The first thought is always the same: This sounds expensive. New ramps. New tables. New everything. To a restaurant owner, accessibility feels like a project big enough to shut down the kitchen and drain the bank account. That fear is rational. It’s also wrong. Think about how you improve a menu. You don’t rebuild the kitchen to add a dish. You test it as a special. You watch. You keep what works. Accessibility is no different. You don’t need a new floor plan. You need small,

You have a place. A restaurant that is yours. The staff knows your order. The manager knows your name. The owner — who is coordinating everything like a maestro — stops by the table because you are family. Everybody knows you like Norm from Cheers. This is not just a restaurant. It is an extension of your home. There is nothing like it. Being in the restaurant business is unforgiving. My friends and family in the business have my utmost respect. Rarely do they have time to ca

That is the sentence I keep coming back to. Not as a policy position. Not as a business pitch. As something I lived — across restaurant tables in Southern California, with one of the best friends I have ever made. His name is Neider Parra Contreras. The Ceremony A few years ago, I was working in Bogotá, Colombia, when I attended a ceremony honoring members of the Colombian National Police. That is where I first met Neider. He was young and carried himself with a quiet dignity

I wasn't looking for anything when the email arrived. Greg Moomjy sent it from Delaware, where he was keynoting an opera conference on accessibility. He was in the middle of his own work, important work, and he still stopped to think about me. One forward. No explanation needed. That's the kind of people you want around you. Greg and co-founder Marianna Mott Newirth are the driving force behind Opera Praktikos, New York City's first disability-affirmative opera company where.