After I filed my dissertation at U.C.L.A. in 1997, there was no doubt in my mind that my next move was going to be to New York City.

In October of the same year when Comet Hale-Bopp passed by our planet and Hong Kong was given back to the People’s Republic of China, I rented a U-Haul truck and drove across country with all of my possessions and my cat, Bibiche.

I landed in Brooklyn where a family friend snagged me the last good deal on a Brownstone floor through in Park Slope (the landlord was offering it at $800 per month and my friend offered $1,000 to seal the deal; that’s how competitive it was, even before the Park Slope revival).

A headhunter had found me a job at an Italian rolling stock company in Midtown. Yes, rolling stock — trains. I was hired as a “marketing specialist” purely because I was bi-lingual.

Six months later, I had found my new calling as an editor at the newly launched English-language version of La Cucina Italiana, the historic gastronomy magazine.

It was the worst time and the best time. I’ll never forget the indignities of the morning schlepp into Manhattan every day. Freezing cold, sweltering hot — you walked every day to the D train with a million other schlubs trying to make their way, just like me. I was barely making enough to pay my rent. But I knew I had stumbled on to something good. My boss was such an asshole, an abusive manager who ended up being sued for sexual harassment. But I just kept my nose to the ground and made the most of it. That was the first year of my career as a food and wine writer.

By 1999 I was playing music in all the cool clubs on the Lower East Side and in Brooklyn. So many incredible bands got their start during that time. I believe a lot of folks would agree that it was the last great era of indy rock in lower Manhattan.

It was an incredible time to be in the city. Babbo opened in 1998 and the Italian food and wine renaissance was just beginning to take shape.

To be continued…