At six years old, I wanted to be Darrin Stephens from Bewitched. He worked in advertising, came up with ideas, pitched them, and got paid for it. That seemed like magic. Somewhere around my preteen years, I decided being in a rock ’n’ roll band was the ticket. For a while it was architecture, then radio. I even thought about directing movies. Every dream had one thing in common: creating something new.
Never once did I think of myself as a “creative.” That word always felt too slick for a guy who spent most of his life in restaurants. But looking back, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Every logo, menu, plate design, food feature, dining room layout, travel itinerary, and TV project started from an idea scribbled on a cocktail napkin, a legal pad, or somewhere in my head during a quiet drive — which explains a few of the bad ones. Turns out I never stopped creating — I just changed mediums.
That realization came last week when Jackie, a guest who’s been on eight of my trips and will be on her ninth in a few weeks, smiled and said, half-joking, “You’ve got to stop reminding me how much money I’ve spent with you.” Then her friend Pam jumped in: “But think of all the experiences we’ve shared.” She was right. Jackie wasn’t talking about hotels or meals. She was talking about moments.
I must be going through one of those late-life realization phases. It’s occurred to me that most of my career has been about creating memories—not for me, but for other people. Accountants help with numbers. Attorneys handle the tangles. Grocers feed the neighborhood. Plumbers and electricians keep life moving. Me? I guess I’ve been setting the table for moments that matter—birthdays, anniversaries, family dinners, and those long, laughter-filled nights in restaurants and on tours overseas that somehow turn into stories people keep.
That’s when it hit me again: I’m not just a restaurateur or tour host. I’m an “experience creator,” which sounds like something you’d find on a LinkedIn profile right before “motivational thought leader.” Really, all I’ve ever tried to do is make people feel welcome, feed them well, and give them a few hours worth remembering. Feed people, treat them right, pay attention, and mean it. That’s the whole playbook. Somewhere along the way I learned that when you care about people—staff, guests, or friends on a trip—they care back. That’s the exchange that keeps me in it. You don’t measure that in revenue or headcount. You see it in faces, in loyalty, and in the small moments that never make a spreadsheet.
Another guest once told me, “You realize you’re part of people’s biographies, right? You’ve become a small thread in the fabric of our lives.” I didn’t know what to say. It’s humbling to think about how much of my life’s work has slipped into other people’s stories—small moments that might get remembered long after I’m gone. I’ve watched it from the corner of a dining room enough times to know the best moments can’t be planned — they just happen when people feel at home. That’s enough for me. I’m just grateful I got to be there for a few of their good days.
All that talk about experiences and stories must’ve stirred something in me, because it reminded me of a test I took years ago that told me exactly what I was built for.
Three times, at three different churches over several years, I took one of those spiritual gifts tests. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Each time, the result was the same: hospitality. At first, it felt like drawing the short straw. I’d hoped for something flashier—wisdom, leadership, maybe miracle worker. Nope. Hospitality. Figures. Not exactly the headliner gift, but it turns out it’s the one that fits.
It took a while, but it finally started to make sense. I’ve spent my life feeding people, welcoming them, trying to make them feel seen and cared for. That’s hospitality. Turns out, the test wasn’t telling me anything new. It just confirmed what I’d been doing all along.
It’s the business I’m in, but it’s also my purpose. And that word—purpose—still makes me flinch. It feels lofty. Like when people first called me a writer. Writers were the people whose books sat on my shelves—serious folks with important things to say. I didn’t see myself that way. But after 26 years, 1,300 columns, 15 books, and about 1.3 million words in print, I’ve made peace with it. Maybe not a great writer, but a working one. One who tells stories the way he speaks—plain and honest—with an overuse of commas and the occasional run-on sentence.
Same thing goes for creativity. I’ve accepted that too. These days, my restaurant work revolves around imaging, branding, design, menu creation, food development, and storytelling—all creative jobs. But what I enjoy most is collaboration. My wife and I were talking about that yesterday. I love building things with people. Not because I can’t do it alone, but because the shared process always makes it richer and more meaningful.
My wife reminded me recently that most of what lasts in life isn’t what we plan—it’s what grows around us while we’re busy working. I’ve never been much for five-year plans or mission statements. I just try to keep showing up, stay curious, and surround myself with good people. That’s worked better than any strategy I’ve ever written down.
If there’s a through line in all of this—from the kid who wanted to be Darrin Stephens to the guy running restaurants and hosting tours—it might be that the best things in life usually aren’t the ones we plan. They sneak up while we’re busy cooking, hosting, or just trying to make a living.
It’s funny how a career sneaks up on you while you’re just trying to make a living. Never expected to be in people’s stories. Never expected to spend decades in restaurants. Never expected to write well over a thousand columns. But here I am—still grateful, still showing up, still trying to get it right. And if you’ve been any part of that journey along the way—thank you.
All I ever wanted was to do good work with good people. Turns out that was the whole thing.
Onward.
