Dearest readers,

It’s been ages since I wrote. Many Mondays have passed wherein I arrive at yet another hotel and step out of the cold embrace of an elevator to wander the carpetry in search of a door that awaits my keycard. Nashville, Minneapolis, Spokane, Seattle, Portland, and Tempe, you each cradled my head at night (in variously pillowed hands) and welcomed our show to your stages. Thank you.

I’ve walked to work in every type of weather: sweaty, shivering, yearning for a coat, layered like a fava bean, dry and half naked. Regardless of the climate outside, when we enter the dimly lit atmosphere of backstage I always zip into a little sweatshirt to explore the new moonscape. Theatres and hotels are tuned to the same setting as the abandoned crisper drawer in your refrigerator. I’m well preserved.

It’s become my routine to wander the aisles of whatever local grocery store is nearest our hotel the minute I am settled. To casual shoppers it may appear that I’m unsure of what to buy, that I’m scouring the shelves for a good deal. Untrue. I buy the same items every week, I’m just easily overwhelmed by the packaging and artistry on display under the fluorescent lights. I’m terrible at grocery shopping. Which is why I stick to my well-worn rut:

• 1 pound Sliced Turkey

• 1 pound Honey I Shrunk the Carrots

• 1 pound Something Green (cucumber, snap peas, broccoli)

• Fruit (mostly bananas, the shellac on conventional apples may be good for checking my mascara but unappealing for a snack)

• Corn Chips/Pretzels/Rice Cakes

• 1 container Hummus, size: Embarrassing

These foodstuffs build my breakfast and lunch every day, then I treat myself to a dip of reality for dinner and excurse to a restaurant. It isn’t healthy. But it is routine. And lord knows I love a routine (particularly the opening to Chorus Line).

Now that the weather is cresting Spring everywhere I’m craving a picnic. Gingham lining, a nice dry salami, and a container of this lentil salad; these are the images that soothe my dessicated brain. Invite friends to the green, crack open cool beers or something tall and bubbling, and enjoy a meal in the sun. Soon I shall rejoin you in the proper loop of time and space, until then, best wishes on Springtime picnicking!

I will travel in jealousy.

(and leg warmers)

For the last two weeks we’ve been parked on the beach in Ft. Lauderdale. Accompanying the sun and sand was a swarm of Spring Break Zombies, roving packs of girls in alarming swim wear and pillaging squadrons of boys, shirtless, beer in hand. I count myself fortunate that I witnessed only two of these fine specimens mid-vomit.

Note to self: Do not allow future children such leisure.

Note to self: You are becoming a draconian parent. Get a boyfriend first.

For the first time on this tour we stayed in one city for two weeks. This afforded us the luxury of a proper day off (normally we travel every Monday, our only day off per week). The middle Monday was entirely open, an adventure in waiting.

A castmate invited a few of us on her father’s boat for the day, then to a relaxing evening back at his villa. I will admit to some trepidation at a day spent floating. I imagined coming back to the hotel in a shade of red heretofore undiscovered. I wore my sunscreen like a second skin and warded off any hint of color. A day floating at sea was exactly what I needed to revive. The gentle bobbing soothed my frayed nerves and brought a sense of calm to this frantic hotel-to-hotel life.

Of course, I can never spend too many hours without thinking about food. Our plan was to return to the villa après ocean and eat something. I don’t eat just something. My compatriots didn’t want to stress me out with a request for a big meal, but I assured them that time in a kitchen was precisely what my dislocated brain needed.

The night before we left I made a giant batch of Filipino Adobo marinade, split into three Ziploc bags. I turned my hotel room into a prep kitchen, smashing garlic and chopping up raw cane sugar. Should you ever find yourself in the need for a simple and powerful marinade, memorize this: Equal parts Tamari, Vinegar (rice is best), and Water. Add a few cloves of smashed garlic, some star anise, and some sugar (if you have those on hand) and soak any protein in the dark liquid.

I sent the marinade off with a friend who was going up early and asked her to pour it over a few pounds of skirt steak. She obeyed exquisitely. Once in the kitchen that evening I set to work. The skirt steak would be grilled, the marinade reduced into a syrupy sauce. I grilled asparagus and red onions, then tossed them in a chili-aioli. I had my friends make a giant pot of rice, expecting them to overcook it. They followed suit and apologized for the mushy rice. No worry, I exclaimed, it was perfect.

In my wok I fried little cubes of salami with a crowd of scallions. I stirred the fried aromatics into my mushy rice, seasoned with salt and rice vinegar, then heated some sesame oil in the basin of the wok. I pressed the overcooked rice into a large disk in the bottom of the wok and heated it over medium-high heat until crisp. With one hefty flick of the pan I sent the rice cake skyward and caught it on its pale, unheated side. A few more minutes then I slid the crisp cake out onto a glass platter and presented dinner to my friends under the stars.

For desert I grilled nectarines and mangoes, then drizzled a quick-made caramel over everything and spooned that over vanilla ice cream.

All of this is to say: HOW HAVE I BEEN LIVING WITHOUT A KITCHEN FOR SO LONG?!

Also: please make the cake above. I still haven’t baked a beautiful treat and my soul is weeping.

Today we fly to Nashville, who has recommendations for me?

Our time in Tampa whizzed by too quickly. The sun graces us with heat and a squinting smile every day and we returned the favor with exposed limbs and excessive lounging at the pool. I had not a single remarkable meal in that fair city, but left with sweaty memories of an evening spent spiraling down the rabbit-hole that is Ybor City.

Ybor is the old Cuban part of town, if you’re unfamiliar, take a stroll. It’s charming, filled with shops, and a bit touristy. On a day-trip to find a woven straw hat (success!) a castmate and I noted all the clubs lined up along the strip. We vowed to come back after a show, we needed to dance.

Our adventure began at a cat-themed, thumping, industrial club, whose clientele were mostly under 21 and dressed like tramps. We wore wrist bands demarcating our age, flashing them like neon scars to scare off the jittery youth.

We left that silly club within the hour and fled a few blocks north to a partially hidden stone building called Castle. What awaited us within we could never have guessed. Larry and I approached the door, paid our paltry $5 entrance fee (NYC, take heed), then ascended paisley patterned stairs surrounded by chess-board wall paper. When we crested the staircase, we stood at the mouth of a glowing dance floor, lit partially by three overhead screens looping a sepia-toned silent horror film.

The dance floor was filled with grown-up versions of high school archetypes: The greasy haired boys in wide-legged jeans, the pale girls in corsetry, costumes and makeup; alter-egos flaring. Castle is a goth-club, and if you ever pass through Tampa you’d be a fool to skip it. The night was as baffling as it was exhilarating, the DJ spinning Korn, John Maus, Depeche Mode and The Cure.

Tampa, thank you for the dance.

New Orleans, you’re a wicked mistress.

I was nervous about my week in New Orleans. Before I arrived I had amassed a list of restaurant suggestions so lengthy I’d need a month to accomplish such eating. Nevermind, I set my eyes on the map and planned out my 7-day descent into gluttony. Upon landing I was immediately whisked away from my hotel by my dear friend Caroline to a standby in the French Quarter, Felix’s, where I ate 6 raw oysters and a bowl of gumbo. To be honest, the platter of chipped ice presented half a dozen bloated, utterly flavorless oysters and the gumbo was so aggressively salted it could only have been served to a tourist, but it was an authentic New Orleans experience and needed to be checked off the list.

Caroline was determined to give me an insider’s look at New Orleans so she drove me to a club, Mimi’s in the Marigny, which has a bouncing second floor on Monday and Wednesday nights. We ascended stairs to the sounds of classic French guitar jazz, muted nylon strings, an upright bass, a singer in a tight pencil skirt at a microphone tuned through ancient equipment to send sound waves from another generation over the dance floor. Caroline is an excellent swing dancer and she pulled me into the most charming world I’ve visited in ages. Everyone was bouncing, many of the couples were moving with such carefree precision it was impossible to look away. Caroline insisted that we dance together, and, while swing is not my forte, we had a wonderful time.

The next few days found me repeatedly at Lüke’s happy hour (50-cent oysters), a fine bistro in John Besh’s empire. To accompany my oysters, one night I ordered a braised pork shank with choucroute and another night hoarded a jar of rabbit and chicken liver pate to myself while the table watched in awe of my spoon-filled obsession. All of Besh’s places have fantastic mid-afternoon specials, hit the bar between 3-6 if you can.

 I ate pork cheeks and wood fired oysters at Cochon (determined to ingest the delicate sea creature in every form possible) and had my most memorable meals at Maurepas. Maurepas prides itself on locally sourced everything and it shows. My first night there I dipped my toe in the ocean of their delights, some roasted beets, bubbling brussels, an arugula salad with chicken skin and grilled flounder. On my second trip I took three compatriots, less for their company than their stomachs. With extra bodies in tow, I could feel no shame in ordering nearly the entire menu for sampling. 

We began with their cocktails, concoctions so foreign I had to survey their anatomy twice. Rye, caraway, lime and house-made bitters in one. Cachaca, Arrak, curry and lime in another. We sipped and passed, too eager to try each flavor to care about cooties. With the support of the table we ordered the beets, a roasted carrot salad, braised collards, grilled broccoli, and grits whose texture approached the mouthfeel of a marshmallow. We were stunned. 

As our entrees arrived we were delighted to find the bar makes their own ginger beer. A round was ordered for the table and as the sparkling glasses arrived our eyebrows lifted in mutual astonishment. A sip took me straight to the root, to the rhizome, of the drink. It tasted of such fresh ginger we could not stop our eyes from widening with every drink.  

When we had finished the meal I looked around the table to find a sea of clean plates. The white square dish that once held our beets was smeared in their blood and flecked with the bright green oil of a fresh parsley dressing. It was, perhaps, the prettiest massacre I’ve ever seen.

My heartfelt thanks go to the staff of Maurepas who treated us like family every time we walked in the door. Should you find yourself in New Orleans, make a point of eating there (at least once). My wallet is significantly thinned after this week of gluttony, but my tastebuds will repay the debt threefold for what I’ve tasted in New Orleans. Next up: two weeks in Ft. Lauderdale on the beach, a perfectly cucumbersome way to detox.

I’ll let A.J. Liebling finish this post for me, his sentiments ring true decades later:

“If the first requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite, the second is to put in your apprenticeship as a feeder when you have enough money to pay the check but not enough to produce indifference of the total.”

Too true.

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The day I’ve dreaded since the beginning of this tour has finally arrived: I forgot my home address. I was filling out some paperwork for the show and when it came time to write down my zip code I looked in every dark corner of my mind only to find cobwebs and cakecrumbs. This life on the road has finally caught up with me and left me neatly unhinged from reality. I had to google my apartment to figure out the final bit of my address, in time I suppose I might forget all of it at once!

From injurious Wilmington we took flight to Atlanta, looking forward to warm(er) weather and a new theatre. We played the Fox and stayed directly across the street at the charming Georgian Terrace. When we checked into our rooms we were all blissed to find full kitchens (with dishwashers natch) and, tucked behind accordion doors in the bathroom, our own washer and dryer! My excitement at these luxuries paints me as a true homebody, and though we were destined to leave Atlanta at week’s end, I intended to make every use of those machines.

I’m beginning to find routine in my travels, the first task that needs attention upon landing is grocery shopping. In Atlanta we walked to the local Publix and fetched goods for the week. With a full stove and oven at my disposal I aimed for the moon and bought chicken thighs, oxtail, black beans, red wine, herbs, broccoli (to be roasted), collards (to be braised), and eggs for my breakfasts. Back at the hotel I strapped my apron to my waist (yes, I am traveling with my favorite apron) and simmered the chicken thighs in garlic, onions, black beans and chili paste. A home-cooked meal was precisely what my lagging spirit needed, I invited a castmate over for dinner and we refueled.

The Fox theatre in Atlanta is gorgeous, the lobby and house are dressed in a North African theme, tents and geometric patterns, hanging lanterns and a domed ceiling painted deep blue with twinkling stars puncturing its breadth over the audience. The house seats nearly 5,000 and we had hearty crowds each night. Unfortunately, as in Wilmington, we had no backstage space and had to run down a flight of stairs to cross underneath the stage, only to climb another flight on the other side to re-emerge on stage right. It was our most challenging space yet, I was running laps, shedding costumes as quickly as possible, and still barely making it onstage for some scenes. I was not sad to bid adieu to the Fox.

From Atlanta we flew Northeast to Baltimore and were warned upon landing, “Please do not walk to or from the theatre alone.” Baltimore has gained certain cultural cache since The Wire was on the air, and indeed, parts of the city resemble that show too closely. We played the Hippodrome in Baltimore, and were once again granted the luxury of backstage space! After two weeks of insanity underneath the stage, we breathed into the show and felt relaxed and comfortable in our performances again.

Lessons from the road thus far:
Chicken Marsala exists only in hotel restaurants. It has been forgotten, by and large, in modern cuisine, but rest assured, it is being prepared with an indelicate hand across the country in generic dining rooms on the ground floor of nearly every hotel. Do not order it. Simply marvel at its farmed life in captivity. It has absolutely died out in the wild, good luck spotting it on any menu in a large metropolitan city, but these hotel dining rooms act as zoos for forgotten foods. They’re raising old dishes in captivity, awaiting the day when they’re strong enough to be re-introduced into the wild, back to the public. Don’t hold your breath.

We live in a wormhole, touring for 6 months. Every week starts over again, we perform the same show, with the same costumes, with the same people, but in front of a different audience, in a different city, and sleep in a different hotel. Every Publix has the exact same layout. Walk into one in Atlanta to find the bakery on your left, and you’ll find the same bakery on your left in Tampa. It makes one feel insignificant, that we’re traveling outside the confines of the universe and for the next 6 months we’ll leave neither fingerprint or foot trail. For all intents and purposes, we do not exist, we are operating outside the laws of reality.

I’m happy to be a traveling artist, this life is connected in some grand way to the vagabond theatre troupes of earlier centuries. We move from city to city, telling our story, awaiting applause, ending the night at a bar or tavern or pub, reveling in each other’s boisterous company. Locals are excited to meet us, hotels are thrilled with our conspicuous consumption, we are happy to be employed as professional story tellers. This week we settle into the sunny coast of Tampa, FL and then onto New Orleans. The cycle starts again tonight, cheers to my 7-day life.

From the road,
Dan

We’re two weeks deeper into this adventure, Grand Rapids and Wilmington updates ahead (as well as a new batch of press photos…). But first: BREAKFAST. When I was little (let’s be honest, I was never terribly little, when I was young) our family had a tradition of making pancakes on Saturday mornings. I would scurry downstairs as soon I could break free from sleep’s 8-hour hold and turn on the television. My sister would join soon-thereafter and commandeer the remote. We watched her favorites (which, in a Stockholm syndrome case quickly became my favorites), Garfield and Friends taking the crown for best in show.

At some point our parents would walk down the blue, carpeted stairs to insist that we eat something, something. Pancakes were clamored for, not to be served without a heavy infection of chocolate chips. We held white plates piled with two or three pock-marked cakes each, drizzled syrup on top (I was never interested in too much maple with my chocolate) and then ate ravenously, as children are genetically inclined to do.

With that, I give you this recipe for banana pancakes. Make some for your family this weekend?

(Regardless of what you make, don’t skip breakfast darlings, it’s far too important).

As for the Flashdance tour, we’ve finally hit the devil’s speed bumps these past few weeks. Grand Rapids welcomed us with a 14 degree atmosphere and near non-stop precipitation. While the cold was arresting, I was overjoyed to have a few long walks in delicate snow. The week began with sandy, uncomfortable snowfall, but ended with fluffy flakes, floating gently down and powdering the streets.

I was gifted a list of restaurants from a dear reader of this site before we traveled to Michigan, and I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t able to make it to any of her suggestions. Because of the weather, we were confined to a walking radius of the hotel, which meant only a handful of restaurants and a mini-market.

The biggest challenge of Grand Rapids was the theatre. In most spaces we have enough room to do many of our quick costume changes in the wings, but there was limited wing space at the DeVos Performing Arts Center. We were relegated to a hallway behind the stage, running at times just to make it back in time for the next scene.

This being an enormous dance show (it isn’t called FlashSing) we’re now running into injuries aplenty. In Michigan we had to bid adieu to our dear Charlene, a lithe and sparky dancer whose right foot was showing signs of stress-fractures. She will take a few months to heal and then triumphantly rejoin us in April. Our breakdancer, feeling lightheaded, had to exit at intermission one day, putting our incomparable swings in the spotlight.

By the time we reached Wilmington, DE (my least favorite stop, so far), the company had already hired another female dancer who began rehearsal immediately. Our breakdancer was back in, but then rolled over his toe while on relevé in a ballet combination. He had to leave the show again, this time for a few days. Our lead ballet dancer in the show took over the breakdancing track (these dancers are terribly multifaceted), and our male dance swing stepped into the ballet track. While performing the breakdance track, our lead ballet dancer injured his hand and had to exit the show the following day. We ended the week in Delaware with every swing on stage and a few understudies bumping up to pick up missed lines and set moves.

To top it all off, the theatre in Wilmington had even less space backstage than our house in Grand Rapids. Under the stage, in a cement bunker so cold we could have been outside, we kept our costume rigs and hair/makeup stations. As such, we spent the entire show running up and down steel staircases to change costumes and enter/exit opposite sides of the stage. Needless to say, these past few weeks have been physically and emotionally draining for the company, we’re overjoyed to be in warmer weather down in Atlanta as of yesterday.

We’re currently staying in the luxurious Georgian Terrace hotel, directly across the street from our venue, The Fox Theatre. I have a full kitchen this week, confounding me as I look at my list of restaurants around the city. Do I spend my days finally cooking?! Or give in and just eat at all the fabulous recommendations I’ve amassed? I’ll inevitably try to do both, updates on Atlanta next time!

More press photos, courtesy of T.J.Hamilton in Grand Rapids:

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Soup. All I want is soup right now. This drafty bus is igniting my hunger, my craving for a hot meal. Soon. I hope.

Will we reach Grand Rapids? Is this bus destined to be sidelined by endless snow? We’re currently headed into whiteout conditions, complicating an already tedious 8 hour bus ride from Louisville, KY to Michigan. But, before I get ahead of myself, I’ll catch you up on my last few cities.

St. Louis:
The Gateway to the West was trumpeted by nearly our entire cast as a wonderful place to tour, and it certainly didn’t disappoint. Though I could regale you with food memories from a number of restaurants I will leave you with but one suggestion: Bridge Tap House. Impeccably designed, you’ll enter through glass doors and stand under a chandelier of birch branches, looking at the wide, high backed bar. The setting is matched by the menu, a collection of delectable small bites, locally sourced and well seasoned. Eat there if you only have one night in town.

We played to withered audiences for most of the run, the marketing of our show is left in the hands of local agencies and St. Louis had a hard time selling seats. On the upside, we’re now settling into a great rhythm upon reaching new cities and have smoothed out those Tuesday night bumps that soured our early moves.

The highlight of our week in Missouri was a late night visit to City Museum. Do you know this glorious institution? A rambling collection of repurposed shoe-factory chutes, vaulted rebar tunnels, spiraling mazes, a human sized hamster wheel and two jets balanced on castles, it’s a DIY Disney, a grown-up playground. We hurried to the space immediately after our Friday night performance, determined to make the most of the 2 hours left before closing. If you travel to/through St. Louis, do not miss this adventure.

Louisville, KY:
I have to specify that this is in KY because where I’m from (Colorado) we also have a Louisville, but we mispronounce it (in statewide unison, we hiss out the “s”) and this tour, unfortunately, isn’t coming anywhere near CO in the near future. Anyway, onto Kentucky.

The Kentucky Center for the Performing Arts has such a gloriously spacious backstage that we never felt frantic mid-show. Flashdance has a massive set with many automated parts, and in the smaller theaters we’ve had some trouble with the geometry of storage. A crowded backstage can mean trouble onstage, the misfortune of which we were spared here. We were fed enormous audiences, I offer a hearty thanks back to the folks in Louisville who came to support the show.

On my first morning free I wandered in search of a grocery store (I was certain Louisville would be the city I’d start saving money by eating cold cuts in my hotel room). Misled by Google maps, I walked toward what I thought was a market, only to find an out of business wholesale restaurant supply store. What fortune befell me instead? A street full of locally owned businesses and restaurants. I ate lunch at the appropriately spiced Taco Punk and scoured windows for dinner menus.

I walked by a charming shop, Gift-Horse, and decided to take a lap through their wares. Glory! A store full of locally made baubles and bow ties (some with an aprés holiday discount too!). I picked a few precious pieces and chatted with the owner, a barrel-chested milliner named Butch. Our conversation took many paths, but ultimately settled on his favorite restaurants in the neighborhood. His many suggestions provided the meal-plan for my entire stay in Louisville.

Rye
In search of a proper cocktail? Sit at the bar here and marvel at the selection of small-batch bourbons, ryes and whiskeys. Order an array of snacks from the menu and gorge. Their meat plate is filled with house cured chorizo, rabbit terrine, head cheese, whatever the kitchen happens to have churned out that morning will come to you splayed on a cutting board. Do not skip this.

Wiltshire on Market
Butch told me this charming story: Wiltshire is only open Thursday-Sunday because the chef spends the beginning of every week visiting farms and butchers and collecting gems. He comprises a new menu every week, limited choices, everything exquisite. If you don’t have a reservation get here early, it fills up on reputation alone. I’d suggest a dish but by the time you get here it won’t be on the menu. Fortune!

Garage Bar
This is the sister restaurant to the very upscale Proof in Louisville. Garage cooks nearly everything in a gorgeous wood burning oven and does a bang up brunch (order their potatoes,  never before has the tuber been presented to you as such a gleaming treat). It’s in a renovated old gas station and could not be more charming. Watch out for terribly attractive waitstaff, including a Freddie Mercury lookalike manning the host station. Eye candy and good food? Eat here.

I dearly wish we had two weeks to spend in Louisville, it’s my kind of town and I didn’t get to all the restaurants I wanted to try. Alas, we boarded a bus to Grand Rapids and drove headfirst into a snow storm. So long Louisville, I hope my travels cross your borders again.

And that brings me to Michigan, it’s currently a balmy 7 degrees with snow piling up in the moonlight. The cold weather makes me long for a giant pot of soup, but until I figure out what to do about my smashed induction burner I’ll have to eat vicariously through you. The soup in the video above is my go-to winter one pot meal. Collards, buckwheat, I usually throw in some italian sausage for protein, it warms my belly just thinking of it.

From the road,
Dan

Flashdance Road Update 2

Flashdance Road Update 1

Two cities down and we’re onto the third. St. Louis, look for a gaggle of actors parading your streets bedecked in leg warmers this coming week. Here’s our promo reel and a recap of my adventures:

Here are some production shots and a few pics of us dolled up for opening night.

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I leave you with this final note:
I was hoping to do a little on-the-road cooking during this tour and brought an induction burner as my travel companion. Yesterday, in transit from Pittsburgh to St. Louis it met a shattering death and I arrived to find my suitcase covered in little glass shards. I’m debating buying a cheap hotplate to use with my wok, but also considering a vow of no cooking for 6 months. Thoughts?