Jackson Jambalaya

Today, I find myself just as happy with a roast beef po’boy from Domelise’s in New Orleans, a plate of Susan Spicer’s legendary barbecue shrimp, Frank Brigtsen’s squash bisque, or the BBQ at Donanelle’s on US 49 just south of my hometown. I crave fried rice at places where the line is out the door, and the décor hasn’t changed in decades. I’ll take pancakes from The Midtowner with the same enthusiasm— maybe more— as I would a foie gras torchon. In fact, you can give me a plate of hummus from a little hole-in-the-wall in Chicago or a heaping dish of General Tso’s chicken from Miss Shirley’s on Magazine Street, and I’m in heaven. These places, these "dives" and "joints," offer something you can’t always find in the sleek, Michelin-starred dining rooms: soul.

To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with fine dining. It’s an incredible experience to be in a restaurant where every detail has been painstakingly thought through, where every bite feels like a small masterpiece. But these days, I’m seeking something a little different— meals that bring me comfort, that remind me of my roots, and meals that make me feel connected to a place and its people. There’s something about sitting in a BBQ joint with a plate of pulled pork or beef brisket in front of you, the smell of smoke in the air, and an iced tea in hand, that feels just as special to me as anything you’ll find at a white-tablecloth establishment.

I spent years in fine dining, traveling all over, searching for inspiration, and I wouldn’t trade any of those experiences. They’ve shaped who I am as a restaurateur, and they’ve given me a deep appreciation for the craft of cooking. But the more I’ve traveled, the more I’ve come to realize that sometimes, the best meals are the simplest ones—the ones you stumble upon when you’re not even looking.

It’s not just about the food. Sure, I can overlook atmosphere and even endure lackluster service in a local joint if the food is good, but it’s the whole experience that matters. It’s the people, the energy, the stories behind the food that make a place special. Whether it’s a mom-and-pop diner, a late-night taco truck, or a barbecue pit that’s been smoking for generations, these places have a history and a heart that can’t be replicated.

I’ll never stop appreciating the incredible talent and hard work that goes into earning those Michelin stars, but for me, the chase is over. I’m not looking for perfection anymore. I’m looking for authenticity. I want to eat food made by people who love what they do, whether they’re a world-renowned chef or a guy making authentic tacos inside a food truck.

So, while my son is off chasing stars in Manhattan, I’m perfectly content chasing something else—something a little grittier, a little less polished, but just as satisfying. And you know what? I think that’s okay. There’s room for both in the food world. Art is important, but so is soul. Actually, he and I spent a few weeks together on his summer break, he is starting to see the beauty in the simpler side of our industry as well. That makes this dad happy.

And at the end of the day, the only thing that really matters is whether the food— and the experience of sharing it— makes you happy. That’s the beauty of it. There’s no right or wrong answer. You can have your Michelin stars, or you can have your dive bars. I’ll take both, but these days, you’re more likely to find me in a dark room with a dozen on the half shell and an iced tea.

Onward.