While flying to St. Louis from a Soccer game-filled Sunday at home in Greenwich, Conn., as my flight shook indicating that it was time to land, I got to an email from one of my students who is scared to take a big leap professionally, and reached out to me for advice. She has been

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

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