Jigsaw Falling Into Place
A week around town, plus thoughts on slow art and creativity
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
I’m writing to you from Brooklyn today — taking in the tail end of fall in New York before a few quick trips over the holidays. Next week, you’ll be getting an Away Game from one of my favorite cities in North America: Montreal. After that, I’ve got a queue of year-end recaps lined up, including the 3rd Annual Flood’s Awards. But I’m hoping to sneak in a few more great meals before we start winding down 2025.
Speaking of the Flood’s Awards — this year, in addition to the usual categories, I’ll be featuring some reader-submitted highlights. Specifically, I want to hear about the most memorable meal you had this year.
On Instagram, send me a message with your restaurant, along with a sentence or two on what made it great, and I’ll feature a select few in the Flood’s Awards in mid-December.
Today’s post is a stream-of-consciousness reflection, like a few I’ve written before. Thanks so much for reading. I’ll see you next week in Montreal.
On Tuesday night, I went to dinner at a place I wouldn’t have gone to otherwise, with a person I wouldn’t have met otherwise.
Todd Stein is a Chicago-based chef — talented, experienced, and well-respected. He’s been a Flood’s follower since the early days; I remember seeing his name as one of the first moments that made me feel like I was onto something — like a restaurant person who gets it was into what I was doing. Todd and I have messaged over the past few years about the Chicago scene, travel recs, and camera specs. This time, he reached out asking if I was free for dinner while he was visiting New York. And I was.
Babbo 2.0 is a hot table right now. I loved reading about the Greenwich Village enoteca in Bill Buford’s Heat, but never felt much pull toward the 2021-2024 version of the restaurant. The revamp has been generating loads of press — to be expected when someone like Stephen Starr gets involved in a project.
Hanging with Todd and his friend Ben in person — bantering about restaurants as we usually do — was a blast. We get excited about the same things: simple dishes executed well; warm, witty service; a good amaro list. Babbo 2.0 has all of those things. And they still have the legendary beef cheek ravioli topped with chicken liver & black truffle butter — rich as hell, and as you might expect, quite delicious.
On Thursday, I had a photoshoot at Cafe Susanne, which opens tomorrow on the Williamsburg waterfront. I first connected with the owner (and designer), Matthew, about a year ago while working on another shoot. He’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever crossed paths with. The space is unbelievable — a sleek, minimal seaside canteen with pops of color that give it so much character and life. The radiant sun that floods through the arches of the Williamsburg Bridge is like nothing else. Watching the room transform from an empty concrete box into something so warm and glowing has been surreal.
Capturing brilliant interiors is one of my favorite forms of photography. And having the chance to shoot in Flood’s style — and feel how deeply the Susanne team appreciated that approach — was really incredible.
I tell you about these moments because they really got me thinking about the process. This week felt like proof that the slow, steady creative growth is accumulating into something special.
When I started Flood’s, I didn’t really expect new friends, projects, or opportunities to be the outcome. For a long time, the only measure of success I was focused on was my Instagram follower count. It felt like the obvious thing to strive for — the most straightforward measure of growth. A bigger audience, in theory, means moving forward.
And even here on Substack, we operate with subscriber counts, likes, comments, shares, leaderboards, and gross annualized revenue — all seemingly obvious ways to measure success.
I’m not saying numbers don’t matter — they do. We all watch on as influencers reel in brand deals, paid partnerships, invites to Resy dinners, and fancy squeeze bottles of olive oil sent to their door. But I’ve come to realize that numbers are far from the only thing that matters. And they’re not reflective of what success actually feels like in the creative world.
I don’t feel like any of the numbers that surround Flood’s represent the impact this project has had on my life these past few years. I feel so enriched. Mostly by the thoughtful, inspiring friends I’ve made, but also by the projects I get to contribute to.
And absolutely none of these connections and experiences came because something I posted went viral. In a way, I’m even more proud of what I’ve built because it’s taken so much of my energy, without much tangible return. I used to imagine some wild moment where everything clicked: the right person sees a photo of mine, it blows up, and everything changes overnight. It’s kind of fucked how our brains are wired to want that.
This process, sitting down and writing every week (or at any regular cadence), is not for those seeking instant gratification. I’d love to hit send and watch the likes, comments, and shares roll in — seemingly, an indication that a piece has really landed with people — but that’s not usually how it goes. And that’s a hard thing to come to terms with.
There are a lot of people on here who do a really great job making this seem effortless and easy breezy. I’m sure, for some, it really is. But for most, this is a deeply challenging undertaking. Turning thoughts, feelings, inspirations, into something tangible — and sometimes getting zero acknowledgement — is hard.
I’m feeling the challenges of writing right now. Which is interesting, because it feels like a moment where the jigsaw is starting to fall into place.
The possibilities for what I could do next have felt endless for a while, but recently I’ve finally felt like my creative skillset matches the shape of my ambition — like I can actually pursue the things I’ve imagined.
I don’t think what I’m experiencing is writer’s block. Or burnout. It’s just a shift in how my creativity is flowing at the moment. This happens to me all the time with physical movement. I’ll go through periods where yoga is what feels best in my body. And then the desire to run starts to edge in. Creativity, naturally, changes shapes over time. And right now, writing is not coming easily.
But at the same time, I recognize the value of showing up over and over again — delivering an authentic version of yourself, not pandering, not outsourcing your voice to AI, and just knowing the process is moving you in the right direction — even if a post results in negative-five subscribers.
When I write and publish Flood’s, I do so with the implicit understanding that the individual essays will not change my life. But I also do so with the confidence that collectively, they will amount to something that will. And so we persist.
Thanks for being here, thanks for reading. If you haven’t yet, subscribe below and get Flood’s delivered every Sunday.