Valentines

 
 

During a prefixed Valentine’s Day service, it struck me that the freshly pulled mozzarella coins vaguely resemble a sliced banana.
I ask the general manager if we have a banana—we make Neopalitan-style pizza and handmade pasta.
Of course we don’t have bananas.

“They have them across the street though.”

During a momentary lull in an unending stream of two top lovebirds,
I make sure my tables are in order and race to the corner store to buy a 79-cent piece of yellow fruit.
Surreptitiously bringing it into the kitchen, I ask one of the line cooks to plate it up just like the mozzarella set.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it just looked like a sliced banana.
Not at all like the mozzarella coins.

But I still had hope.

At a quick glance and in the frenzy of a chaotic, love-filled service maybe the chef wouldn’t notice.
With his sous chef out sick for most of the week, the man had barely slept in three days.

I just needed him to take one bite.

I imagined the look of confusion, horror, disgust, and then finally understanding that would race across his face in an instant.
I imagined him questioning every mozzarella plate from that point forward.

I wanted him to wonder “Am I about to serve a guest a sliced banana?”
To create chaos in his mind.
To, on some level, make him doubt his own sanity.

I am workplace terrorist.
But if I can’t have a moment like this, then honestly what is there to live for?

I got wrapped up in my excitement.

My plan wasn’t fully considered.
The lighting on the line was too precise.
I revealed my hand a bit.
The coordination between the line cook and myself was unconsidered.
We were doomed from the start.

I hear the cook ask, “Can I get hands on the line?”
Without pause the chef slides from expo onto garmo.

Looking down he sees a sliced banana next to two mozzarella plates—I can see the calculations taking place in his brain.
He hasn’t quite figured out what he’s looking at but he knows something is off.

“Oh my god. What the fuck?! That’s a banana!”

My plan was foiled. He didn’t take the bite.
We all lose ourselves in laughter.

It can be addictive. Especially when you’re walking with close to $600 after a night like that.

After mopping the floors a little after midnight, we head to a French place where it always feels like the staff is either going to fuck, marry, or kill you. The wine buyer, someone I don’t know well but whose air of kind arrogance is something I can appreciate, asks my coworker who worked here for ten years “What do you want to drink?”

A woman with a sophisticated palette, she responds
“Oh, you know me, I’m basic. I like Chardonnay.”
“So you want white Burgundy.”

After finishing an incredible bottle we leave without spending a penny.

As that place closes with time to spare before last call we make a stop at a dive bar known for its BLT and its patrons’ proclivity for cocaine. A moustached man in a red leather vest, matching short shorts, a thick studded belt, angel wings, and full sleeves is belting “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis as a fog machine fills our throats with whatever fake fog is made of.

It’s a minute before 2AM and the bar staff is yelling at us to “Go the fuck home!”

A coworker reflects that their rudeness is part of the charm. Another remarks
“I provide hospitality all night, they don’t need to be this rude! It’s all industry here.”

The barking continues as I back out of the parking lot making sure not to hit any of the stumbling bodies beginning their journies home.

With all the bars closing simultaneously a feeling of not needing to go home but not being able to stay here, wherever here is,
rumbles through the watering holes that are closing in unison.
A surge of energy fills the city as I hit the highway.

Instead of going home I make my way to my friends’ house—they were one of my first tables earlier in the night.

Seeing the pizza I’d served them several hours ago, I heat a cast iron and start to warm it back up.
The cheese forms a beautiful crisp which makes for the perfect post-midnight snack.

Is it fucked up that I’m eating the pizza I just sold them a few hours ago?

It’s 3:30 in the morning.
In 12 hours I’ll be doing it all over again.

- - -

The beginning of 2025 has been an important reset for me. I’ve been working in restaurants a lot more than I’ve been making pictures which has been an adjustment from last year. While I know it won’t last I’ve been trying, and I think largely succeeding, in seeing the beauty in it.

Working in restaurants can be terrible. It’s an industry with razor-thin profit margins that relies on exploitive labor practices. But that's not what this essay is about.

There’s also something romantic about working in the service industry for an extended period of time. I’ve been working in restaurants of some kind since I was 19 and in some capacity for the majority of the time since moving to Austin in 2018. And while I look forward to the day when this work becomes a decision I make out of personal enjoyment rather than financial necessity, there’s also an earned privilege and a certain magic that you can only access once you become a part of this community.

It’s hard to describe, but this is my shot at it.

“Deep rivers run quiet.”

I’m sitting at the bar of an airport lounge that I just paid $199 to get into at the Istanbul Airport. I’ve never been in an airport lounge. The barstool I’m sitting in is unreasonably short for the height of the bar so my computer is almost at my shoulders as it rests on fake marble. Images of Benjamin Netanyahu, a map of the Golan Heights, and b-roll of rocket fire are playing on the TV in front of me. The space bar on my silver Macbook stopped working a couple of days ago so I’m thinking about the appointment I made to get the keyboard fixed as I muscle my way through this paragraph.

This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for my 18-hour layover. I was planning on going into the city, but the mental hurdle of navigating an unfamiliar metropolis after a month in the Mongolian countryside was not something I was up for. I don’t need a drink but I do need to charge my phone and the only outlet that was free in the busy lounge was at the bar. I’m watching my fully outstretched arms make what feels like an acute angle with my face as I continue smashing my keyboard. It weirdly feels like the right thing to do. The space bar is starting to loosen up a bit. Maybe I’ll cancel that appointment.

The only sip of alcohol I’ve had in the last two months was a thimbleful of vodka offered to me by a friend and nomadic herder, Galim, after a horse race—I followed him on several wolf hunts last spring so saying no would have felt rude given that seeing each other again felt like an impossible and beautiful reunion. Last spring he was clean-shaven and weathered by a brutal winter into what had become a deadly spring for his animals. Today you’d never know. It’s a perfect summer day in the middle of a perfect summer. The grass and people’s spirits are high. Galim is wearing a parted, pencil-thin mustache, yellow-lensed sunglasses, and a straw fedora with images of nomadic life sewn into the hat band. He reminds me of someone you’d see on Dollar Day at Golden Gate Fields, a racetrack in Berkeley, California that exists in a universe of its own making where every Sunday during race season it’s “$1 admission, $1 parking, $1 beers, $1 hot dogs, and $1 sodas!” Galim is very comfortable at a horse race. Over the next few weeks, I’d see why as his horses would go on to win over and over again.

Maybe I should get drunk? The beer is free after the price of admission and I’ll be sitting here for twelve hours before sitting on a plane to Houston for another thirteen. After that, I’ll take a taxi to a bus to another taxi to my house. It takes 4 days to get back to Austin from western Mongolia.

A week ago I was wide awake at two in the morning. I spent a few hours making long exposures of a wolf puppy under the Milky Way before the sun started washing away the stars. Sekish, my host, told me he’s raising the wolf to “teach my children what a wolf is.”

You learn a lot about a wolf by spending a few nights together.

Kazakh children are told to wear hats after it gets dark to prevent evil spirits from entering their bodies. I made sure to wear a hat.

What would the guy next to me think if I told him I spent hours, night after night, photographing a wolf puppy, wondering if there were any evil spirits nearby? That doesn’t sound real in an airport full of men in the prickly liminality between being bald and having hair again. The woman next to me has braces and an American accent. She’s on a video call talking about content creation and her personal brand. “Guess who just created a second Snapchat account?!” We have the same computer. I wonder if her keyboard still works.

It feels like I’m in my own liminal space between two worlds. In one world there’s a community that raises wolves. In the other, that sounds like a fairytale.

I’m still processing it all. I haven’t even looked at my photos yet. I need some space from it all.

While I was in the countryside I happened to read Haruki Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World—a book where, without giving it all away, there are two stories, two universes that feel completely separate but somehow connected that slowly swirl into each other. Right now I just feel dizzy.

I know the dizziness will go away. It always does. But the more time I spend asking about wolves…honestly, I don’t even know where the end of that thought goes yet.

On the second page of Hard-Boiled Wonderland Murakami writes that “Deep rivers run quiet.” I can’t get that four-word sentence out of my head nor the fact that it came on page two. What kind of maniac gives you the whole thing right on page two?

I’m not going to get drunk but a beer does sound good.

Cheers.

—

I looked up Golden Gate Fields and it turns out it closed on June 9th.

The Rose Tattoo

 
 

The Rose Tattoo was an old bar my good friend and artistic mentor Thomas Mann used to frequent in the late 70s into the early 80s. In April of 1993, Tom walked out of Neville Brother’s show at Tipatina’s at 4 in the morning and saw a “For Sale” sign on The Tattoo across the street. A month later, he bought it for $25,000. Years later, in the early 2000s he moved into the then-decrepit shell of a building and started to transform it into one of the most uniquely beautiful spaces I’ve personally ever been in.

It’s chaotic and considered, which is what I think makes it such a true reflection of Tom.

The Rose Tattoo is an important “character” in my new book Close to the Bayou. It’s a space I thought about a lot as I created that body of work as I supported Tom through his cancer treatment in a different, temporary home he made for himself in Houston where he was receiving treatment. I started writing the following piece while I was staying at the Tattoo a few weeks ago. I was in New Orleans photographing a mind-blowing career retrospective Tom has installed in the space, which to be clear, is his home, studio, and gallery.

I hope you enjoy it. I had a little too much fun writing it.

The Rose Tattoo

To the left of Tom’s toilet, there is, like in most bathrooms, a roll of toilet paper on a circular rod. But unlike in other bathrooms I’ve entered, next to that first roll of toilet paper there is a perplexing arrangement of six additional rolls mounted in varying positions. Four rolls are affixed about a foot above the toilet bowl in a parallel line. Above the fourth roll are another three stacked above it at a 90-degree angle to create an “L” of rolled white, textured paper.

All the rolls are in different stages of use. Some rolls are nearing their end while others have yet to be started.
Over the years I’ve observed these rolls in various stages of their lifespans.

I pull from one of the rolls closest to my left hand and wonder,

Why did I pick this roll and not that roll?
Was it a purely ergonomic decision?
Did something aesthetic attract me to this specific roll?

As I make this observation I realize that the rolls are all different. Some are made from thicker paper, some thinner, and the textures are varied. This means that the rolls are not all from the same stock. They were bought at different times and replaced at different times. I’m already in way too deep.

The first time I stayed in Tom’s home, The Rose Tattoo, was in 2009. And while the bar-turned-home-turned-studio-turned-gallery has always been in a constant state of transformation during that time, the bathroom has largely stayed the same.

These seven rolls have always been there.

Well, I should say that the toilet paper holders have been there that whole time.

But that makes me think, how long has the oldest roll been here?

I have, on occasion, for the novelty of it craned behind my back after relieving myself to pull from the top roll which is in no way conveniently located for this purpose. After brushing my teeth, I’m sure I’ve pulled from a roll less conveniently located near the toilet to wipe the sink. But there are certainly some rolls that I have never touched.

Does anyone ever touch them?
How old is the oldest roll?

I start thinking about the ridiculousness of it all. Thinking about myself thinking about toilet paper holders, the age of toilet paper, and if I’ve used toilet paper from each holder.

Why the fuck would Tom put seven toilet paper holders in his bathroom?

Why the fuck am I taking a shit thinking about this?

Is this art?

It’s 8:07 AM.

—

After writing this I had to ask.

“Tom, why the hell do you have seven toilet paper holders?

“To create a fun little atmosphere. To make people go ‘Oh! This is unusual.’”

Well, it definitely worked dude.

For me, that’s what’s so special about The Rose Tattoo. While the toilet paper holders are a totally ridiculous detail, they are also the perfect detail to illustrate the point I want to make.

Every single corner of Tom’s home has been considered. If you think you’ve considered every corner of your home, stepping into Tom’s home will make you realize just how unconsidered your space is.

Outside his bedroom window, I noticed that he started growing tomatoes in the divet between the two slopes that make up his roof. In an alcove inset almost 20 feet up there’s a Buddha overlooking his office. Nestled in a corner of his jeweler's bench, there’s a row of miniature drawers labeled “INSPIRATION” and “WONDER”.

As I’ve recently started decorating my own home, I consider how much time each of these projects would have taken. Tom is creative and handy, but he’s not a wizard. To get pots and dirt and seeds takes time. To find a Buddha, fabricate a metal frame, climb a 15-foot ladder, and mount it all 20 feet in the air takes time. To collect, arrange, and mount seven toilet paper holders takes time.

My point is that as absurd as the seven toilet paper holders feel, I love that I find myself thinking about the absurdity of it all while I’m going to the bathroom.

In Close to the Bayou I describe the Tattoo as “the largest vessel for and expression of Tom’s creativity.” To me, this building is a living, breathing piece of artwork. For me, entering this space is stimulating and exhausting in the same way that walking through an incredible exhibition is. And while I can’t imagine living there, I always leave feeling totally inspired and energized to create.

In a perfect world, I think some major art collector or museum would buy Tom’s home and preserve it in whatever state he leaves it when he eventually leaves it by choice or as he leaves this world. It’s upsetting that I know that won’t happen. That someone will buy this amazing building and Tom will either have to scurry to figure out what the hell he’s going to do with all this stuff as they make plans to gut it all and turn it into a sterile palace of their own imagination, or worse, some sort of mixed-use nightmare.

I can’t imagine what that process is going to be like. I also don’t have to because I have a feeling that I’ll, begrudgingly but also somehow willingly and enthusiastically get dragged into it.

Until then, it genuinely makes me happy to imagine Tom meandering this space that I’ve seen change so much over the years.

If you’re in New Orleans and have a chance to stop by the Tattoo I’d encourage you to do so. Tom will probably take you on a tour of his 50-year art career that he’s painstakingly curated in his museum-like home. Tell him Dimitri told you to come by.

When you head to the bathroom, where you’ll find numerous pieces of artwork as well, make sure to take a peek at the toilet and maybe even use it so you can ponder which roll you’ll pull from.

Other People's Stories

I remember early on in my journey as a photographer remarking on the seemingly endless waterfall of ideas that many of my favorite photographers seemed to have. I’d think to myself,

“How did they think of that?”

I recognized at that point that most great photography stories are less a reflection of a photographer’s technical skill and much more a reflection of an idea, a spark of creativity, a deeper understanding translated into picture form.

Those sparks just weren’t igniting in me. If I’m being honest, I remember feeling a sort of jealousy. Why weren’t those ideas coming to me?

At the time, I was waiting tables five days a week. As I moved to Austin in 2018 I was looking at a savings account that was nearly empty and while my intention was to work as a photographer I just needed to put my head down and make some money. Before clocking in at 4, I’d be sending emails, applying for grants, making pictures for the local paper, or finding my own stories. It was exhausting.

It wasn’t until I was laid off from my restaurant job in March of 2020 that I realized just how physically and mentally draining that work had been. Tracking my steps on my phone I found that I had been walking 5-6 miles a night in a concrete rectangle for over a year.

As the world slowed down for a bit, my mind was given a moment to pause, to reset, and to feel a real creative spark for the first time since I had moved to Austin. It was during that time that I finished my cookbook Heart-Shaped Tomatoes and started my new photobook Close to the Bayou.

As I was diagnosed with cancer in January of 2022, I was once again forced to slow down as I couldn’t work for nearly six months. During a time when I wasn’t able to make images with any regularity, I was thinking a lot about the images I wanted to make, what I was missing, and what I would focus on once the miraculous liquid that was simultaneously curing this deadly illness and kicking the living shit out of me was out of my body.

As a photographer, I am constantly asked to tell other people’s stories—stories for a brand, a newspaper, a business. That’s what I love doing, telling other people’s stories. But as that miracle liquid left my body and my mind started to *slowly* settle down, I felt a greater sense of urgency to tell the stories that I personally resonate with.

This is not said with any sort of judgment or desire to create a hierarchy of how important different stories are. I say it to acknowledge what I would like to prioritize in my own life and artistic practice.

My mind has shifted to a point where I have the seemingly endless waterfall of ideas that I saw in the photographers I looked up as I was starting out. As I reflect on how far my business has come, I am wildly grateful to say that I also now make the majority of my income from making pictures instead of waiting tables. That has created a dramatic shift in my ability to think creatively. At the same time, for now, my most creative ideas often cost more money than they will make me. To make a living as a photographer I have to look for work that’s outside of that sphere—to tell other people’s stories. 

I have always seen the more financially lucrative work that I do propel my next expedition to Mongolia, printing my book, funding an exhibition—these are expensive pursuits. I am really lucky to have found something I care so deeply about that also supports me financially. I also think that at times, that connection can complicate my relationship with photography. 

There’s part of me that feels a desire to totally detach the pressure of making money from my work as a photographer.

This is what it feels like to try to make art in a capitalist culture.

I know I’m not alone in what I’m feeling, but it can still feel like a lonely pursuit at times.

As 2023 comes to an end, the existential question I’m asking myself is if making money from photography is even something I care to engage in?

And while I know the answer has to be “yes” in some ways, how can I do more to use my photography to foster connection and create more joy in my own life? Ultimately that’s what I care about.

What I really care about doing with my photography is very specific—documenting a wolf hunting tradition in Mongolia, creating a new body of work about extreme heat in Texas, telling a story about the expansion of I-35 and the displacement of minority-owned businesses.

The list of ideas that I have is long. It can feel like I don’t have enough time to do them all while also making enough money to pay my bills. My days are often consumed writing emails that start with “I’d be excited to introduce myself and my work!”

What I am truly excited about is living with a nomadic family for weeks at a time. I am excited about using the book form as an artistic medium. I am excited to actually make work. My work.

If anyone is still with me as I deteriorate into existential word vomit, here are my photo-related goals for 2024—I have some other personal goals but those are just for me. If you see me, hold me to them.

Do more popups.
Engaging with your community in person fills you up! Do more of that dude!

Print more images. 
Instagram is dumb. Websites are dumb. Ink on paper is cool.
*as he posts this on his website and Instagram*

Make more books that will go in people’s homes. 
See above.

Exhibit my work in some way, even if it’s in my garage.
Push yourself to exhibit your work in ways that resonate with you. You don’t need expensive frames and a white-walled exhibition space to make this happen!

Make more connections in person instead of online.
Send fewer emails. Meet people, shake their hands, look them in the eye.

Get back to Mongolia.
Riding horses across frozen rivers and looking through binoculars at tiny wolves is the literal dream. 12-year-old Dimitri would have expected nothing less. Do it for him.

 

“ Il momento è arrivato.”

 
 

During the second week in January, my family was given the news that my grandmother Elda Cristini’s kidneys were functioning well below the levels that indicate “End Stage” kidney failure. And while the doctor gave her two weeks to live, they said that really, “She shouldn’t be alive.”

Frankly, I don’t think it’s possible to sugarcoat anything from someone who lived in a time when acquiring sugar was illegal. Even before she got the truth that she demanded, I think my grandmother recognized that she was transitioning into death.

It took a few days in a hospital bed but in a brief moment of universal understanding, I watched an expression I had never seen flash across my grandmother's face. It was a brief smirk that I’ll never forget. It was like watching a cat well beyond her nine lives realizing that she’s at the end of her last, a prolific bank robber in the midst of a heist realizing that finally, they were going to be caught. It was an expression of relief and grief, of graceful acceptance, but also a will to fight for just a little bit longer.

It felt like her spirit shining through.

Speaking to herself, but maybe also to her own anchors–God, Padre Pio, her mother, I watched and listened to her say in Italian “Il momento è arrivato.”

The moment has arrived.

In what shouldn’t come as a surprise, Elda would go on to live until April 30th, well beyond the two weeks her doctors gave her. While she may have acknowledged that the transition had begun, she wasn't ready to go right away. Over the last few months, my family and her closest friends were able to continue to create many beautiful and lasting memories.

The night before her passing, Elda sat at her kitchen table with my mother making zucchine alla parmigiana.

Today would have been Elda’s 103rd birthday.

* * *

I could say a lot more. Maybe, in time, I will.

What I do want to express now is how grateful I am to everyone who helped preserve, share, and elevate my grandmother’s spirit through Heart-Shaped Tomatoes, most notably my mom Maria Cristini, the book’s co-author Madelyn Wigle, and the book’s designer Mitch Wiesen.

I also want to thank everyone who has purchased a copy of Heart-Shaped Tomatoes and more importantly who read my grandmother’s stories and recipes and made them their own. It's an honor to know that her story resonated with so many people and that her legacy will be carried on through the hearts, minds, and bellies of so many people she never met.

My grandmother passed knowing that hundreds of people from all over the United States, and even a few abroad, have made her recipes! At the moment I only have about 25% of the copies of Heart-Shaped Tomatoes that I started with. Realistically, I don’t see myself continuing to promote this book in the same way that I was able to before. If you feel inclined to purchase another copy for a friend, I would genuinely appreciate it. I look forward to sending this project off together with my grandmother.

Smoke and Spirits

Smoke and Spirits

The real revelation that I’m heading back to Mongolia always hits me as I arrive at my gate at Incheon Airport. The global nature of the travelers passing through Seoul immediately narrows. Rounding the corner to my gate I’m greeted by the familiar sibilance that’s characteristic of the Mongolian language. It’s a language that, like so many aspects of the country, can feel harsh at first.

Read More

Heart-Shaped Tomatoes at Nixta Taqueria

This past Sunday, I had the honor of collaborating with Chef Edgar Rico of Nixta Taqueria who reinterpreted several of my grandmother Elda Cristini’s recipes from my cookbook Heart-Shaped Tomatoes.

For those unfamiliar with Nixta, it’s a restaurant on East 12th Street in Austin, Texas. Since opening three years ago, Nixta and its chef-owner Edgar Rico, and owner Sara Mardanbigi have consistently been awarded for the incredible food they put out. Most recently, Chef Rico won the James Beard Award for Emerging Chef and was named to TIME Magazine’s TIME100—a list of the world’s most influential artists, leaders, and innovators. 

I’ve been lucky to work at Nixta off and on for the last year, and it has been through that work that I’ve come to know Edgar and Sara, who are married and co-own Nixta together. They are two of the kindest and most genuine people I’ve ever met and certainly worked with.

I was taken aback when during a quiet moment at the beginning of a shift Edgar asked me very casually, “Would you be down to let me cook some of your grandma’s dishes for a dinner here?” My answer was a much less casual, and much more emphatic “Hell yes!”

It took a while for our schedules to match up, but as they finally did I was nervous and excited about the opportunity to have my grandmother’s recipes shared and manifested in an evening of celebration.

I tried to capture the whole process of what went into the dinner. For me, the experience of watching Edgar, Sara, and both the front and back-of-house teams prepare the food was as important to me as seeing guests excited about Edgar’s interpretations of my grandmother’s recipes.

It was amazing to see the haphazard coordination of three pairs of arms twirling together 26 plates of spaghetti with my grandma’s pesto recipe. And for that pesto pasta to be so thoughtfully paired with wine from Abruzzo, the region of Italy where my grandmother is from.

As I watched those 26 plates come together, I thought about my grandmother’s culinary energy, her old-world stubbornness, her spirit twirling into that spaghetti, onto the plate, and into the mouths and bellies of a group of friends and strangers who have never met her before.

It was beautifully overwhelming. A moment and an evening I will remember for a long time.

✷ ✷ ✷

In addition to everyone at Nixta, this dinner would have never happened without everyone else who contributed to making Heart-Shaped Tomatoes—specifically the book’s co-author Madelyn Wigle, my mom Maria Cristini who wrote all the recipes, and the book’s designer Mitch Wiesen.

Click images to enlarge.

Summer in 19 Images

Between June and August, I spent five weeks teaching and capturing marketing imagery for Smithsonian Student Travel and Putney Student Travel followed by two weeks of travel with my partner. It has been an incredible summer filled with so many opportunities to find and capture interesting imagery. As I’ve started to look through the thousands of images that I captured, I wanted to share a small selection here on my blog.

While the goal of most of my images this summer was very specific—to tell the story of students traveling abroad in a way that will help sell programs, in the moments between capturing that exciting client work, I was able to find moments to shoot for myself.

What I love most about traveling is the opportunity to let go of some of the rigidity that comes with existing and photographing in a more familiar environment. As I’ve been going through my images, I see myself shooting with much more fluidity which is something that I hope to incorporate into my practice more broadly.

Over the last year, I’ve been learning and studying the art of pairing and sequencing images. As an extension of that study, bookmaking has become an essential part of my practice. And while this blog and a book certainly aren’t the same formats, I wanted to use this collection of images as an opportunity to practice pairing and sequencing images.

My hope is that these images tell a story of sorts, but more importantly, evoke the way traveling throughout Europe this summer made me feel. A brush with the unfamiliar, mass tourism, and awe-inspiring beauty all together all at once. Take a look!

Turning 102

On May 18th my grandma Elda Cristini turned 102. I’ve been lucky to spend a lot of time with her over the last year, but this birthday felt special as I recently beat a cancer diagnosis, and she a nasty Covid infection. There was a lot to celebrate together as it was also the first time I had been able to see her in person since she had received the finished version of Heart-Shaped Tomatoes, the cookbook I wrote about her.

To mark the occasion, I decided to interview Elda and ask her about cooking and what it means to her. As always, she didn’t disappoint.

I thought about including subtitles but decided not to. I love the way my grandma speaks English and feel like her grasp of the language never fails to allow her to get her point across if you’re listening closely. So listen closely! I think she has some beautiful thoughts to share.

My good friend Andrew Meriwether, an incredibly talented audio producer, created the script. Here’s a link to his website.

Heart-Shaped Tomatoes © Dimitri Staszewski and Madelyn Wigle

2021 in 21 Images (with some videos!)

As is always the case, it’s impossible to distill any year into a selection of images. And while summarizing in this way cannot possibly reflect all the year’s nuances, I find it to be a really helpful exercise for my own photography practice. It gives me the opportunity to ask myself how I was using photography for the last twelve months. 

That reflection has come to reveal some often unconscious connections between the various projects I’ve been engaged in. Looking back at my images from two years ago in 2020 for example, it was clear that I was using photography to try and make sense of the world outside of myself.

Looking back at my images from 2021, I see myself looking inward. I was able to use photography to deepen my relationships with those closest to me and as an excuse for introduction. I even photographed myself formally for the first time!

I consider myself a documentary photographer, but that term can mean so many things. As opposed to being a more detached observer, I found that in 2021, photography became a point of engagement—it helped enrich my experiences, brought me closer to the people I was photographing, and helped create new layers of meaning in my life.

As a photographer, I have so many people to be grateful for in 2021. I’m grateful for the friends, family, and strangers who graciously allowed me to capture their images. I’m grateful to the clients who hired me. You all allow me to make a living doing what I love. I’m especially grateful to everyone who pre-ordered a copy of my cookbook project Heart-Shaped Tomatoes. I feel incredibly supported and lucky to be doing what I’m doing.

Take your time going through the twenty-one images and videos that I chose to represent this year. You can click on the images to enlarge them.

I was setting up my camera when Houston-based rapper WxxdyB hopped out of his car and asked “Do you shoot videos?!” I told him I mainly shoot photos and asked if I could take his portrait.

My grandmother Elda Cristini the day after her 101st birthday in Belmont, Massachusetts.

Thomas Mann, from the series Being Tom.

Contemporary beading artist and Big Chief of the Young Seminole Hunters Demond Melancon at his studio in New Orleans, Louisiana.

For me, 2021 began as I put on a suit and went to work for the Texas Senate five days a week and spent weekends driving to Houston to help a friend and chosen uncle through prostate cancer treatment.

My job with the Senate was admittedly very challenging. I was often in the room as bills that I believe violate our constitutionally mandated civil rights were being passed. I’m very comfortable documenting history as a photojournalist serving the public. But documenting history as a service to the Texas Senate was not something I was comfortable with long-term. While I worked for the non-partisan Senate Media Department, I felt that in a small way I was aiding the process of passing the legislation I was fundamentally opposed to. Naturally, there was a lot of introspection.

As a photographer, I often think about the moments I’ve missed—photos I regret not taking. As a bill I was fundamentally opposed to was passed in the Senate, its author called on me to capture a moment of triumph. Without thinking much about it, I stepped into my role as a photographer, took the picture, and left for the day. Coming back to work the next morning, I went through my images from the previous day. I was fixated on that series of images. I realized that for the first time, I regretted taking a photo.

The image was unremarkable, and there’s no need to share it here. But it was an important moment for my progression as a photographer.

Have you ever regretted taking a photo?

 
 

While I working for the Texas Senate, I would leave Austin each Friday right after work and drive to Houston where I was helping an artistic mentor and uncle figure of mine, Thomas Mann. Tom was undergoing prostate cancer treatment at MD Anderson and needed help making jewelry, but also just appreciated the company as his ability to interact with other people was basically non-existent because of Covid. I was getting tested six times per week because of my job and taking extreme precautions not to get Covid, so I felt comfortable visiting Tom.

My experience with Tom turned into something I never could have imagined. We’d cook and make jewelry together during the day, and spend hours just sitting and talking with each other at night. I had some of the most influential conversations of my life during the three months I spent with Tom—conversations that shifted how I see myself as an artist and what I’m doing as a photographer.

I ended up creating a large body of work about Tom that is broadly about his experience of sickness in isolation. Below are a few images from the project. I’m excited to share more about that project as soon as possible!

By May of 2021, I was completely burnt out. I had almost no time to myself between January and May and while that period of time was one of the most artistically and personally fulfilling moments of my life, I needed a break from everything and everyone.

Towards the end of my contract with the Texas Senate, I was offered another contract to teach a photography workshop in Yellowstone National Park. I jumped at the opportunity which gave me the perfect excuse to plan a five-week road trip from Austin to Montana and back. I spent a lot of time looking for stories and creating more photography work, and just as much time camping on mountain tops and soaking in remote hot springs.

 

Monument Valley in the Navajo Nation.

 

Waking up to photograph the Bonneville Salt Flats at sunrise, I stumbled across an interesting scene as I was heading back to the interstate. I would come to find out that I had just entered the second largest amateur rocket launching event in the country—LDRS 39, which of course stands for Large Dangerous Rocket Ships. It’s the Tripoli Rocket Association’s premier event each year and was hosted by the Utah Rocket Club this time around. I spent a couple of hours watching rockets explode into the desert air and making pictures of this passionate group of enthusiasts.

 
 

“Everybody wants to be a tooler. They wanna make saddles, they wanna make pretty stuff. They don’t wanna get their hands dirty.”

“Religion is man’s interpretation of what God has to say…I consider myself a man of God who rarely succeeds at being a man of god.”

Dallas at the Majestic Dude Ranch in Mancos, Colorado.

During the last quarter of 2021 I needed to focus less on creating new personal work and more on finalizing my cookbook project Heart-Shaped Tomatoes while balancing some exciting freelance projects. Heart-Shaped Tomatoes was co-authored by Madelyn Wigle with recipes by Elda Cristini and Maria Cristini. I can finally say that the book is finished! It has been printed and is currently on a boat from South Korea to the United States. Global supply chain issues have delayed the delivery of the book, but it’ll be here soon!

One of my favorite freelance projects of the year was creating these short videos for GoDaddy Studio, a new app that GoDaddy acquired. After paying for a subscription, users can use stock video content on their own social media. I tried to create videos that could exist beautifully on their own even before users overlay their own logos, text, etc. It had been a while since I had shot any video, but getting back into it has given me energy to reincorporate it into what I’m doing personally and professionally.


My girlfriend Kendall Narde was an amazing model for this shoot.

As I look forward, I’m excited to finally be able to deliver Heart-Shaped Tomatoes to the hundreds of people who have already pre-ordered the book. I have some more work to do to finalize my project Being Tom and look forward to sharing that work soon as well.

 

Self-portrait taken at my grandma’s house the day after her 101st birthday.

 

Byron Seeley in Jeffery City, Wyoming

 
 

Jeffery City was a uranium boomtown now home to an official population of fifty-eight according to the 2010 census. Bryon Seeley, whose bright blue eyes and sun-worn skin match the distinctive glaze and weathered texture that characterizes his pottery, is one of those fifty-eight people.

Driving north of Rawlins along U.S. Route 287 for the first time in five years, I was overjoyed as I passed through Jeffery City to see the familiar hand-painted lettering for Monk King Bird Pottery.

 
 

“You look familiar. Have you been in here before?” It was an unexpected welcome that meant more than he knew.

“I’ve been here fifteen years.” After a long pause he continued “If you count the first nine years where I was drinking. I’m four years sober.”

Quickly moving past his questionable math, I fixated on the word “sober.”

I lived in Lander off and on between 2014 and 2016. During that time, Bryon, whose last name I didn’t know at the time, was a familiar character in the small Central Wyoming town of just over seven thousand people. I say this in the most affectionate way possible, but at the time I knew Byron as the town drunk. I certainly didn’t know Byron well, but everyone who spent any time drinking in Lander knew of him.

“[20]17 was the solar eclipse year and I was on my way out...I wasn’t trying to drink myself to death, I just didn’t care if I did.”

Byron says that after waking up in the hospital “I realized I didn’t want to die after all.”

He describes his journey to sobriety in slow, short sentences, “It’s hard. I loved alcohol. It was fun. My life’s a lot better.”

Today Byron’s pottery business is doing better than he ever could have imagined. He’s selling his work faster than he can make it, and yet he’s still running his business on his own terms.

After picking out a beautiful mug and bowl, I realized I didn’t have enough cash for both. Byron told me not to worry—to take the bowl and send the $12 I owed him to his P.O. box in Lander.

As I left he said “Say hello to Lander for me.” He rarely goes into town anymore and when he does it’s only to help take care of his mother.

I had been apprehensive about going back to Lander and many of the places I’ve visited in the last month. Not because things ended badly, but because they ended so perfectly. I didn’t want to complicate the golden memories I had of some of the places I was returning to. And yet, I had planned to come back and inevitably complicate those memories.

But reconnecting with Byron was incredibly impactful. It was the kind of magically serendipitous interaction that seems to happen for me frequently when I’m out West.

As I’ve returned to familiar spaces and reconnected with people from my past, it’s easy to remember them as they were. But we’re all changing, shifting, progressing, regressing, and evolving.

The town drunk got sober and doesn’t go into town anymore.

Five Months with the Texas Senate

This year started with a five-month job working as a full-time photographer for the Texas Senate. I was documenting the Senate’s 87th Legislative Session. Being in the room for committee hearings and floor debates was wildly interesting, educating, infuriating, as well as uplifting—often all within the span of a few hours or even minutes.

Texas has a unique legislative process. The state legislature only goes into session for five months every other year. And while the governor can call a special session, for the most part, all the bills that are going to be passed every two years have to go through the legislature during that five-month period.

I took the job because I thought that this session would be especially consequential as well as visually interesting because of the Black Lives Matter protests that had happened in 2020 as well as the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. I couldn’t have guessed just how consequential it would become.

My job started on January 11th, just a few days after the insurrection that took place at the US Capitol. There was a very noticeable military presence because of threats on all state Capitol buildings. This was all while mandatory COVID-19 testing and mask-wearing were taking place to enter the Senate Chamber. In mid-February, a catastrophic winter storm shut down much of the Texas power grid, forcing a whole new line of legislation to be written. Needless to say, there was a lot that was covered.

I plan on writing more about the experience in the near future. For now, here are some of my favorite images that I shot between January and May.

You can click the first image and then use your left and right arrow keys to view the images as a slideshow.

Airport Blvd

Airport Blvd

During the very early stages of the ongoing pandemic, I set out to capture Airport Blvd—6.6-miles of pavement that intersects a large swath of greater East Austin, passes through an airport turned mixed-used development, and across I-35 where it comes to an end.

It’s one of many corridors in a sprawling, Southern city—a city in which access to transportation becomes a prerequisite to accessing employment, food, health care, education, and entertainment.

Read More

Houston pt. 1: Dominoes at Sunset

 

Click images to enlarge.

 

“Sometimes the game is just a conduit for something greater,
or a window into a more vital community.”

from Hanif Abdurraqib’s essay A World of Black Intimacy at the Card Table

I’d pull into Houston’s Third Ward at sunset, greeted by purple skies and bellowing Spanish Moss.

As I learned the neighborhood I was staying in, I became accustomed to a group of men who would make an appearance each weekend.

R&B blared from an oversized loudspeaker that would reverberate through the whole park as they slammed dotted porcelain-colored tiles onto the picnic table that had become theirs.

I’d highly recommend opening a window and queuing up “I Want to Be Your Man” by Roger and “Try Me Tonight” by T.K. Soul, two of the songs they’d play, to put yourself in the right frame of mind.

Parking during one such sunset, I was struck by beautiful light and energetic domino playing. I worked up the courage to ask the group if I could take a few photos. Disregarding what my light meter was telling me to do, I opted for a faster shutter to avoid the blur that would result from a slower shutter.

A week later, my images had been developed and scanned. Flipping through the frames, not the images shown in this post, it was clear that I had underexposed the film, which were also void of the communal energy I had observed. The images weren’t at all representative of the scene I had hoped to capture and in fact problematic in the way I had been unable to accurately capture darker skin tones. (Check out this great video by Aundre Larrow about shooting and editing darker skin tones.)

But, I had promised to bring prints the next time I was in Houston, so I printed several copies to give to the men who had so graciously allowed me to take their photos.

As the sun was setting on another warm spring evening, there they were again—as joyous and boisterous as ever. Running to my car to grab the prints, I was excited to hand them out. I figured they’d still be appreciative and maybe I was being overly critical.

Handing them out, Bruce, an impressively muscular man in a tight-fitting black tank top and matching fedora asked, “Have you been doing this long? You do know that when take a photo of a group of people you should be able to see all their faces?” His stoic expression quickly cracked into a smile.

In a few seconds, the entire table, including myself, was laughing, making fun of the underexposed prints.

Making up an explanation for my shortcomings Bruce interjected, “This guy is just getting his start as a photographer. Is everyone cool if he takes some photos?” Everyone was. I’ll have to use that line in the future.

As I captured a new set of images, shown here, it became clear that the first set of images despite missing the mark had served a very important purpose. The men I had met two weeks earlier were unbothered by my presence and I felt much more comfortable as I maneuvered around their table with my bulky medium format camera.

But after being invited in and making some pictures, we took a moment to have a short conversation. They told me about growing up together, we talked about how beautiful Spanish Moss looks at sunset, and the perils of I-10 (if you know, you know).

 
 

I love photography because as an inherently shy, but intensely curious person, my camera gives me an excuse to ask for an invitation into experiences I would otherwise have no reason to be a part of. Without my camera, it would feel very awkward to interrupt a game of dominoes among friends. My camera allows me to connect and engage with people whose lives would otherwise never intersect with mine.

For a very brief moment, I am graciously invited into worlds that I would otherwise never have access to—given “a window into a more vital community” (Hanif Abdurraqib, A World of Black Intimacy at the Card Table).

To be clear, I am in no way kidding myself into thinking that I am somehow deeply, or even superficially connected to a world of Black intimacy as the one Abdurraqib describes. But to be given a glimpse is a privilege in and of itself. Because ultimately, there is something culturally specific and special about a group of Black men who grew up together playing dominoes in the Third Ward.

My intention with these images is to try and capture their camaraderie, a certain brotherhood. I hope it comes across.

 
 

Non-Slip Sneakers

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This week marks a year since Austin shut down for COVID and I was laid off from my job as a server. While the last year has been challenging in many ways, professionally and creatively it has been special. The unstructured free time that COVID has given me has really pushed my creativity. I’ve felt an ability to conceptualize and execute the work I’m most passionate about in a way that I wasn’t able to when I was bogged down by restaurant work.

I acknowledge that my experience of COVID has been privileged in so many ways. And, believe me, I have immense respect for the service industry workers who haven’t had a day off in over a year. I made a whole zine about it.

But reflecting on the last year, I wanted to share an essay I wrote in 2019—a year where I was balancing five serving shifts a week while working for companies that included Google and the New York Times. The duality of that experience was really challenging for me as I’d often find myself serving tables I envisioned myself seated at. I wrote this as a way of processing some of what I was feeling.

At the moment I’m balancing a job as a photographer for the Texas Senate, freelance work, and two large personal projects—more on all that very soon. But I think that like many creatives who have used restaurant work to pay the bills while pursuing what they love, there’s always a fear of needing to go back.

My very logical, and incredibly supportive life and business coach mom would probably caution against sharing this type of thing. But I think she’d also be proud that I feel comfortable enough to share this part of myself—the insecurities that are part of working in a creative field. I also see it as my very small act of rebellion in a digital environment where we are constantly bombarded by success. I hope you enjoy it.

Non-Slip Sneakers
June 2019

Today I put on my first pair of non-slip shoes.

Opening the box felt much like any online purchase. A sense of anticipation and slight nervousness hoping the two-dimensional images flipped through on a screen would translate to the real thing. Putting them on was a little different. Unlike the adolescent feeling that still comes with putting on a new pair of shoes, this was more like opening a new tool. There was no excitement, no disappointment, just the knowledge that they would be put to use.

For those unfamiliar with non-slip shoes, they are commonly worn in the restaurant industry. As a server at a busy restaurant, I constantly move across slippery surfaces. And as I found out, there are actually shoes to help navigate the treacherous terrain that exists between the dining room floor and the kitchen.

Before working in restaurants I never even considered the existence of non-slip shoes. A constant threat of slipping was never a problem I encountered. When it did become a problem I regularly encounter, it still never occurred to me that there would be occupationally specific footwear to help with the perils of puddles and oil smears.

But even when awakened to the existence of non-slip tread, I decided to forgo its practicality. I preferred to brave the smudges and other saturated hazards than accept the permanence of my vocation.

While I’ve worked in restaurants for the last few years, my passion and profession is photography. I’m a photographer.

And while that’s how I see myself, most nights I don’t pack my backpack with my camera and lenses. I lace up my now non-slip shoes, grab a wine key and a lighter, and serve people fancy dinners.

Overhearing some coworkers talking about their preferred footwear and their endorsement of non-slip sneakers, I found myself intrigued. “There’s a website called ‘shoes for crews dot com.’” I had to check it out. “We didn't invent the work shoe. We obsessed over it.” And they really mean it. The non-slip tread they created also forms the actual logo for the brand.

Flipping through shoes I picked out a few favorites and even asked my fashion-forward brother’s opinion. Because of equal parts stubbornness, frugality, and symbolism I had internalized a vehement opposition to personally purchasing non-slip footwear.

But looking through different options and replaying my coworkers’ endorsements in my mind I eventually bought myself a pair of non-slip sneakers. Of course, I got the coolest ones possible—a pair of low-top PF Flyers. But who am I kidding, they’re ugly as hell. The vegan leather has a sheen of convenience that screams “I’m easy to wipe trash juice off of”. And each non-slip step reminds me of just how firmly planted I am.

My avoidance of non-slip shoes came from the knowledge that this was temporary. That a new job, a new opportunity was coming. And those opportunities have come. But they last weeks, days, hours. The necessary march through spilled salsas and floor cleaning solution must continue. And while acceptance does feel like a small defeat, at least now I don’t have to worry as much about slipping.

2020 in 20 Images

It’s impossible for twenty images to distill what happened in any year, but especially this one. We’ve experienced tragedy and revolution, chaos and quiet often all in the span of a single day.

While this year has certainly been challenging, I have felt immense personal growth as a photographer and business owner. In 2020 I worked for commercial clients and daily papers. I shot more rolls of film than in any other year. I had the time and the creative inspiration to shoot and edit important bodies of personal work.

I have so much to be grateful for.

I’m incredibly grateful for everyone who chose to hang one of my images on their wall this year, the photo editors, creative directors, and producers who have taken virtual meetings and hired me, and for the people who have graciously allowed me to capture their stories.

I’m proud of the diversity of work that I created this year. And while the various projects I was a part of have varying looks and feels, I felt my photographic voice grow stronger than ever. Ultimately, my work is about telling stories. I find it so exciting to see my commercial work, journalism work, and personal work take on an increasingly similar style.

I look forward to sharing what 2021 has in store. But for the time being, I want to reflect on the monumental year that 2020 has been. Take your time going through the twenty images that I chose to represent this year. You can click on the images to enlarge them.

McDonald’s on Airport Blvd in Austin, Texas.

Jillian Whitlow

Wendy Guerrero

James Dumapit

Joshua Nkansah-Adjei

These images were a part of a zine I made to say thank you to my friends and former coworkers at Suerte, an amazing restaurant in Austin.

Take a look a the full zine here. I’m looking forward to printing more work in 2021 and have some exciting book projects in the works.

Flint Beamon, co-owner of Barkin’ Creek in Austin. [Shot for Indeed]

Indeed approached me to create a visual case study of a business that uses their platform for hiring. Barkin’ Creek was a perfect partner because of their multifaceted business model and engaged owners. Check out the rest of the images here.

I was thrilled to be able to apply my photojournalistic approach to my commercial work this year.

 

Jenna Harkins and Ruben Staszewski

 

My brother Ruben, his girlfriend Jenna, and I collaborated to create a body of fashion photography work that served as an exploration of memory and my connection with San Francisco. The full body of work can be seen here.

 

My dad, Abrasha Staszewski’s studio.

 
 

Montsho Jarreau Thoth, an artist and friend, during a fall photo shoot in Austin.

 

Jeff was laid off from his job because of COVID-19. Having grown up in San Francisco, he had always seen people fishing from this pier and throughout the Bay Area. He decided to buy some fishing gear and give it a shot. The first time he caught and cooked crab, it wasn’t very good. But he tried it again and described that meal as “some of the best food I’ve ever had.” Now he fishes almost everyday and has even started selling crab for about $5 a pound.

Angela Tsai, a Geometry and Chinese language teacher at Vandegrift High School in Austin, Texas, teaches from behind a homemade protective barrier made from shower curtains she purchased at Walmart. [Shot for The Austin-American Statesman]

Greg Gibson at his home in Round Rock, Texas. Gibson contracted COVID-19 in September 2020. On October 20th, after his initial recovery, he fainted and hit his head during a coughing fit while at work. He was forced to spend thee days in the ICU as a result of brain bleeding. [Shot for USA Today]

Michael Che at his omakase style sushi bar run out of his food truck Tsuke Honten in North Austin. He will be opening Tsuke Edomae, a brick and mortar space in March, 2021. [Shot for Austin360]

 

Following the murder of George Floyd at the hands of police officers in Minneapolis, protests erupted across the country. A man raises his arms in protest outside the Texas Capitol in Austin.

 

Photographing the protests in Austin that took place following the murder of George Floyd allowed me to connect with the city that has become my home. Shooting for myself as opposed to for a publication allowed me to showcase the protests the way I was experiencing them instead of thinking about how a publication would want them represented.

On June 7th, in his opening address to an audience of thousands at Huston-Tillotson University in East Austin, Chas Moore (not pictured) the Executive Director and Founder of the Austin Justice Coalition made it clear that the protest taking place was about much more than fighting against police brutality—it was a protest against police brutality, gentrification, and white privilege as well as a rally for black joy, black health, and black wealth.

Katie Naranjo (left), Field Chair for the Travis County Democratic Party Coordinated Field Team, and Liz McLeod, Coordinated Campaign Manager for TCDP, participate in live-streamed interviews throughout the night as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic during the TCDP Election Day watch party in Austin, Texas. [Shot for The Texas Tribune]

Camille Tealer (left), a Travis County Democratic Party Field Team member, and Danielle Stoller, Precinct Chair for the TCDP, watch CNN’s election night coverage during the TCDP Election Day watch party in Austin, Texas. The watch party, normally attended by the Democratic Party candidates and their guests, was a much more sparse affair with temperature checks, masks, and social distancing implemented. [Shot for The Texas Tribune]

Nik Patrizi, whose restaurant Vic and Al’s was slated to open in mid-March as COVID-19 swept across the country, hands out free gumbo in the Cherrywood neighborhood of Austin.

Vic and Al’s gumbo-mobile was a surprise that I needed to learn more about. Read the full story I shot and wrote here.

Free Gumbo

The winding ten by ten block triangle that makes up the Cherrywood neighborhood in East Austin has become my pandemic safe-haven.

While the neighborhood is quiet for the most part, it will surprise me from time to time. One neighbor has taken to putting balloon animal masterpieces in his front lawn. Another spent days using chalk to write out an abridged but thorough history of racial inequality in the United States, going back to 1619, on the sidewalk. 


One such surprise came in the form of a pink and yellow golf cart. I saw it from a distance, careening through Cherrywood’s canopied streets. As it swerved closer, I could make out Zydeco music blaring from a bluetooth speaker. Closer still, a set of bullhorns with hawk’s feathers affixed to the grill with the words "Free Gumbo" boldly declaring this vehicle's majestic purpose.


Vic and Al’s gumbo-mobile was a surprise that I needed to learn more about.

Nic Patrizi gives away gumbo from his new restaurant Vic and Al’s.

Nic Patrizi gives away gumbo from his new restaurant Vic and Al’s.

Nic Patrizi is the type of restaurant entrepreneur that Austin’s restaurant scene was built around. The scraggly beard, hair pulled back, fast-talking Texan is someone wholly unpretentious but also willing to let people know that if they want a quick bite to eat, they might be better served heading down the block. He makes damned good food, but he isn’t going to let making a quick buck get in the way of making sure the experience he builds around your meal is as exceptional as the food itself.

Nic Patrizi drives his gumbo-mobile through Cherrywood in East Austin.

Nic Patrizi drives his gumbo-mobile through Cherrywood in East Austin.

My first impression of Nic was while in line for Patrizi’s, an Italian food truck on Manor Road on the east side of Austin. He carried himself in a way that gave the impression that “this guy owns the place”—it turns out that he did. Patrizi’s is a food truck that has a thirty-minute line every single night, pretty much from the moment it opens. Yet Nic and his team have managed to turn the agonizing drudgery of waiting into a curated experience. They’ll hold your spot in line as you get a drink, offer house-made snacks, and go through the entire menu to help strategize your order so that the moment you hit the register, you’ve already built the perfect meal.

Having learned from his experiences at Patrizi’s, Nic was slated to open Vic and Al’s, a brick-and-mortar across the street from the food truck, serving Cajun cuisine and craft cocktails. He was ready to implement the same type of forward-thinking experience building into a streamlined dining experience.

As COVID-19 forced restaurants to temporarily shut their doors, pivot to take out, and generally reevaluate the state of their businesses, Nic was days away from opening Vic and Al’s. Needless to say, things didn’t go quite as planned.

As impending layoffs threatened service industry workers, some owners put their people before profit and figured out creative ways to keep their businesses afloat while taking care of their employees. Other owners, including some large restaurant groups with national holdings, laid off entire workforces with little more than a bag of produce that was already on its way out. The Austin service industry came grinding to a halt, wiping out an entire community’s source of income. At the same time, cooks, bartenders, servers, and bussers accustomed to nights filled with lively banter between coworkers, drinks after work, and digging themselves out of the weeds were all of a sudden reckoning with a much slower pace and a very limited ability to connect with the communities they were a part of.

Seeing a need within the local service industry, Nic and his team paused their plans to open a new restaurant, and instead opened a soup kitchen, free for displaced service industry workers and whoever else needed something to eat. Nic quickly realized that the soup kitchen within Vic and Al’s became as much about providing for people’s mental health as it was a space dedicated to nurturing people’s physical health.

 
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“Manor Road was already here.”

When asked about how he sees himself in the broader East Austin community and especially on Manor Road where he now runs two restaurants, Nic pointed to the past. “Manor Road was already here.”—meaning the community was already here. As opposed to seeing himself as a part of some new, he sees himself as entering an already established community, one that he respects deeply.

He pointed to the diversity that exists along Manor, which extends from the more affluent Cherrywood neighborhood through the more working-class neighborhoods that exist as Manor Road travels East across Airport Boulevard. And also to the diversity that exists within Austin’s service industry community more broadly.

His food truck Patrizi’s exists within a space called The VORTEX. It’s an outdoor space built around an artist-owned, alternative theatre space. Their 2018-2019 season showcased performances that ranged from American Blood Song: A Puppet Operetta of The Donner Party to black girl love, “an adaptation of [Anondra 'Kat'] Williams' short stories and poetry that looks at the everyday lives of black queer women and non-binary people.”

Learning from the inclusivity that Nic saw in The VORTEX, the soup kitchen at Vic and Al’s helped uplift a hurting service industry and the surrounding community during the initial fallout from the pandemic.

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As unemployment payments started coming through, bringing some short-term financial security to service industry workers, it was time for Nic to refocus on Vic and Al’s, the soup kitchen, back to Vic and Al’s, the Cajun restaurant.

Nic’s passion and deep knowledge of Cajun food and culture is apparent. Having grown up in Beaumont, Texas, near the Louisiana border, his roots are in Cajun country. For him, Cajun cuisine is a style of cooking that is closely connected to the land and emphasizes using everything. “It’s storied, it’s seasonal, it’s fresh...It’s about process and history.”

“The end result is something beautiful, swampy, funky, and fun.”

He finds that a lot of people have a simplistic view of Cajun food—crawfish boils and shrimp po-boys. And while he finds beauty in people fighting over the best way to make barbecue shrimp for example, he also finds simplified characterizations to be “a slap in the face of the diaspora of Cajun cuisine.” A diaspora that draws from West African, French, and Italian cooking styles, to name a few. At the same time, a lot of people categorize what he’s doing as “a modern twist on Cajun”—a refrain he finds equally ridiculous.

Nic spent five minutes explaining how he makes Vic and Al’s demi-glace to describe why calling what they’re doing “a modern twist” doesn’t make sense.


While a “proper” demi-glace is made with veal bones and Bordeaux, Nic uses trimmings and the bones from his house-cured tasso ham combined with whatever combination of wine and spirits feels right, is on hand, and tastes good to him that day. The vegetables that make up the mirepoix he adds to the sauce are often scraps from other recipes and their combination never resembles a traditional mirepoix. Finally, he lets the sauce develop for five days instead of the more standard two. 

“The end result is something beautiful, swampy, funky, and fun.” To Nic, that fluid and divergent process of using what’s on hand to build off classic techniques and traditional Cajun recipes is as Cajun as it gets.

The house made bitters at Vic and Al’s.

The house made bitters at Vic and Al’s.

Terra Stahlbaum, Vic and Al’s Bar Manager.

Terra Stahlbaum, Vic and Al’s Bar Manager.

Vic and Al’s cocktail menu was built around the same principles. As other restaurants chose to focus on making cocktail kits, Terra Stahlbaum, Vic and Al’s talented bar manager came up with a to-go cocktail program utilizing single-serve, heat-sealed bags. 

As Terra was forced to reimagine her cocktail menu, she asked herself “What do I think people would want in this time?” She figured people wanted something fun, approachable, exciting, but also nothing intimidating. Most importantly, “I want you to get the taste of sitting at my bar from the comfort of your home.”

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Ashlynn Patrizi prepares one of Vic and Al’s heat-sealed to-go cocktails.

Ashlynn Patrizi prepares one of Vic and Al’s heat-sealed to-go cocktails.

She felt that even with cocktail kits, there’s some amount of work that needs to be done. With Vic and Al’s to-go cocktail program, it’s as easy as pouring the premade cocktail over ice.

While Terra has certainly been up for the dynamism required to navigate COVID-19 as a bar manager, “It’s hard not to see someone’s reaction to the cocktail I made.” 

“We have regulars, but you don’t get an hour and a half with them a week. You get two minutes.”

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Terra describes the distance that permeates every aspect of her job. “Distance from that initial reaction to that cocktail. Distance between orders. Distance between customers, but also distance between me and the final cocktail.”

As people take their drinks home, they present them in creative ways and post them to social media. Terra is able to see the final forms her cocktails take as different people add their own touches with different glassware and flare.

As members of the service industry return to work, the daily grind of working at a restaurant has created a disarming new reality for a community accustomed to a faster pace and less space. The reality that exists now is one in which distance exists where close proximity was the norm.

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To be greeted by a masked go-kart driver shelling out free gumbo as I walked through my neighborhood during a global pandemic was a goddamn miracle. But the more I learned about what Nic, Terra, and the team at Vic and Al’s, the more I’ve been drawn to their story.


If you’re lucky enough to be in Cherrywood in Austin, Texas as the sun starts to go down, listen not for the familiar plunking of an ice cream truck, but for the faint heartbeat of Zydeco hopefully getting louder as a wondrous, long-horned golf cart gets closer and closer.


If you don’t live in Cherrywood, I hope you can take solace in the fact that this gumbo go-kart simply exists. As we raise our glasses to computer screens for virtual happy hours instead of exchanging banter with our bartenders, it’s beautiful to watch people’s creativity come through in these amazing, inventive ways as they foster meaningful connections with their communities.


When things do begin to open back up and you come to Austin to escape the East Coast winter, for your best friend’s bachelorette, or to experience our decadent food culture first hand, make sure to stop by Vic and Al’s. There will probably be a line, but it’ll be worth the wait.