understand the impulse. At Good Shepherd School, if I hit a wrong note during a rehearsal, my irresistible urge was to start over, going back to the beginning in a quest for perfection, until Mother Marita Joseph was close to breaking the Sixth Commandment (Thou shalt not kill) or demoting me to the lowly bassoons. It’s why I miss deadlines.

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His book is not for those expecting the latest recipes, or who harbor the illusion that one day, because they like to cook, they too could open a restaurant. It’s about life, its own self, how to give it your best and give your best to others not so fortunate, and not to be a food snob in a toque who oozes ego. Think of “The Bear” streaming on Hulu or Gordon Ramsey in real life, or those annoying gourmands who spend $2,000 for a pound of hard-to-dig-up fungus to show off their refined taste for truffles.

I’ve watched Andrés over the years and joined an interview for his latest book, concluding that either he is normal, or he fakes it better than (fill in your least favorite egomaniac here). His next step, after Jaleo was up and running, was to figure out how to reduce the amount of food restaurants were wasting. To that end, he joined the board of D.C. Central Kitchen, a local charity that feeds the unhoused. It also trains men and women seeking jobs in the food industry, including his own restaurants Andrés had a mind meld with DCK’s founder Robert Egger who remembers telling Andres repeatedly how crazy whatever his latest idea was. But then, Egger noticed, “he always went and got it done.”

It’s a stretch to go from coping with a sloppy mash up of eggs in the morning to saving starving people. In that situation, if you make a plan, you’ll find a natural disaster has something else in mind. But Andrés believes that “leaving your comfort zone brings out your authentic self.” When Haiti suffered a 6.4 magnitude earthquake in 2010, he set off for the island nation, certain only that multitudes of hungry people had lost everything and he knew how to cook.

His experience scrambling to make meals at camps across Haiti –where about half a million plates of mashed beans next to fluffy rice as Haitians like it–led to the founding of the World Central Kitchen so there would be some infrastructure in place for the next catastrophe, knowing there would always be another.

The next time came during a 2017 family vacation in the Caymans with his two best friends: Anthony Bourdain, former chef at Brasserie Les Halles in New York and TV star, and Eric Ripert, the top toque at Manhattan’s Le Bernardin, who also owns a hotel and the restaurant Blue on the Caribbean island. Andrés reacted immediately to TV news reports of Hurricane Maria’s devastation in Puerto Rico. With little more than a fishing vest, one pocket stuffed with cash, the other cigars, and a habit of shouting “Boom” when things are going well and something saltier when they’re not, Andrés took off to cook for the survivors.

There would be the equivalent of omelettes falling apart, of having too few hours in the day, of switching from his way of making things for how the locals do, subbing Puerto Rican sancocho stew for the rice and beans of Haiti, to give those left with nothing, the hope that one day they would have dinner at home again.

To a man with a hammer, everything is a nail. To Andrés, a man with a whisk, every person is a mouth to be fed, whether it is a Dad wanting to celebrate a child’s graduation without a payday loan, or an entire country left homeless with nothing to eat but wrapped crackers. This time, Andrés mobilized the nascent World Central Kitchen network of local chefs and volunteers, generators, ovens and food in 18 kitchens. “I’ve learned that sometimes big problems have small solutions,” he said. “I fill a plate, then two, then four.” Before long, he’d fed a village with approximately four million meals, 100,000 meals per day at its peak, using the Coliseo de Puerto Rio arena as a central kitchen that deployed trucks of food across the island.

While Andrés was setting up dining halls built of scraps throughout the island, Donald Trump landed long enough to make a cameo appearance at a church and toss “beautiful” paper towels to a crowd as if he were shooting baskets. The president later defended his let-them-eat-cake moment by describing how joyful the natives were “screaming and loving everything” as they scrambled for the quicker picker-uppers. “I was having fun, they were having fun,” Trump insisted.

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For his efforts, and without any campaigning for one, Andrés was nominated twice for a Nobel Peace Prize, in 2019 and again in 2024. Donald Trump waited in vain for notice of his paper-towel heroism from the Nobel committee. Today, however, his more mature efforts in Gaza may well be recognized in time for next year’s balloting, if the hostage release is actually followed by 12 months of peace.

As the years went on, Andrés continued his double life–part chef, part Mother Teresa. By day, he built restaurants that introduced America to Iberico ham and fusion cuisines, while also jumping on planes to places destroyed by Mother Nature, by war, by COVID where his efforts landed him on the cover of Time magazine. By night, he’d tended to the problems in arenas both foreign and domestic, and tried to snatch a few hours of sleep.

Something had to go. In 2024, the humanitarian overtook the corporate. Andrés made the difficult choice to hire a CEO to oversee the restaurants. To make sure that change left him with no spare time, he devoted himself to a new organization called Longer Tables, named for the notion that if one has good fortune, it is better to build longer tables to fit more people than higher fences to separate them. Under that umbrella, he is working to provide prosthetic limbs for Ukrainians maimed by shells and mines buried across the country, and to acquire the delicate equipment for facial reconstruction.

Andrés isn’t icky sentimental, but he believes in the power of a meal as the first glimmer to the victims of a calamity that they will live to see another day and that each one will be better than the last. Food, he writes, says “Someone far away cares about you; that you are not on your own. It’s a beacon of hope. It allows those in despair to have a little bit more patience, for one more day. That is what a plate of food is.”

A bit dramatic for some, especially journalists, who exist to expose the sinners among us, not the saints who are notoriously hard to write about given their excessive virtue that shows the rest of us up. I tried in the course of this piece, even starting over, to answer the enduring question of what makes one person build his life gradually, and then more, and then completely around the needs of others, while many, like me, construct a life around themselves. I expected to find a human weakness if I looked hard enough. As close as I came was Andrés’ odd fondness for Chick-fil-A. He’s been spotted more than once in the drive-through lane in northeast D.C., a block from the Costco that many cooks frequent. It’s not exactly a flaw, but he is a chef, after all, and he doesn’t go a few more blocks to Popeye’s for a superior Spicy Chicken Sandwich with a side of wings?

In his spare time, Andrés still produces podcasts and newsletters and promotes his latest best-seller, which shows how a person can triumph in one field and move on to a less glamorous but more gratifying one. He also picked up a Daytime Emmy for “José Andrés and Family in Spain,” a TV special made with Tichi, his wife of 30 years (whom he calls “the most amazing giver a person could have next to him”), and their three daughters. The family travelled on their respective stomachs to discover dishes worthy of bringing home. Over his long career, Andres has also won a National Humanities Medal, several James Beard awards, two Michelin stars for his minibars, and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. At this very moment, his 18th book may well be gestating inside his laptop.

Andrés is no stranger to grief, surrounded but not engulfed by it whenever he touches down in one of the hundred disaster sites he’s landed at. But in 2018, grief became intensely personal after the death of his close friend, Anthony Bourdain of the trio that also includes Eric Ripert, chef and part owner of three-star Le Bernardin. Bourdain had come to shoot an episode of “Parts Unknown” in Asturias, Spain, where Andrés grew up. The two went up a high mountain to a pristine lake, the closest, Andrés said, “you can come to the stars, or to God, if you are a believer.” After the cameras were turned off, the pair lingered at the table, eating what was left of the ripe blue cheese, two best friends, in no hurry to end the day, watching the sun go down.

A week later, Andrés got a call from Ripert, who had been filming an episode himself with their mutual friend when Bourdain didn’t show up for dinner. Ripert went up to his room but by then, Bourdain had given up on life and hung himself. Since then, Ripert and Andrés have pondered how they could have missed Bourdain’s despair.

There is no answer to what-might-have-been. To honor Bourdain, rather than remember their friend on June 8, the day he died, they celebrate him on June 25, the birthday of the man they call the “troubadour and poet and lover of life.” With great joy, Andrés and Ripert raise a pitcher to Bourdain every year on Instagram to wherever he is “on his journey.”

Andrés’ book encourages readers to “change the recipe,” advice that is well worth taking to heart, although I choose to flat-out ignore it. Instead, what rings in my ears when I turn on the oven is his counsel never to take for granted that you will wake in the morning to another breakfast, to upend with misplaced bravado. Recalling his last encounter with Bourdain in Asturias and what might have been, Andrés has this advice: Since none of us knows which meal will be our last with someone we treasure, the wise thing to do is to “treat every meal with someone you love, as if it could be your last .”

Today, it's worth allowing the stillness to speak. In McCullough’s words, “History is a guide to navigation in perilous times. History is who we are and why we are the way we are.”

Rain in Washington has a way of sharpening focus—slowing the city just enough to see what deserves attention. Some afternoons, that’s enough: let the rain do its work. Let the rain settle; let the world pause. Less noise, more meaning. Breath.

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Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

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There is a remedy for the times—a radical act, hidden in plain sight. It’s the kitchen table, spread with steaming bowls and stories.

It’s the invitation to neighbors, both those we nod to and those we avoid. Some of the most authentic conversations I’ve ever experienced didn’t happen in boardrooms, or on television, but with hands wrapped around coffee cups and voices growing louder and softer with each course

We are wounded people, living in a wounded hour. It’s natural, almost instinctive, to retreat into our corners, to let grief and anger seal us off. But history reminds us: what unites us far outweighs the things that threaten to divide. When three women launched The People’s Supper in the wake of a bitter election, they weren’t pushing “civility” as some bland ideal. They were insisting on something braver—a pledge to actually listen, to see each other as whole and living, not just as a political label or target.

Their dinners—now numbering hundreds in cities across America—prove something essential: if you can move past the initial hyperventilation, the instinct to judge, you can start to hear. Not just arguments, but memories. Fears. Hopes. By night’s end, there were fewer answers, but more humanity at the table.

I’ve spent decades in rooms where sharp debate was an art form. But no matter how passionate the exchange, what mattered most was always the handshake, the shared meal afterward. That moment when issues became stories and stories became people. If ever there was a time to restore this tradition—hosting dinner parties, inviting honest debate, letting our homes become “brave spaces” for America—it is now.

Is dinner together going to save democracy? Not in one night. But it can soften hearts, plant seeds, and restore the trust that our politics seem determined to stamp out. So set the table tonight. Send the invitation. Open the good bottle and let the conversation flow. The American Table is not just an idea—it’s an urgent call to remember, to repair, and to rebuild, one meal, one neighbor, one story at a time.

I first came to Penedès chasing bubbles. Cava bubbles, to be precise. This is where Spain’s iconic sparkling wine is born — bright, refreshing, festive. The vibe here is generous and accessible, like a long outdoor lunch under a pergola (of which we enjoyed many). This is where winemakers experiment boldly, where native grapes like Xarel·lo, Macabeo, and Parellada shine, and where international varietals like Chardonnay and Cabernet have found a Catalan accent. It is innovation grounded in tradition.

Then there’s Priorat, demanding a bit more of you. The drive alone tells you everything: steep, winding roads adjoining dramatic cliffs, terraces carved into slate hillsides, tiny stone villages perched as if holding on for dear life. The wines are equally intense. Powerful reds, mostly Garnacha and Cariñena, with a brooding edge, structured and age-worthy. You taste not just fruit, but minerals, herbs, the echo of heat and stone. Priorat doesn’t hand itself over easily — but when it does, it’s unforgettable. Wines from here don’t whisper; they command.

Food tells the same story. In Penedès, I lingered over pan con tomate glistening with local olive oil, grilled sardines, and paper-thin slices of jamón, fried whitefish and seafood paella, always with crisp whites keeping things light. In Priorat, meals were heartier: lamb braised with rosemary, earthy mushrooms gathered from the same hillsides as the vines, dishes that demanded the depth of a Garnacha or Cariñena to meet them halfway.

But to stop at the rustic would be to miss the other half of the story. Catalonia is also a place of remarkable modern cooking—chefs who take the traditions and spin them forward with creativity and precision. You’ll find dishes that honor the same roots as the simplest country meal, but reimagined with bold technique and unexpected combinations. It’s a reminder that while the soul of Catalan cuisine is humble and grounded, its expression is as inventive and exhilarating as anywhere in the world.

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I love vermouth, so I was in my element in Catalonia. But I’d somehow never set foot in a distillery before. At Padró & Co. I finally did, and it opened my eyes—the layers of botanicals, the patience, the choices behind each style. I walked out with a deeper respect for something I’ve been drinking for years, and a little surprised I hadn’t done it sooner.

I’ve had some gloriously memorable moments here. A sunlit lunch under the pergola at Oriol Rossell vineyard, where crisp, citrus-tinged wines cut through the warmth of the day and the food — simple, fresh, perfectly matched — fostering a camaraderie that continued to resonate days later. An evening in the cellars of Familia Ferrer, where the owner poured not just wines but family history, stories woven between glasses.

At Clos de l’Obac, a tasting led by owner Carles Pastrana himself, pioneer and patriarch of modern Priorat. His wines spoke of slate and sun, but his presence — animated, generous, mischievous — was the real gift. Lastly and by no means least, a final night dinner at Pere Ventura, hosted by the vineyard’s co-owner Mireia Juve. The elegance of its historic estate — vaulted cellars, candlelit halls, the hush of heritage all around — provided the backdrop to an extraordinary meal and stunning wines.

When to visit? Take your pick. Spring in Penedès means green hills and blossoms, perfect for hikes or wine festivals. Summer brings long, hot afternoons cooled with a cold glass of Cava and a heaping plates of local seafood. Priorat in fall is a different kind of magic: harvest time, crisp air, the smell of fermenting grapes drifting from village cellars. Winter, with its fireside stews and bold reds, may be when Priorat feels most itself. You’re not really going to go wrong here.

Don’t choose between them. Taste both. Sip your way through Penedès, enjoy the ease and sparkle, then climb into Priorat for wines that demand your attention. Together, they show the full spectrum of Catalan’s offerings — and the best kind of wine travel contrast.

During my time in Catalonia I met wonderful people, some of whom have become cherished friends. I’m proud of my own heritage, but there is a bond here unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere. Separate from the wines, but in truth, inseparable from them, it isn’t just pride or history or passion—it’s the sheer joy they take in being Catalan. To raise a glass here is to taste something more than fruit and soil. It’s to taste that spirit. We are Catalans, and we created this from our very souls. It is what we are.

All I can say is—go. From Barcelona, and even Madrid, you are so close. Spend time here. You’ll understand.

Additionally:

I’m putting together a 2026 small group tour to Catalonia—just good wine, good food, and good company. If that sounds like you, reach me at gian@TASTEtourandtravel.com.

Anyone who’s been paying attention knows why: Washington, D.C.'s dining scene is staggering under a federal intervention as unprecedented as it is unsettling. Since President Trump announced that he was taking command of the Metropolitan Police Department and rolling out the National Guard in force, reservations have gone off a cliff. Data from OpenTable reads like an alarm bell: after the announcement, bookings plummeted 16% Monday, 27% Tuesday, and by Wednesday, the city was down an astonishing 31% compared to last year. That number hovered around a 20–25% drop through the weekend.fortune+3

Ariel Pereira, a server at Osteria Al Volo, an Italian restaurant in D.C., told Fortune he has “absolutely” seen a decline in diners. He estimated only 40% of the dining room is being sat, when usually the restaurant is at full capacity.

Now, anyone who’s lived through a D.C. summer will tell you: August is never exactly a buffet of paying customers. There’s always a dip when Congress breaks, city families flee for the beach, and even diehards crave a break from oppressive heat. But this is different. The energy on the street feels anxious. Plenty of diners I know confess they’d rather stay home than walk past a phalanx of federal agents or men in fatigues. It’s the kind of atmosphere that’s great for a Netflix series, but less so for happy hour or a pre-theater bite.eater+1

I’ve heard some politicians say that more security brings peace of mind, but every operator I’ve talked to says it just brings empty seats. Chef Lincoln Fuge, from Present Company Public House in Chinatown, put it plainly: “We are not a chaotic wasteland.” He’s right—historically, D.C. crime is down, yet the escalation on the street is scaring away locals and tourists alike.eater

This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Restaurant Week is supposed to be the city’s culinary rallying cry—a bright spot in the dog days when chefs serve up their best, hoping to make payroll and keep the lights on until September. Nearly 400 restaurants signed up this year, offering three-course specials, with many planning to extend deals into next week just to get diners in the door.axios+2

But optimism is hard to sustain in the face of such a steep fall. There’s hope, sure—D.C. is nothing if not resilient, and the Restaurant Association’s Shawn Townsend still thinks the deals could lure folks out. But hope alone won’t cover rent and payroll, nor will it erase the mounting anxiety among staff and managers watching revenues dip during the most critical pivot of the season.fortune+1

Is the city dead? Not by a long shot. The spirit of D.C.'s food world has survived shutdowns, protests, and plenty of political storms before. But there’s no sugarcoating the situation: every empty table right now isn’t just a lost meal; it’s a threat to the very heartbeat of our neighborhoods, our traditions, and our community.

For my part, I’ll keep showing up for the places that make us who we are—a bowl of fresh seafood at the wharf, a bold newcomer on H Street, a classic long lunch with friends. It’s how we remind ourselves and each other: the city is only as vibrant as the people who fill its streets. D.C.’s not dead. However, the recovery won’t be automatic—and this summer, your reservation is a testament to your faith.

I was a lucky guy; I bought my dream house, The Cannonball House, right in the heart of historic St. Michaels, MD. For many years, I filled its rooms with friends and family, all drawn to the warm, easy charm of that old house and the promise of good food and wine. Crab cakes became my calling card—a recipe that seemed to capture everything I loved about life on the Chesapeake Bay. My Crab Cakes are chunky, very little filler, and the size of a small baseball. There was something magical about those evenings: the sound of laughter echoing from the garden to the kitchen, the smell of crab and Old Bay drifting across the harbor, and the comfort of sharing simple, unforgettable moments. These crab cakes are more than just a dish—they’re a tradition, a memory, and a little taste of the luck I found in St. Michaels.

Types of Crab Meat

1. Jumbo Lump: Jumbo lump crab meat is off-white and comes from the crab’s swimmer fin muscles. Crabs only have 2 of these muscles, so you need a lot of crabs to make a serving of jumbo lump crab meat. This is why it’s the most expensive type. It’s very sturdy and is wonderful served alone or as a topping for dishes or salads.

2. Lump: Lump crab meat is also off-white, but a bit smaller than jumbo lump. It’s still very sturdy and flavorful. It comes from the body of a crab and is ideal for chunky crab cakes.

3. Backfin: Backfin crab meat, also known as flake crab meat, is off-white too. It also comes from the body of a crab. The term “backfin” can also include the broken pieces of lump crab meat. It’s flakier than big lumps of crab meat.

4. Claw: Claw meat is darker than the other types of crab meat. It’s not as sweet, but it has a stronger flavor. Claw meat is the least expensive and is ideal for soups, dips, and stews.

   

   Ingredients

1. Egg: Egg is the main binding ingredient in crab cakes.

2. Mayonnaise: Mayonnaise is another binding ingredient. I don’t like mayonnaise and I LOVE these crab cakes, so if you aren’t a mayo person, don’t worry. You can’t taste it.

3. Fresh Parsley: Fresh herbs are a MUST in crab cakes. Sometimes recipes or restaurants use dill, but fresh parsley is most common. If needed, you can use dried parsley.

4. Dijon Mustard: Dijon mustard is another must-have ingredient in crab cakes. I don’t recommend any other type of mustard—just dijon.

5. Worcestershire Sauce: Just a small amount provides big flavor, just as it does in chicken meatballs, black bean burgers, and beer cheese dip.

6. Old Bay Seasoning: What is Maryland crab without locally made Old Bay seasoning???

7. Lemon Juice & Salt: Fresh, balancing flavors.

8. Crab Meat: The leading role in the whole recipe.

9. Cracker Crumbs: Drumroll please… the filler in this crab cake recipe is cracker crumbs. There is so much debate on what the best filler is and, trust me, some of the best crab cakes are made with CRACKERS! See more below.

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Directions

1. Whisk the flavors and binders together.

2. Add the crab meat & filler.

3. Very gently mix together: Fold the ingredients together slowly and carefully. If over-mixed, the lump crab meat will break apart.

4. Refrigerate for 30 minutes: This is a key step in the recipe. Make sure the crab cake mixture is cold before you shape it into individual cakes. There is little filler in this recipe, so the cakes will fall apart if the mixture is not refrigerated before cooking.

5. Grease baking pan & preheat oven. The oven gets pretty hot, so I don’t recommend using parchment paper. Grease the pan or use a silicone baking mat.

6. Portion into cakes: Use a 1/2 cup measuring cup to scoop and portion out the mixture. Form into individual cakes. Place on the greased baking sheet.

7. Bake: Bake the cakes on very high heat for about 12–14 minutes

   

   

This recipe repost is from Sallys Baking Addiction

By Matthew Cooper

We should all look so good.

Sally Quinn, at 84, still turns heads, especially when the journalist and novelist strolls into a Georgetown landmark, Martin’s Tavern, a modest walk from her home. Like Quinn, the tavern is a Washington institution. Locally and family owned since it opened its doors in 1933, it still has the “Proposal Booth” where a young Senator John F. Kennedy asked Jacqueline Lee Bouvier to marry him, and the table where Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson and House Speaker Sam Rayburn cut Texas-sized deals and sipped Old Fashioneds. With its dark-stained wood paneling, Tiffany-style lamps, and elevated comfort-food menu—steaks, chops, and once-popular classics like Welsh Rarebit and the Hot Brown—Martin’s Tavern is perfect, even more so when we settle into the booth named for Sally, her late husband Ben Bradlee, the longtime Washington Post editor, and their son, Quinn.

The place is loud and boisterous during this July lunch service, but we were here for Silent Retreat, her new novel. It’s a theological romance (not an oxymoron) set at a Virginia monastery. Enter Sybilla Sumner, a 39-year-old lithe New Yorker writer in a loveless marriage to an egomaniacal TV host (think a mean, hyper Charlie Rose but with the handsome good looks of the late journalist Jim Hoge ). Having lashed out after recently learning he’s infertile, it’s no wonder Sybilla seeks comfort and direction BY heading to a spiritual retreat.

Trouble starts when she spies the Archbishop of Dublin, Father James Fitzmaurice-Kelly, “Fitz” to everyone—a motorcycle riding, Bono-esque, guitar playing, 50-something hunk of burning priestly love who’s going through his own existential crisis as the Vatican gets ready to give him a dressing down, or worse, over his latest liberal tome, Why Celibacy? Of all the monastic retreats in the world, why, oh why, did he walk into this one? Fitz and Sybilla recognize each other; each has been a bit obsessed with the other's writing, but neither can talk about it or anything else at the silent retreat. “I always thought there was a connection between sexuality and religion,” Quinn said, over her omelet, with fruit, no potatoes. “To me, there's nothing dirty about sex, certainly not sex between people who are in love. I mean, I think that's sacred.”

Quinn’s not big on priestly celibacy: “[It] doesn't make any sense…it had nothing to do with Jesus or the Bible. It was about not wanting people to marry so they could leave their lands to the church. It's all about ‘money talks and bullshit walks,’ and so it has nothing to do with anything religious.”

She adds that the idea for a love affair that begins (and ends? You’ll have to read it.) on a silent retreat came to her when she visited Our Lady of the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia, for just such a respite some 15 years ago. It’s about an hour west of here. No tryst for her. She’d gone there as part of a PathNorth retreat, an organization of CEOs who try to do well by doing good. Steve Case of AOL fame is one of the founders.

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Quinn, who had begun her own spiritual journey and was writing the On Faith column for The Washington Post, was happily married to Bradlee, who joked that she couldn’t last three days without talking. She found the pastoral retreat with its enforced silences, bucolic setting, multiple prayer sessions (even one at 3:00 a.m.), and pastoral counseling (where you could speak) to be profoundly spiritual (no surprise) but also soothing (again, not shocking), and more erotic. “I found it very romantic and sensual,” Quinn adds. For years, she kicked around the idea of writing a novel based on a silent retreat. When it finally came to her a couple of years ago, it spilled out. She wrote it in six months.

At its heart, the novel is not only theologically knowing (references to Buddhism, the late monk and author Thomas Merton, and the Talmud) but also wise in dealing with the question of vows and obligation. Sybilla doesn’t want to violate her marital oath. While the handsome, worldly Fitz has publicly questioned the church’s stand on celibacy (as well as its positions on homosexuality and women in the priesthood), the curly haired demigod takes his vow of celibacy seriously, not only because he took an oath to the church and God but also, we discover, because of a tragic love story in his past. Can our two tortured types figure this out? And, hey, how does a novelist handle dialogue where the protagonists don’t speak?

As I picked at my Ty Cobb salad, (a baseball coach founded Martin’s Tavern) I listened to how Quinn constructed a story with two interior monologues, what’s going on in Sybilla and Fitz’s heads, and their separate counseling sessions with Father Joseph, the learned and refreshingly non-judgy octogenarian cleric they meet with regularly to discuss their inner torment. (Quinn’s counselor at the Berryville retreat, who sadly died during the pandemic, was a model for Silent Retreat.) I read the book and listened to the audio version with male and female narrators and found it a great summer read, but more than that, actually quite moving as each of these seemingly successful, beautiful souls wrestles with themselves. Did I smile and roll my eyes at the many pairs of lacy underwear Sybilla brought to the monastery? Yes, I did, happily so.

Like her protagonists, Quinn is one of the beautiful people. And like them, she has had to wrestle with life’s hardships. Her late husband Ben, who died in 2014 at 93, was legendary, a word too often used, but it’s entirely accurate. As was said of James Bond, women wanted him, and men wanted to be him. He was fantastically handsome, smart, and fun as hell. Sally took care of him as he had dementia before he passed. Her son, Quinn, now entering middle age, who is taking a stab at the Mezcal business with his wife, has worked hard to overcome learning disabilities. And she’s had career ups and downs; Quinn went through a brief stint as a CBS Morning News anchor in 1973 before returning to the Post, but got a fabulous book out of it.

Another great book of hers is Finding Magic, a touching account of her faith and journey from childhood Presbyterian to atheist to SBNR, spiritual but not religious. Her favorite bumper sticker is “I Don’t Know, And You Don’t Either.” She’d grown up Presbyterian in a military family; her father, Lieutenant General William Wilson "Buffalo Bill" Quinn, helped liberate Dachau, but the household staff in the South knew voodoo. Quinn’s mother suffered strokes, and so did she about a year ago, and was incapacitated for a brief period. With the help of Robert Waldinger, the Harvard psychiatrist, and meditation and medical care, she returned from it. “I feel like I’m nicer to other people and more caring,” she says. Those who’ve suffered her lash may wish to trust and verify.

Like many people, Quinn is distraught by division in the age of Donald Trump. I ask her if Washington feels more riven than the rest of the country or somehow spared because of its once prevalent we’re friends after five " ethos. After all, she was known as a great writer and Washington’s preeminent hostess, and it didn’t matter if the president was Democratic or Republican. Unless the fever breaks, I wonder if there could be another Sally Quinn or Perle Mesta (See Meryl Gordon’s biography of the pre-Sally hostess with the mostess). Quinn’s not optimistic about a return to the salad days. She notes how siloed Washington parties have become and notes a top Trump ally saying to her at one Trump-heavy event, "I wish you would stop writing all these stories about how boring and dull Washington is and how everybody's depressed and despairing and sad and having a terrible time.” The woman who sports the Mar-a-Lago look said, “We're having a great time. We are really happy. And your problem is that you're going to the wrong parties.”

“It may be the wrong parties, but not the wrong people,” Quinn replied. Thus, she’s not trying to get Trump folks to her house. “What are we going to talk about? Ukraine? We're going to talk about immigrants? Are we going to talk about the CDC? Talk about defunding cancer research or NIH.”

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I ask her what her father, one of Dwight Eisenhower’s generals, would have made of Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, or Mike Flynn, the National Security Adviser who left days into Trump’s first term and was later pardoned by him. “He would have been absolutely horrified,” Quinn tells me. “Well, the West Point motto is ‘duty, honor, country.’ I don't see where anything they do fits into that,” her voice trails off. “Pam Bondi…Tusli Gabbard.’’

If she offers a grim vision of Washington's social life, she is not so dispirited by The Washington Post, which has been her home for 50-plus years. While she cheered Amazon founder Jeff Bezos’s purchase of the paper from her longtime friends, the Graham family, she’s sad to see it going through choppy financial waters and watch many of its writers take a buyout. “That was a real period of grief,” she says

But she’s also cheered.“I think the paper is really good and Matt Murray is a really solid decent guy with good news judgment. I think he’s doing a good job,” she says of the paper’s executive editor, who had previously steered The Wall Street Journal. ”The op-ed page,” she pauses, “that remains to be seen.”

I note that some of Ben Bradlee’s successors lacked Ben’s twinkle, his sense of fun. She lights up: “Ben used to walk around the newsroom, sit on people’s desks, and ask, ‘Are you having fun today?’ We had so much fun. You come in every day, not knowing what will happen.”

Fun is very much on her mind, which is not always true of octogenarians, widows, or persons into Trappist trappings. “I do have people over a lot, but the number one reason is to have fun, and for there to be a reason,” she says. She’s in a group at the DC Improv, the comedy club. Not long ago, she had about 20 classmates over to her Georgetown home, once owned by Abraham Lincoln’s son, Robert. They were greeted with martinis and did performance exercises, including roaring like a lion. They stayed until midnight. “And then the next day, I kept getting all these emails saying, ‘Do you realize nobody mentioned Trump or The Washington Post?’”

It’s fitting that Quinn is in the middle of writing her Washington memoir. She notes that Watergate, which seemed so horrifying at the time, still pales compared to the current moment, even keeping Richard Nixon’s criminality and paranoia in mind.. “The Trump years are beyond anything you could have imagined.” She adds, “I keep trying to think of fun things to do to get everyone out of their heads.” As part of clearing her head, she joins a weekly two-hour meditation group.

I walk back to Quinn’s home with her before parting. She’s off to Greece in a few days to do research for her next novel and relax. Ben’s brother had a home on Spetses, a Greek isle that plays an important part in Silent Retreat, and she’ll be there, not for a monastic holiday but one far from the madding crowd.

Hey,

I just launched the petition, “Help Save Somerville Farm from the Urgent Threat from Dominion Energy,” and I’m reaching out to ask for your support. Sign the petition to show your support.This is the link to the Petition - PLEASE SIGN

Dominion Energy’s proposed electric towers threaten not only the historic landscape of Somerville Farm, but also the heritage, local agriculture, and community spirit that make this place unique

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Why Somerville Matters

• Somerville Farm is a vital part of our community, representing generations of family stewardship and a living reminder of our shared history.

• The planned towers would disrupt important farmland, harm local wildlife, and impact the integrity of this cherished site.

• Preserving Somerville isn’t just about protecting land—it’s about standing up for family, food traditions, and the stories that connect us all.

How You Can Help

Add Your Voice:

• Sign the petition to show your support—every name brings us closer to our goal of 5,000 signatures.

  Ready to Make a Difference?

  You can read more and sign the petition here:

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  Your support means so much. Together, we can help protect Somerville Farm for future generations.

Share the Petition:

• Forward this message and link to friends, family, and anyone who cares about historic preservation, farms, or the impact of utility projects on local communities.

• Post on social media using #SaveSomervilleFarm to amplify our call.

Stay Informed:

• Follow updates about our progress and learn more about the importance of Somerville Farm in our community.

Ready to Make a Difference?

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Your support means so much. Together, we can help protect Somerville Farm for future generations.

Thank you!

James Bell