A love letter to Atlanta on the Eve of my departure
There's something about autumn light. Perhaps it's the angle of the afternoon sun, the rhapsodic colors emerging in the trees, or the particular warmth in the hearts of those eager
to enjoy the season. Something glows in the autumn.
In an otherwise completely pedestrian moment Sunday afternoon, I emerged from the top floor of a parking garage in the Old Forth Ward and gazed west. The skyline of downtown Atlanta sat in relief in the distance, a network of parks and walking paths below bathed in the glow of the October afternoon sun in the foreground. I was a quarter-hour early for brunch, and assumed a seat on a bench adjacent to a water feature carefully sculpted into the building to my right. Behind me was the Beltline, one of the most ambitious and successful urban projects in the country's last two decades, bustling with Sunday afternoon foot traffic. Before me was a city with which in nine short months I'd fallen in love. It was the first moment where my pending move back west felt immediate and real.
"Holy shit," I said aloud to myself. "I'm really going to miss this place."
Last year's departure from California was unceremonious and mostly involuntary. After trekking back west in 2022, I never anticipated that I'd find myself living east of, say, Denver again. But this past February, after a handful of months shuttered in my mom's guest room in the Iowa winter, I found a new gig. Stuck in traffic in Nashville, my car full of my few possessions, I spied a billboard for online Ivermectin prescriptions. "Back in the South," I chuckled to myself, preparing to assume a position leading a wine program at an exciting new restaurant in the beating heart of the American South.
For months, I confess that I was miserable. I had left the serene coastlines and mountain ranges of the most stunning stretches of California's Central Coast for the noise and congestion of the sixth-largest metropolitan area in the country. I moved from a village of 1200 to a metropolis of nearly 7 million. Traffic was brutal at nearly every hour, the noise of the city drowned out my sleep, I found the neighborhood I'd chosen plastic and superficial, and I felt anonymous and deeply alone despite being surrounded by excellent people who were eager to welcome me to my new environs.
But I started to explore. I met more and more of some of the most incredible people I'd ever gotten to know in professional circle, and more quickly than I'd thought possible. I fell in love with the city's tree canopy, extensive green spaces, and endless characterful neighborhoods. I devoured dumplings on the Buford Highway. I reveled in some of the best omakase meals I'd experienced in the States. I spent interminable hours grilling good food and drinking good wine with old and new friends alike. I went to multiple Georgia football games and basked in the glory of Athens for the first time in over a decade. And I got to know the rhythm, history, and culture of what I now believe to be one of the most dynamic and exciting cities in North America.
As I write, I'm drinking a bottle of California wine on the eve of my departure from Atlanta. Even just two or three months ago, I would have told anyone that I would not be going anywhere anytime soon. I'd even developed sketches of my first ever five-year plan, the cornerstones of which depended on my continued professional presence in the city. But even the best-laid plans are subject to bumps, and in an unexpectedly and alarmingly quick span of time, I had accepted a job back west, this time in Santa Barbara County.
As much as the occupational situation that developed here became unsustainable, I find myself brimming with nostalgia, and as much as I feel my soul is most at peace on the west coast and know I will thrive on my return, I don't think I've ever found myself in a place so surrounded by love, joy, and support that someone with self-esteem as wounded as mine cannot even begin to fathom.
I have been lucky to be part of one of the most passionate and close-knit professional food and wine communities I've ever known or could hope to know. Distributors and wine representatives, fellow sommeliers, chefs and restaurant professionals––in every sphere, I've found some of the most impressive people, professionally and personally, I've had the privilege to know, all of whom welcomed me with nothing less than the uttermost generosity and kindness. I've interacted and served a curious and passionate group of customers, gaining friendships with so many regulars who allowed to to nerd out with them. And in just nine months, I've come to know some of the dearest friends who I am confident will continue to be some of the brightest gems of my lifetime.
I've enjoyed the hospitality and genius of some of the most exciting restaurants in the region and country, each of which invariably welcomed me into their dining rooms like family. Chef Karl at Avize, Chef Miles and Rachel at So. Fox, Chefs Jorom and Charlie at Mikasa... the list goes on. This is a metropolis brimming with world-class culinary, beverage, and hospitality talent and hungry to push the culinary reputation of the city to the national
spotlight, and it's a more exciting time than ever to be a hospitality professional in Atlanta.
I've come to know the spectacular diversity of the city, particularly of immigrant communities. I've marveled at sprawling institutions of international produce and butchery like Your Dekalb and Buford Farmers Markets. I've devoured magnificent meals from any manner of foodway you could imagine up and down one of the most dynamic and concentrated thoroughfares of immigrant cuisine in the country in the Buford Highway. I've witnessed how one of the most vibrant and thriving Black communities in the world indelibly contributes to and influences the fine dining and food scene and the culture of the city more broadly.
I got drunk in Athens wearing a Georgia Bulldogs shirt for the first time since 2013. I walked under the Arches and watched my Bulldogs play football between the hedges for the first time in over a decade. I chugged Classic City Lager at Creature and Called the 'Dawgs with rabid Georgia fans. I had a French 75 at The Globe, chowed down on blue cheese potato chips, and enjoyed a killer meal at Five & Ten for the first time since grad school.
Just a week before I left, I unsuspectingly attended one of the raddest food and beverage festivals I've attended in Landlocked, gulping down southeastern oysters and enjoying bites and sips presented by some of the best establishments in the broader southeast, surrounded by many of my new friends and basking in the glorious southeastern autumn weather.
And I had grits. So, so many grits.
So, indulge me in being unapologetically maudlin, and let me just say to Atlanta, and all the people I've come to know and love here––thank you. You have been so good to me, and so much more impactful than I ever could have imagined. I'm heartbroken that my time here was so short, but endlessly grateful for the time I did have. This is a special place, and even though I am leaving, Atlanta will never leave me––I know it will be an important locus of the remainder of both my career and interpersonal life.
This is a special city, with amazing people, and a culinary and wine world that gets far less credit and attention than it deserves. I cannot wait to return and be surrounded again by the love and excellence I've been so lucky to experience in my too-short nine months here.
Thank you, Atlanta, and thank you all for making my time here so special.
(And, as always, GO DAWGS!)
