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If Google ran a restaurant, it would be the one I’m in right now, wedged between eateries in London’s SOHO. Every seat is at a chef’s table. You lean into the bustle of cooks, cutting, pouring, arguing, coaching, training. No wait staff. The chefs serve your food themselves.

Exposed brick scrapes out just enough space in the cellar off Brussels’ central square to make room for 10 tables and a kitchen dispensing mussels, fries, and beer. I got in today from Dubai. Tomorrow, a workshop followed by a train ride through the Chunnel to London. 

It was a magical moment. Not just because I was with my wife and three children, nor that we were at a Parisian café with a view of the Eiffel tower, nor even because after a week of rain Paris decided to give us – on our one day in the city – perfect blue

I’m angry, not jetlagged. It’s 4:30am and I’m banging on the keyboard from my hotel room desk when I should be asleep, fueling for a keynote I deliver to a thousand electronics executives in four hours. What tossed me out of bed and pulled me to my laptop was not the three-hour time difference between New York

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