Baltimore has always been a seafood town, thanks to our generations-long love affair with crab cakes and coddies, soft-shells and crab boils, oysters, and lake trout. But it’s never had a lot of options for good sushi, which means that the January opening of Hana Sushi in Hampden came as terrific news.

Hana is the second sushi restaurant from owner Tina Chen, who opened Yama Sushi in Ellicott City in 2019 with her husband, Denny. It brings not only excellent sushi to Hampden’s 36th Street restaurant row, but also a menu of superlative ramen and yakitori, as well as an outstanding bar and cocktail program.

A pale-colored, light-filled restaurant in the corner spot that was once the late, lamented Souvlaki, Hana is the kind of one-stop Japanese restaurant this city needs. The dining room is anchored by a big, open sushi bar filled with beautiful fish shipped daily from Tokyo and helmed by veteran sushi chef Jackie Nakazima Eizi.

In addition to nigiri, sashimi, and rolls, the menu includes tonkotsu ramen made by Denny, as well as yakitori (the grilled meat skewers popularized in izakaya restaurants), gyoza, tempura, tofu, and Hana “tacos,” which are flour tortillas filled with raw fish or tofu.

There is also a little market corner, stocked with Japanese items like Pocky, instant ramen, and matcha Kit Kats, which is not only seriously adorable but means we don’t have to trek to Catonsville’s H-Mart for candy runs.

Having helmed her Ellicott City restaurant for seven years before opening Hana, Chen knows what she’s doing. The fish is the most important aspect of a good sushi place, and she gets hers—toro, yellowtail, salmon, eel, Hokkaido scallops and uni, octopus, and mackerel—daily via Jessup seafood supplier True World Foods, which flies it directly from Tokyo.

And then there’s the necessity of a sushi chef who knows what to do with all this lovely stuff. Nakazima Eizi, born, bred, and trained in Tokyo, has 45 years of experience as a sushi chef, and ran Yama Sushi’s sushi bar before moving over to open Hana. With a white chef’s cap and a welcoming smile, he operates his new sushi bar with precision, artistry, and grace.

Hana’s offerings are wide-ranging and include many tricked-out rolls, like the Edgar Allan Roe, composed of shrimp, burdock root, roe, avocado, yuzu, and chile oil, as well as others featuring crab, spicy tuna, shrimp tempura, eel, shiso and even truffled soy sauce.

Though these are fun and gorgeous, it’s the simpler nigiri sushi that allows Nakazima Eizi’s skills to shine. The eel nigiri is a succulent combination of broiled eel atop perfectly articulated rice, wrapped with a ribbon of nori, dusted with sesame seeds and a bit of sauce. And the seared salmon belly nigiri is a masterful rendition, a curl of fatty salmon draped over a nub of rice that Nakajima Eizi fires with a culinary torch so that it partially melts.

All this can be washed down with a small cup of green tea, but that would mean that you’d miss out on the excellent, highly creative cocktail program. As one would expect, there’s a large sake section, as well as Japanese beers, but there’s also an impressive whiskey list of both the American and Japanese varieties (spelled without the “e”), including bottles from Nikka and Yamazaki distillers, as well as Suntory (see: Bill Murray’s booze commercials in Lost In Translation).

And then there are those cocktails, an inventive collection that makes use of not only all the available spirits, but also ingredients like shiso, lychee, ginger, and nori. Nothing like A Night in Shinjuku—Nikka whisky, cognac, dry vermouth, amaro, maraschino, and angustura—to help wash down your double toro roll (maybe the best roll on the menu) and pork belly yakitori.

Tina and Denny are both Chinese, not Japanese, but their love of Japanese cuisine is a long and storied one. They met in Japan, where Denny was studying and where Gina lived for seven years and where they both came to love the food of the country.

While Tina runs the front of house at both restaurants, Denny is at home in the kitchen, making all the sauces and the broth for the ramen, a 10-hour-long production for the tonkotsu (there are also miso and shoyu versions).

And the ramen is terrific: milky, luscious soup paired with twisty noodles, thick slabs of pork, small mounds of grilled corn, and crucially, a perfectly cooked jammy egg. Because for lovers of ramen, there is nothing as telling as that egg, seemingly one of the easiest components of a good bowl of ramen, but often bafflingly overlooked. (The bowl of tonkotsu I recently had at one Baltimore ramen-ya came with a hard-boiled egg, something that almost made me cry.)

Discovering Hana’s ramen, as well as its fantastic sushi, has restored both my palate and my faith that if you build great sushi, Baltimore’s seafood lovers will come.

HANA SUSHI: 1103 W. 36th St., Hampden, 443-869-2503. HOURS: Tues.-Sun., 11 a.m.-10 p.m. PRICES: Starters, sides, yakitori: $4-18; ramen: $20; sushi, sashimi, and rolls: $7-32. AMBIANCE: Cozy, light-filled neighborhood spot.

When you first enter À Demain Cafe, which opened on Hampden’s 36th Street restaurant row last July, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d wandered into an antique shop. There’s a gorgeous old Victrola by the door, a flowered settee, old-fashioned light fixtures and wall hangings, and gilded old mirrors with the shop’s menus painted on the glass.

Owner Christian Yoo will likely be stationed behind the counter, offering not curios but croffles and crookies—hybrid waffle-croissants and cookie- croissants—toasts, quiches, and croque monsieurs.

À Demain, which translates to “see you tomorrow” in French, is Yoo’s first business venture, and he runs the shop with his wife, Kelly. He credits the décor, he says one weekday morning in between making matcha lattes and cappuccinos, to Gott Efni, the Ellicott City florist that the couple used for their wedding.

It’s a charming location, though be warned that the only seating is on the front porch, which in the colder months sports a heating lamp and vinyl curtains. As for the menu, Yoo chose to highlight toasts because they were “very brunchy.”

“You can put anything on toast,” says Yoo, noting that they’re also pretty straightforward recipes, which seemed right for his first restaurant venture.

They’re also quite beautiful: open-faced sandwiches similar to Scandinavian smorrebrod that come in iterations of avocado-hummus, roasted tomato burrata, mushroom, honey-ricotta, and a lox version decorated with capers and pickled red onions. For the bread, they use excellent whole-grain slices, which are delivered daily from Lyon Bakery in Hyattsville.

In addition to the toasts, there are single-serving quiches, round pies the size of soup bowls that come in mushroom or bacon and cheese; tidy square croque monsieurs; croffle Benedicts—which is what you get when you press laminated dough in a waffle iron, then top the results with poached eggs and sauce—and, in a nod to Yoo’s Korean heritage, bulgogi melts. Should you want something with more bells and whistles than toasts, you can trick out your croffle with Nutella, strawberries, matcha, bananas, Oreos, or Biscoff.

With its rough-wood counter, plants trailing from shelving, and oversized floral pillows on that settee, À Demain is a very cozy place. And while the front porch can be a bit chilly at times, that giant heat lamp wards off the cold and extends the cozy vibes beyond the front door.

Though the crookies and croffles are cute, it’s the toasts that we’ll be coming back for. With their thick rustic bread and well-executed toppings, they’re an excellent alterna- tive to most breakfast offerings, and, yes, “very brunchy,” indeed.

À DEMAIN CAFE: 830 W. 36th Street, Hampden. HOURS: Tues.-Fri. 7:30 a.m.-4 p.m.; Sat. 8 a.m.-4 p.m. PRICES: Drinks: $3-6; toasts: $11 16; brunch items: $11-16. AMBIANCE: Antique shop.

In 2021, almost a decade after moving from Towson to California to pursue a career in acting, Michael Strassner was steadily working, but not quite crushing it. He joined The Groundlings, the famous Los Angeles improv troupe, and had some success there. He came this close to being on Saturday Night Live—callbacks and everything. He got small parts in major TV sitcoms (he played Nick Offerman’s brother in Parks and Recreation). But he hadn’t really had his big break.

That is, until the writer-director-actor Jay Duplass (one half of the acclaimed Duplass brothers) followed him on Instagram. Strassner seized the day and sent him a DM. The two met, got along famously, and decided to make a film together.

The result is The Baltimorons, an underdog romcom about the relationship between Cliff (Strassner), a newly sober 30-something improv actor loosely based on Strassner, and Didi (Liz Larsen), a middle-aged dentist. (Read my full review, here.)

The film, which is entirely set in Baltimore, was a huge sensation at SXSW and will soon be playing in the town that inspired it. The sold-out Maryland premiere, featuring a Q&A with Strassner and Larsen, will take place at The Senator on Sept. 10, with more showtimes at The Charles and other local theaters to follow.

Ahead of the local premiere, we caught up with Strassner to discuss his love of comedy, how the film came to be, and giving Baltimore the star treatment it deserves.

Tell me about your background. Where did you go to school—which, since you’re from Baltimore, you know means high school.
I know, indeed. I’ll do the whole pipeline. I went to Hunt’s [Church] originally, then Riderwood, then Immaculate Heart of Mary for middle school, and Loyola Blakefield for high school.

How did you get into performance?
I kinda got my first itch for theater at Immaculate Heart. I got to be Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown and Hugo in Bye Bye Birdie, even though I wanted to play Conrad. And then off to Loyola—I did a little bit of sports there, but I just always loved doing theater. I was part of the Blakefield Players. I went to East Carolina University for a year and then I transferred to University of Maryland. I was originally a business major and then I realized, this is not what I want to do. I want to be an actor. And so I changed to theater. And by February of 2012 I was out to L.A.

I had assumed your background was improv and comedy. But your background was acting.
Right after college, I went to L.A., and that’s when I started doing improv and sketch comedy. Before that it was all theater and plays. If I’d done my research a little better, I would’ve realized that my heroes came from the Chicago scene: Bill Murray, Chris Farley, Mike Myers, John Belushi. They were all Second City people. But I was in L.A. and I was like, well, who else do I love? Will Ferrell and Kristen Wiig and Phil Hartman. Well, I guess I’ll do The Groundlings.

While you were at The Groundlings, you got an opportunity to audition for SNL.
A rite of passage, truly. It was 2016 or 2017 and I tested with my friend, Heidi Gardner, who ended up getting it, of course. We did a showcase in L.A., then they brought three of us out to New York and then back to L.A., and then we came back for our final test in New York. It was very surreal. Lorne Michaels was there eating popcorn. They say it’s a rough room, but I did get some laughs, so I felt good about that. And I was like, “Okay, this is it!” And then it wasn’t.

Is there a feeling not getting SNL might’ve been a blessing in disguise?
One hundred percent. I was not sober at the time and I feel like if had gone there while I was still in active addiction, I never would have survived. I would’ve ended up like one of my heroes.

You started getting some small roles on major sitcoms. And then what?
In 2021, two things happened: I saw that Jay Duplass followed me on Instagram, and I had a short film that I wrote and I was hoping to find an actress for it. And I thought, “I’ve heard this guy helps out people. Let me send him my script in a DM.” …Six months later Jay replied. He wrote, “I’m super old. I don’t know how Instagram works, but send me your script.” And then he said, “Come over to my house.” And I was like, “I’m a stranger on the internet! You’re a celebrity. Why are you giving me your address!” [Laughs] And we had lunch.

You later made the short and sent him a copy, which he liked.
Yeah, he took time out of his day. And this is the kind of stuff that doesn’t happen in L.A. At least it doesn’t happen for me. It’s really a testament to Jay and Mark at Duplass [Brothers Productions]. They really want to help the next batch of independent filmmakers.

Over time, you told Jay your story, including your sobriety journey, and one day he said, “Let’s make a movie.”
Yeah, he said, “Hey man, I really want to turn your life into a movie. You want to do it?” And I was like, “Yes, please.”

You guys wrote The Baltimorons together. Was the plan always for you to play Cliff?
When we were writing it, I asked Jay, am I gonna act in it? And he was like, yeah man, you’re going to be the star.

This is a cliché, but it really did feel like Baltimore was a character in the movie. Was that intentional?
Yeah. I mean, we really wanted to make it a true love letter to Baltimore. I just love this city so much. I tried to have these authentic Baltimore things throughout. Natty Boh was super nice that they gave permission to use their stuff, and Berger Cookies. And the city is filled with so many people who are willing to help. I had so many extras who were my family and friends. People just took time out to help and it was the most beautiful thing. Places like Rocket to Venus and Dylan’s [Oyster Cellar]. We were like, “Can we use these locations?” And they were like, “Of course!”

I feel like Baltimore doesn’t always get this treatment. It’s usually Chicago and Boston and New York that are mythologized like this.
I grew up watching John Waters. I grew up watching Barry Levinson. I think what David Simon has done is great, but it never really shows the city in the best light. I feel like this city has so much more beauty and that it’s time we show it again. And we have our, like, Woody Allen Manhattan shot of the Key Bridge, which is my favorite shot, truly the most beautiful shot of the movie. We got that two months before it fell. It’s such an honor to have that in there. And 34th Street [also featured in the film] is a place that I grew up loving as a kid. I’m a Christmas nut, so the fact that we were able to, just like, shoot on 34th Street was like the coolest thing in the world.

So, speaking of John, has he seen the film yet?
He has. He came to the Provincetown screening and that was really cool. He sat in the back row, and he even stayed for the Q&A and was super sweet and kind. And he asked a question. He said, “How did you get to shoot on 34th Street? I’ve wanted to shoot there for forever!”

You have amazing chemistry with your co-star Liz Larsen.
It was immediate. We just kind of fell in love with each other in a platonic way, which was a blessing because if she and I aren’t vibing the movie [fails].

Tell me about the SXSW screenings. Your whole family and lots of friends, many of whom were in the movie, came.
My dad and step mom came to one screening and my dad is just going throughout the whole entire movie saying, “Oh, there’s Alison, there’s Lauren, there’s Dell, there’s Marty.” And I’m like, Dad, it’s not a private screening. You can’t just be saying everybody’s name you’re seeing in the movie!

Let’s talk about the title, Baltimorons. That’s kind of an inside joke for locals. Are you concerned some might take it the wrong way?Well, that’s the name of Cliff’s sketch group [in the film]. But if I didn’t come from Baltimore, I wouldn’t be caught dead naming the film that.

Coming home to shoot this film must’ve been quite a heady experience for you.
I mean, the best thing that’s ever happened to me is my sobriety. But number two is shooting this movie in Baltimore. You know, the fact that I got to come home to make my first movie as a lead, it was truly an honor. We would leave the set sometimes at 5 a.m. and I just remember driving past M&T Bank Stadium as the sun was coming up, and I’m like, this is my dream. It doesn’t get better than this.

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Read my full review of The Baltimorons, here. 

As the Food Network, social media, and food-focused travel continue to blur our borders and make the world a smaller place, consumers are craving international flavors from tahini to turmeric.

At Hampden’s The Local Fry, this trend has been going strong for a decade. Using fries, wings, tofu bites, chicken tenders, and sandwiches as a blank canvas, the spot incorporates global flavor profiles through its rubs and a wide variety of sauces, offering a gateway to the far-flung flavors of Korea, Vietnam, and the American South.

“What we love about sauce is that it can change a sandwich completely,” says Liz Irish, who co-owns The Local Fry with her husband, Kevin. “Someone can have a Korean-style chicken sandwich if they toss the tenders in the gochujang sauce or tofu with nuoc cham fish sauce from Vietnam—it’s all the same ingredients but the sauce changes the profile of the dish.”

The Local Fry’s fusion fare was inspired by Liz and Kevin’s diverse backgrounds. She’s Korean American; he was born in Ireland.

“We were hosting dinner parties at home,” recalls Liz. “We love cooking and entertaining and that sparked the idea. Because Kevin is from Ireland, we ate a lot of chips and potatoes, so we started putting dishes we make at home on fries—and it worked really well. And that became the basis for a lot of our menu items—from the bánh mì fries, which has Vietnamese influences, to the Korean BBQ cheesesteak fries inspired by the bulgogi we eat all the time.”

And while Kevin and Liz are avowed globetrotters, Liz asserts that you don’t need to travel to be transported.

“The Local Fry is a local destination,” says Liz. “But even while staying in your neighborhood, you can still experience these different flavors around world just by ordering something at our restaurant.”

In 2019, as Denise Whiting thought about closing Cafe Hon, she approached restaurateur Tony Foreman to see if he knew of anyone who might be interested in opening in the iconic space on Hampden’s 36th Street.

After giving it some thought, he said he did know someone—himself.

“That is literally the best corner in Hampden,” he recalls thinking. “And my thoughts started percolating about how this particular corner was important for the community, not just the neighborhood.”

Even a great location, however, could not prevent terrible timing. Just as plans were formulating, the pandemic hit, and the project was put on hold. By 2022, demolition finally began as Foreman continued to think about reimagining the former diner space known for its 30-foot-tall pink flamingo.

“When I saw that corner, what was in my head is that I love an English public house where the space manages to be very comfortable and worn-in at the same time,” says Foreman. “But a public house has nothing to do with being English. It has to do with a place where people get together and life happens.”

Just as Foreman signed the lease, another curveball was thrown. An ongoing congenital heart problem required a life-changing heart-kidney double-organ transplant and put the project in peril. So, when the pub, dubbed The Duchess (a sly wink to Baltimore’s divorcée duchess Wallis Simpson), finally opened in early December, Foreman had reason to rejoice.

The Duchess is a pub, but don’t expect shepherd’s pie or Yorkshire pudding here. Rather than serve traditional pub grub, Foreman hired longtime Foreman Wolf chef Kiko Fejarang, a native of Guam, to be his partner and cook the Pacific Rim cuisine of her heritage.

“The Duchess is an homage to where I grew up,” explains Fejarang (her hometown cuisine is known as Chamorro and her nickname came from Kikkoman soy sauce—her birth-given name is Cherese). “Guam is similar to Hawaii in that it’s a tropical island with a melting pot of Asian flavors, including Filipino, Japanese, Korean, and even some Spanish cuisine.”

Whatever the provenance of the place, The Duchess is a true original, fitting right into quirky Hampden with its playful yet polished vibe, thanks to handmade ceramics from Surrey, England, and various other pieces imported from across the pond, including mix-and-match tables and Windsor chairs.

One side of the space is a lively bar with oak booths, a purplish marble bar, and TVs for watching British soccer games. The other side is a dining room with a long communal table, private nooks, window-side seats that overlook The Avenue, and a small stage for live music several nights a week.

Wherever you sit, dining here provides a much-needed sense of kinship and community. On one visit, Foreman got the dining room to join in a rollicking round of “Happy Birthday” for a patron. On another, the bar was crammed with patrons intently watching a football game, as well as Christmas revelers who stopped by for a quick umbrella tiki drink en route to see Hampden’s annual light display.

Every plate is festive and fun and mirrors the mood. And sharing is not only encouraged, but practically compulsory. In fact, The Duchess works best when you go with a crowd and try a forkful of everything.

The menu of shareable snacks starts with garlic-chile cucumber salad dressed in chile oil and ends with Asian-style Typhoon fries sprinkled with furikake (a Japanese condiment consisting of seaweed, sesame seeds, and sugar).

In between is a pleasingly umami-leaning stir-fried lotus root bathed in black truffle sesame vinaigrette with ribbons of bok choy; sushi-grade ahi tuna poke glistening with spicy soy vinaigrette and served with crisp wonton chips; crimson-colored, ginger-scented beets showered with chile roasted peanuts; and a delectable ceviche-style bowl of shrimp kelaguen with a kick of Thai pepper served with flat, doughy discs known as tatiyas (a cross between bread and a flour tortilla).

And while the plates are mostly small—three or more will make a meal, depending on your hunger level—the flavors are bold. To wit: smoky barbecued chicken marinated for 24 hours and served on skewers and a standout rendition of Spam musubi, Hawaii’s signature sushi-style snack, containing a slab of the pork product and pillow of sushi rice, wrapped in nori, lacquered with soy glaze and pressed to perfection.

The end of the menu features four to five items that are listed as “More Than a Snack,” though they’re anything but an afterthought. While we focused on the shareable snacks, we loved the fish-’n-chips, a generous hunk of impossibly crisp, tempura-fried hake served with yuzu tartar sauce and waffle fries sprinkled with furikake. (I have my eye on the donburi rice bowl with grilled duck for my next outing.)

As you finish your meal, consider at least one order of coconut shave ice (Hawaii’s answer to a Baltimore snowball) to cleanse your palate and sate your sweet tooth.

As you’d expect from a Tony Foreman project, hospitality points run high. Servers were attentive but unobtrusive, helping to interpret unfamiliar ingredients as runners cleared the collection of small plates to make way for new ones in their place. Bonus points for the $10 valet parking that gets automatically added to the bill for convenience. By the time you make your way to the curb, your car will magically appear.

In other words, the wait was worth it. The Duchess rules—long may she reign.

Seeking respite on election night before the results started rolling in, we canvassed for a happy hour spot with top-notch drinks, excellent food, and, most importantly, no TVs. The winner: Cosima, the beautiful Sicilian restaurant in Hampden that recently revamped its menu in hopes of making itself a more attractive candidate for all.

With its location inside an old sailcloth factory in historic Mill No. 1, Cosima feels like an oasis, removed from the hustle and bustle of the city. Owner Judith Golding and concept director Donna Crivello have maintained it as a fine-dining staple since it opened in 2016, but in October it pivoted to add more Italian street food and affordable pizzas and pasta dishes. The new philosophy works especially well at its lovely, large, U shaped bar that faces an open kitchen.

Cocktails here always have been, and continue to be, outstanding. The night we visited, beverage director Aaron Simons was behind the bar. He was a wealth of knowledge and one-liners; when we asked if a certain pasta dish was a small plate, he said, “Every plate is a small plate if you believe in yourself.”

We started with an Arancina, the restaurant’s signature take on an Old-Fashioned. Made with Buffalo Trace bourbon, Amaro Sibilla, Luxardo Maraschino liqueur and served with an orange peel, it’s a smooth drink that works before or after a meal. The Il Focolare, on the other hand, is like dessert in a glass. It’s a combination of Baltimore Spirits’ 1904 apple brandy, Aperol, Bigallet China-China Amer, lemon juice, and apple brandy brulée. Perfect for a chilly fall evening.

For round two we leaned on Simons’ expertise. He recommended the Il Fumatore, a mezcal-based cocktail he accurately described as being pleasingly smoky and tart.

Cosima’s happy hour deals are among the best in town. From 4 to 7 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays (that’s right, weekends are included too) at the bar, the Arancina is just $8 (it’s regularly $15). There are $5 Negronis and Spritzes, $7 select glasses of wine, and a high-quality selection of $5 draft beers (including local favorites like Brewer’s Art Resurrection, Monument City 51 Rye, and Diamondback Green Machine).

We ordered arancini and a bowl of fried olives from the street food section of the menu to go with our drinks. Both were nice complements. Tuesday is pasta night, which means half off all pasta dishes. We went with the eggplant ragu, a hearty helping with tomatoes, onion, fennel, raisins, capers, and olives. Contrary to Simons’ quip, this plate was almost too big for even two of us to finish. Wednesdays, bottles of wine are half off, and Thursdays all pizzas are $10. (We’re partial to the Semplice, with rustic tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, pecorino, roasted cherry tomatoes, and basil.)

Shifting courses is never an easy thing for a restaurant that’s been around as long—and been as respected—as Cosima. But if the early returns are an indication, Cosima’s future will be as successful as its past.

Despite the early hour and wet September morning, it’s standing room only at Creative Mornings, a monthly breakfast lecture series for local creatives. Shawn Chopra, the creative director and owner of coffee and home goods store Good Neighbor, is the featured speaker and even thought he looks like the coolest person at the party, he seems nervous.

But once Chopra starts talking about “shedding a lifetime of going through the motions,” his voice gets steadier and easily fills the room at Sandtown Furniture in Pigtown. Chopra ends the talk by handing out pieces of papyrus, a thick paper that was used in ancient times. For Chopra, papyrus has come to represent the connection between roots and growth.

Chopra’s parents grew up in Chandigarh, India, the dream city of India’s first prime minister, Sh. Jawaharlal Nehru, and planned by the famous French architect Le Corbusier. It’s known as one of the best experiments in urban planning and modern architecture in the 20th century. But Chopra himself was born in Winnipeg—“the cold middle part of Canada,” he sighs—after his parents immigrated there in 1985.

The family then moved to Vancouver, where Chopra spent his childhood in a city called Richmond. Due to an influx of Indian and Chinese immigrants and a shortage of housing, Chopra’s father, who worked as an engineer and provided the sole income for the family, saw an opportunity to renovate and flip their small childhood home.

Every few years when the market was right, they would rinse and repeat. “I think my dad enjoyed it,” says Chopra. “And I think we as a family enjoyed the renovation process.” Chopra’s parents were also homebodies and much preferred hosting friends at their house to going out. That meant Chopra spent a lot of time in his room, which he filled with sports team pennants his father would pick up on his business trips to the United States.

“I would also constantly rearrange the furniture in my room,” remembers Chopra. “We used to go thrifting—a lot of my clothes were thrifted and also my furniture, like side tables and lamps.”

The cornerstones of his childhood—hospitality, innovation, renovation—ended up being the building blocks that ultimately led to opening Good Neighbor.

By the time his senior year of high school rolled around, Chopra had his eyes set on New York, so he did the most sensible thing he could think of and headed to the “East Coast of Canada”—Ottawa. His parents had hinted he had three career options in their eyes—health care, lawyer, or accountant—so he found himself studying physical therapy at the University of Ottawa.

It was on his first day of college that he met Anne Morgan, herself the child of Egyptian immigrants. They started dating in 2007. Morgan immediately recognized that he was a creative spirit.

“She was able to uncover a lot of these things in my past,” says Chopra, and she would press him: “What are you doing studying medicine?” But at the same time, she understood the immigrant mentality of being expected to do something great. “Meeting Anne was one of the best things that happened to me, because she saw me,” says Chopra.

The two graduated in 2009 and two years later they moved to Baltimore, where Morgan was enrolled in dental school at the University of Maryland.

“We’ll live in Baltimore for four years,” Chopra remembers thinking as they purchased an apartment in Locust Point. (Living in Baltimore also meant he was now only a train ride away from New York City.) Chopra transferred his physical therapy license, but wanted to make a bigger impact in the field, so he began working in public health and visiting seniors around the city who were in recovery from strokes and other ailments.

“I loved it,” says Chopra. “I got to go to every part of Baltimore.” And suddenly a Canadian was visiting neighborhoods that even some homegrowns had never been to—talking to residents and their children, who would occasionally stop by and share stories.

“That’s where I started to fall in love with the city,” says Chopra. “It just needs more people to stay and do something and be a part of it.”

Baltimore is addicting because it’s the kind of place where people believe in your dream, he says. “I think Charm City is the right word for it because it is very charming, and I think people see the potential in it,” he says. “It’s authentic.”

Chopra had also gotten to know a lot of the artists and makers and became immersed in how they created the fabric of the city—but at that point simply as a supportive bystander. Then one day it hit him.

“I was tired of consuming other people’s work,” he says. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate their art; it’s just that he wanted to create, too. He was finally owning up to what Morgan had been telling him all along—there was a piece of him missing and he realized he would actually be honoring his parents by becoming the best version of himself.

So, he decided it was time for a leap of faith. But he still didn’t know exactly what that meant. Should he go back to school? How could he be more involved in the community?

“And then I just came up with the idea of Good Neighbor,” he says. “A place that I thought Baltimore needed, a place that I needed.”

Chopra made a list of all the things that he and Morgan enjoyed—coffee, community, togetherness, sharing meals, beautiful dishware, plants. He decided he would make it a one-stop cool coffee shop where lingering is encouraged.

“You know, you go to these other cities and it’s like, ‘Why can’t Baltimore have this?’” he says. Yeah, it would be that.

He rented the space in 2019. It had been sitting empty for a few years and needed a complete rehaul. Chopra had never worked as a contractor but had helped his father on all those home renovations, so he was able to self-manage the build-out.

“It was the only way we could afford this,” says Chopra. But in the end, it was also “the only way I wanted to do it. This was going be my education this was my grad school,” he says. “That’s actually how my parents framed it.”

Chopra and his builders got to work, with an initial opening date of March 2020. Obviously, the pandemic had other plans and they spent the extra two months adjusting—building an outdoor deck and changing business procedures.

In May of 2020, still in the throes of COVID and with Morgan nine months pregnant, Good Neighbor opened on Falls Road between Hampden and Hoes Heights. It’s a rare space, with a main building, a big outdoor area, and a garage that was turned into a picture-perfect greenhouse and has probably starred in hundreds of Instagram stories.

Even with all that, Chopra wasn’t sure if it would work. Having customers wear masks and socially distance to keep the employees safe made no sense when the whole purpose of Good Neighbor was stranger interaction and closeness. But people came. They utilized the tiered outdoor garden and still felt like they were hanging out with other friends even if they couldn’t sit together.

“It was a dizzying couple of years,” says Chopra. And when customers finally could come inside, they found a light-filled space stocked with Chopra’s curated finds, from furniture to housewares, bottles of wine, magazines, and candles.

In 2023, Chopra launched Guesthouse by Good Neighbor, a seven-room boutique hotel on the two floors above the coffee and retail space, which had previously been used as storage. Meant to recreate the feeling of staying at a friend’s house versus a stuffy hotel, it doubles, like the shop, as an opportunity to showcase the work of Baltimore makers and artists as well as Chopra’s and Morgan’s roots.

In November of 2022, Chopra, Morgan, and their toddler son, Avi, visited Aswan, Egypt, with Chopra’s “baba” (Egyptian for father-in-law), who helped them source more than 2,000 pieces of papyrus that have since been integrated into every room at the hotel. Often, the light hits and dances off the ancient paper as it takes on new life within the most modern spaces.

And while Charm City now gets to claim Chopra as its own, he has also been noticed by the bigger design community, from furniture brands that had never had accounts in Baltimore before to national design magazines. “Baltimore’s Tight-Knit Design Scene Is Thriving,” announces a new piece in Dwell magazine, with an illustration of Chopra and a story proclaiming him as “the city’s beloved design retail resource.”

Locally, the design community has taken note as well. “Shawn has done such a brilliant job of bringing incredible design and a high-end aesthetic to Baltimore in a way that is approachable and for the people,” says Robin Heller, lead designer and founder of Surrounded By Color. “He’s so open to ideas and input from designers and brands and friends and patrons. It’s refreshing.”

Part of Chopra’s genius is also the relationship between his businesses. The success and aesthetic of Good Neighbor led to Guesthouse, which in turn has led to Design Garage, a space for designers, architects, builders, and decorators to work together and innovate, and even a weeklong Good Neighbor Design Camp.

Chopra’s parents still live in Vancouver but come down several times a year—mostly to see their grandson Avi—and “they do love the shop and seeing me in my element and using my talents,” says Chopra. He knows they worried, as parents do, when he took that huge gamble on his future.

“But, as I always tell them, the immigrant sacrifice they made was so that their kids could dream completely free and without constraints, something they could not afford to do.”

That there is now tangible evidence of his success feels good.

“Shawn and his team have imagined Baltimore in a super aesthetically pleasing way,” says Surrounded By Color’s Heller. “It’s so lovely as a designer, and a Baltimorean, to be able to bask in the light of it all and watch everyone else shine in it too.”

From the moment you enter the door of The Craft Castle, nestled on Hampden’s The Avenue, the feeling of warmth is almost overwhelming. Whether it’s the fresh-cut flowers lining the work desks, the DIY name tags handed out to participants, or the mini fridge stocked with seltzer, it’s the thoughtful details that make this adult arts-and-crafts studio so special.

Opened in October of 2022 by owner and former Baltimore City school teacher Craig Reinauer, The Craft Castle was born out of a dream to offer a safe space for people to reconnect with their creativity and imagination—which is so often lost in the drudges of adulthood.

“I wanted this to be an escape from what’s happening in people’s day-to-day lives, where they can reconnect to themselves and remember who they are through arts and crafts,” says Reinauer. “Getting your hands on tangible materials and doing something as simple as a collage or a friendship bracelet grounds people in the present moment, which is rare in a world of endless scrolling.”

The studio offers two-hour crafting sessions where you can reserve a fully stocked desk to create anything you want. They also host weekly meetups for journaling and something called craft club—which reserves you a spot for the entire month. And Reinauer says no previous craft experience is needed.

“Just pick [a material] that piques your curiosity and get lost in it.”

The Craft Castle is rooted in the notion of prioritizing your mental health by taking a break from things that don’t serve you. That is why Reinauer decided to make it a sober space, a decision that kept the studio feeling more authentic to who he was.

“I realized alcohol didn’t add value to my life, and it removed me from who I was at my center,” says Reinauer. “I am in no way preaching a life of abstinence from alcohol, but it’s great to have a place for people who are sober, sober curious, or just want to take a break from drinking.”

What started as a healing journey for Reinauer has turned into a healing journey for many in the community.

“Sitting with like-minded people and creating something is really life-changing,” says Reinauer. “There are moments of quiet, outbursts of laughter, and meaningful connections made.”

After seeing her mother deal with medical hair loss, Lena Fleminger understood how devastating the condition could be. Comforting women who are experiencing hair loss became one of the driving forces behind her business, Lena’s Wigs, which she opened about 15 years ago out of her home studio.

The mission was to provide a judgment-free, safe space for women to reclaim their self-confidence through expert wig customization, high quality products, and a long-term support network.

Fleminger was originally introduced to wigs through the Orthodox Jewish community—she joined the religion in her 20s—and noticed many women were spending a lot of money on wigs that they didn’t even like, much less feel good in. (In many Orthodox Jewish communities, women wear wigs.) She saw an opportunity for a secondhand store and started selling wigs on consignment.

As her business grew, she organically started getting more and more customers with medical hair loss—whether from cancer treatment, alopecia, or other autoimmune disorders—and decided to shift her business model to focus on women dealing with these life-altering conditions.

“In some ways, this is like a prosthesis,” Fleminger says. “It’s restoring something that’s been taken from you and it’s extremely personal. I try to emphasize that this really is self-care.”

In January of this year, Fleminger opened her very own storefront along The Avenue in Hampden, specializing in lace-front and lace-top wigs. While Fleminger used to handle the entire customization process herself, she now has a team of artists who assist her.

The sessions with customers tend to get emotional.  “I try to take some of the intimidating aspects out of it,” Fleminger says. “But everyone cries here. I cry. They cry. That’s just how it is. We have a little privacy wall because I want people to feel like they have a safe space to talk about their journey.”

In recent years, the stigma around hair loss has lifted a bit, as Instagram celebrities have begun to talk more openly about their own struggles. And Fleminger wants to keep the conversation going.

“Before I did this, I was thinking about going back to school to become a therapist, but this almost feels the same,” she says. “I just love helping people reclaim their confidence.”

The first thing to note about Hampden Yards is that the name is fantastic. The moniker for the beer garden, located off Hickory Avenue behind a church, was the brainchild of co-owner Josh Mente. His partner Jesse Vann jokes that the witty name was one of the reasons he decided to get involved in the business.

Now in its second season, Hampden Yards—like that other Yards—is a unique locale. Despite being so close to bustling 36th Street, the courtyard that’s home to the outdoor establishment feels far removed from the rushed rhythms of the city. That’s exactly what Vann and his partners envisioned when they initially encountered the spot, which was overrun by weeds and not being used for much of anything.

“The motivation was to provide some outside space in Hampden, because putting chairs on the street is one thing, but having a quiet backyard that is off The Avenue is a pretty awesome thing,” Vann says.

The core of Hampden Yards is a covered deck under which sits a small bar and several tables. When it opened for the year in late March, the shelter and outdoor TVs were new additions. A separate, uncovered section has picnic tables with umbrellas and plenty of games, including a giant Connect 4, Jenga set, and foosball table. Board games and cards (including Cards Against Humanity, which you should play at your own peril in public), are available, and cornhole is set up for special events.

Ordering at Hampden Yards is done on your phone. It can take a minute or two to get the hang of it, but once you do, the process unfolds seamlessly. Your tab remains open as you order round after round, which is brought to your table by a server. Chances are, you’re going to want to try more than just one beer or cocktail from the extensive list, which was created by bar manager Shaun Stewart.

Among the house cocktails, The One in the Bag stands out for its presentation: It’s served in a plastic IV-bag. The red drink is made using primarily tequila and watermelon liqueur and will indeed have a definite impact on your blood-alcohol content. The White Dove, made with tequila, lime and grapefruit juice, and sparkling water is eminently refreshing, as is the long list of crushes and mules.

Draft beers (served, like most of the cocktails, in a plastic cup) include an impressive array of local offerings from the likes of Nepenthe and Manor Hill. There are also IPAs from national microbrews (including Indiana’s excellent 3 Floyds), wines, seltzers, spritzes, and non-alcoholic cocktails.

The small food menu includes a few snacks, wraps, and sandwiches sourced from The Lunchbox Lady. Weekends bring food pop-ups serving deep-dish pizza or barbecue.

On a beautiful spring or summer day when drinking inside just won’t do, Hampden Yards beckons. Its ambiance—and its name—set it apart.

Walk into Kandahar Afghan Kitchen, the newish Afghan restaurant on 36th Street in Hampden, and you’ll find yourself heading straight for the counter. Because although there are many well-appointed tables between the front door of the restaurant and that counter, what you’re drawn to first is the low wall of baklava, stacked like Tetris in front of the open kitchen.

The golden squares—sheets of phyllo layered with pulverized pistachios and walnuts and doused with honey—are made in-house, secured in containers, then built into a small fortress beside the register, maybe to remind you that you can take extra home after dinner. You will want to.

Baltimoreans are probably more familiar with the cuisine of Afghanistan than most citydwellers, thanks to The Helmand, the much-loved Afghan restaurant in Mt. Vernon that’s been run by the Karzai family for nearly 40 years. It is also thanks to The Helmand that we now have Kandahar, as its chef and owner, Assad Akbari, was the head chef there for most of those decades. Akbari began cooking at The Helmand when it first opened in Chicago, then moved to Baltimore when the Karzais moved here and relocated their restaurant in 1989.

Both Akbari and his brother, Sadiq, who was for years a server at The Helmand and is now Kandahar’s GM, left the Mt. Vernon restaurant in 2020 as a consequence of the pandemic.

“I always wanted to open my own restaurant,” says Akbari, sitting at one of his own tables while taking a break from cooking on a recent afternoon.

Above him, a traditional Afghan village dress given to him by his daughter hangs on the wall, its fuchsia fabric fanned out like an accordion. A series of embroidered regional caps bedecks a wall like a deconstructed hat rack. A gorgeous black-and-red rug, one of Akbari’s own, adorns another section.

The dishes that come to the tables are as much works of art as what’s on the walls: the triangular ravioli called aushak, embedded with leeks and scallions then topped with a rich beef-and-tomato sauce and a drizzle of yogurt; kadoo, made of bright copper-colored slices of pumpkin bathed in pale garlicked yogurt.

Though the menu is large, one dish you should absolutely order is the Kabuli pallow, an ornate presentation of long-cooked lamb beneath a dome of spiced rice pilaf, plumped raisins, and a bright thatch of julienned carrots. “It’s the national dish of Afghanistan,” says Akbari. “If you want to treat your guests in a special way, you cook that dish for them.” Reminiscent of an Indian biryani but with the tender meat hidden inside, it’s so good you’ll immediately understand why it’s the centerpiece of feasts and celebrations.

The cooking is subtle—Afghan cuisine is flavorful but not spicy, boosted by pickles and soothed by yogurt—and hinges on deft combinations and excellent sourcing. Kandahar’s lamb and beef are sourced from Old Line Custom Meat Co., while the pumpkins for the kadoo as well as the turnips for the shalgham that accompanies many plates are from Sharp’s, a 120-year-old farm in Howard County that Akbari visits twice a week.

Much of the menu traces to Akbari’s grandmother’s recipes, brought to this country from Kandahar, which is both the name of the restaurant and the family’s hometown in southern Afghanistan.

“I always loved Hampden; to me it’s like a small Afghan village,” says Akbari, who opened Kandahar in March 2022 after transforming the location, which was previously a furniture store.

The BYOB restaurant is one big dining room leading to that baklava-loaded counter, which in turn gives way to a shelf lined with jars of brightly colored pickled vegetables that fronts the open kitchen where Akbari and his small staff cook everything, including all those aushak; the mantu, or dumplings; the naan that goes out to every table; the soups and kabobs; and the baklava.

Even if you’re well-versed in the various dishes, the menu can be daunting. So the best thing to do is to bring a group, secure a big table, return the menus, and instead follow Sadiq’s advice to order a “family-style” meal. (A bargain at $45 per person.) This means that your table will soon be filled with all the appetizers—the kadoo, aushak, and mantu, plus two eggplant dishes, as well as fried triangles stuffed with potatoes and leeks and garnished with more yogurt sauce—before a round of entrees appears.

In our case this meant, of course, Kabuli pallow, then lamb chops, kabobs, stewed chicken, sauced salmon with more seasoned rice, sabzi, a succulent cooked spinach side, and a basket of just-baked naan that somehow kept refilling.

When we couldn’t eat anything more, Sadiq presented us with small bowls of pale Afghan ice cream, cardamom-infused vanilla studded with chopped dates and figs. Did we eat more? We did. And baklava, by the way, is splendid for breakfast.

KANDAHAR AFGHAN KITCHEN: 914 W. 36th St., Hampden, 667-205-1681. HOURS: Tues.-Fri. 11 a.m.-9 p.m., Sat.-Sun. Noon-9 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers, soups, salads: $5.50-10.95; mains: $11.95-28.95; desserts: $5.50. AMBIANCE: Arty and minimalist.

Leslie Stevenson, the doyenne of The Avenue, with her shiny shampoo-commercial hair, dimpled smile, and signature spectacles, opened her beloved shop, In Watermelon Sugar, at a friend’s nudge.

Stevenson’s pal was launching an Italian deli at the corner of Chestnut and 36th Street in Hampden but only wanted half the space. “Why don’t you open up a little home furnishings store,” she suggested.

And that’s really all it took.

“I signed a lease without knowing anything,” she says, laughing.

At the time, Stevenson, who grew up in Ruxton and graduated from the Maryland Institute College of Art, had worked at the Wine Merchant slinging sandwiches and at Dvorine Associates, a high-end design firm on Falls Road. “I’m sure my father was just absolutely ready to keel over and die because he knew I had no experience whatsoever.”

Nevertheless, she persisted and signed a lease. “I did everything backwards,” she says. “I did no research. I had no knowledge of business—I went to art school. I just knew what I liked. And what looked good together.”

Even when it came to the name for her new business, Stevenson was unruffled. “Not having had this lifelong dream to open a store, I had no thoughts on a name, so I was like, ‘Does anybody have a good name for me?’”

The crowdsourcing worked and a friend, who was a huge Richard Brautigan fan, suggested In Watermelon Sugar, Brautigan’s post-apocalyptic novel set in the aftermath of a fallen civilization. She thought it sounded colorful and wonderfully vague, since she still wasn’t quite sure what her store was going to sell. Her naivete most likely saved her from panicking.

“There were plenty of times where I feel like I probably should have seen the writing on the wall,” she says, referring to signs that the business might not be a success. “But I didn’t because I did not have that knowledge to know when to say when. So, I just kept plugging away.”

She emphasizes that she could never have done 25 years on her own. Stevenson gives all the credit to her support system—her husband, Bill Stevenson, the owner of Waverly Tattoo; their 16-year-old son, Xan, who grew up at the shop; and the people of Hampden, who have shopped in her store and welcomed her to the community. Everyone but herself.

“She’s so self-effacing, so chill,” says Libby Francis-Baxter, who owns the Modest Florist across the street and serves as the Hampden Village Merchants Association’s vice president. “She never takes credit for anything.”

But anyone who has stepped foot inside the magical corner shop, with its sunlight dancing across the wood floors, knows it’s all Stevenson. It’s clear in the store’s East-Coast-meets-West-Coast vibe, its perfectly placed displays, and even in that unmistakable scent—is she piping it through the air vents?—that smells like pure happiness (and a kiss of coconut). Her merchandise sits firmly between whimsical and practical. There are candles and cards, trinkets and baskets. Each nook holds books and room sprays, jewelry and lamps. There’s always a stack of seafoam-green or chocolate-brown tissue paper for wrapping gifts and her telltale pink sticker on each bag and box. And no matter how times you’ve walked through the shop—even just the day before—there is always something new to find.

“I think I was her first customer,” says Cameron Barry, who was working at the Mill Centre in 1998 and would pass by the shop every morning and afternoon. “I’m sure I just drove by and decided to check it out— and the rest is history.” She’s been a loyal shopper ever since. “I’ve never seen Leslie sit,” says Barry. But Stevenson never hovers either, allowing customers to peruse at their own pace. “She’s just incredibly warm and welcoming,” says Barry, “and has an interesting selection.”

Barry has story after story of Stevenson pointing her in the direction of other Hampden businesses instead of trying to force a sale. “Go next door,” she told Barry when she was looking for a mirror. When Barry told the folks at the Antique Exchange Stevenson had sent her, they said, “We love Leslie—she’s always sending people over here.”

Francis-Baxter isn’t surprised. She considers In Watermelon Sugar an “anchor institution” for Hampden—part of that first wave of businesses that turned the neighborhood into a shopping mecca and continues to be one of its biggest draws.

“She’s got an incredible eye—there’s no question. Anyone who has ever walked by her windows, you just stand there in awe,” says Francis-Baxter. But, she says, the windows are just an entry point into Stevenson’s world. “She’s really got the insight into those things that make you feel good and make you want to give good.”

The storefront windows on Chestnut weren’t always part of the equation. Remember those friends who encouraged her to open a shop next to their deli? In an ironic twist, they closed their business a year after Stevenson opened hers, and the landlord gave her the chance to take over the entire space. (“All the murals of the Sistine Chapel that are on the walls were left over from the Italian deli,” says Stevenson, clearing up something inquiring minds have often wondered.)

Initially Stevenson was hesitant, but her father insisted. He told her if she ever wanted to grow her business, which she would have to do in order to survive, she’d need room for more merchandise and storage. “I mean, none of this stuff entered my brain,” admits Stevenson. “So thankfully, it entered my father’s. He got me started on the right path—in every way.” They put a doorway between the two spaces, and it was a pivotal moment for the shop. She started selling less hand-painted flea market finds and more eclectic home goods. And she started to get a feel for who her customers were.

“Hampden is a unique area in the sense that you get so many different people,” she says. There are the college kids, folks from nearby Guilford and Homeland, tourists who find their way to The Avenue, plus a huge swath of regular customers that constantly come back, because they rely on Stevenson for certain staples. “Sometimes it’s hard, because you’re trying to accommodate all these people. But it’s also what’s great, because you have so many different types of people coming in.”

“IT’S HARD TO THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE OTHER THAN BEING GRATEFUL.”

Stevenson was 28 when she opened the store and now sits squarely in her 50s. “There’s a big difference between your mindsets. I don’t think you’re capable of absorbing the magnitude of time at that age. I don’t even think I had an idea when I opened the shop—how long am I going to be here? It just seemed like the next best move. Like, you live in the moment at that age, and everything is new and fun.” At that point, In Watermelon Sugar was her whole life. She’d work, close up, go out to bars, and rinse and repeat. There were no obligations other than making sure she was there the next day to turn the key.

Now she understands the weight of owning a business, having employees, paying bills, placing orders, and a new wrinkle: surviving during a pandemic. “There were times when I wished I had a boss, you know, someone to tell me what to do,” she says with a wry laugh. The freedom that came with owning a business—“I’m in control”—was also the burden that kept her up at night.

Other (fun) stresses include those beautiful seasonal windows where Stevenson really lets her creative juices flow. She realized early on she couldn’t put too much inventory inside the windows because the sun would bleach the goods, so instead she started creating displays with the product being almost secondary.

“It’s fun, but after 25 years it’s a little stressful only because I feel like I’ve done so many themes.” She starts rattling off previous fall windows—“I’ve done mushrooms, owls, woodland, farmers market, apple-picking, pumpkin patch… ” The shop’s basement is full of random items she’s collected for over two decades. Friends bring her rocks, branches, moss, and stumps for potential use in the window. And she’s caught the bug, too. She laughs. “I mean I can’t walk around outside without being like, ‘Ooh.’”

Indeed, on her frequent trips to California to visit her sister, she’ll often ship back boxes of rocks. Everyone is on the hunt. “Even my brother-in-law would be out surfing and find these crazy rocks and shells. And he’d box him up and send them to me for display. I know it’s ridiculous, but you open a business, and it just becomes all-consuming.”

But somehow Stevenson still makes it look effortless—like she’s almost embarrassed this milestone anniversary would cause any sort of fanfare. And in true Stevenson fashion, it’s her shoppers she’s focused on.

“It makes you reflect on your own life, when you see an anniversary for somebody that’s sort of big, because all of a sudden, you’re like, I’ve been going there for 25 years.” She’s watched customers have babies and now those babies are graduating high school or driving themselves over to shop for a girlfriend. “It’s a weird position that you don’t think of when you open something in your 20s. So, in your 50s, you reflect back. It’s hard to think of anything else other than being enormously grateful that you’re still there, and you’re able to witness this passage of time and see these people that you wouldn’t normally see unless you had a shop. It’s definitely wild.”

She also knows how lucky she is—especially during those darkest days of COVID-19. “I mean we lost Trohv,” she says solemnly. “And because we lost Trohv, I feel like I’m sort of reaping the benefits.” So that was sort of a bittersweet fluke. “[There are] a lot of variables that go into measuring success. And I think it’s not always [about] patting yourself on the back, thinking that you did the right thing.”

But when pressed, Stevenson says she does allow herself the occasional moment to soak it all in.

“I’m lucky to be in a neighborhood where I know so many people and they’ve kind of become a family. There’s a sense of ease that comes after 25 years. So, it’d be a shame to leave that now.”

For the foreseeable future, her plan is simply to keep showing up and turning the key.

“I’m grateful to have this to come to every day,” she says.

Fluff up the feather boa. Locate the leopard-print pants. Pull out the poodle skirt. It’s time for HonFest, when thousands of visitors descend upon Hampden for two days in June to dress up as Baltimore’s favorite icon—the Hon—and pay tribute to working-class women of an earlier era.

Supporters love the glamour of wannabe Hons as they parade along 36th Street in colorful attire, some preparing to enter Baltimore’s Best Hon contest—this year’s 30th pageant—with others just enjoying a chance to put on a costume of sorts.

Bonnie Hockstein—Hon name: Bonnie Marie Shiksakowski—saw HonFest on TV in the late ’90s and knew she wanted to be there. Her mother, Dorothy “Poopsie” Bucci, was the epitome of the women being celebrated. Bucci, who passed away in 2020, had been a longtime waitress at celebrated restaurants of yore like Haussner’s and Obrycki’s and later worked at the Dundalk crab house Ruggiero’s until she was 80.

“I wore her waitress outfit,” Hockstein says. “I did it as an homage to my mom.”

Hockstein, who now organizes the main-stage entertainment for the festival, being held June 10 and 11 this year, sees HonFest as a celebration of the women who worked at service jobs like cleaning houses and waitressing while their husbands and boyfriends served in World War II and the Korean War. If they had kids at home, the women would take in laundry and sewing for some extra income.

“My mother would call it ‘go-to-hell money,’” Hockstein says. “It was the beginning of women’s liberation.”

But not everyone is enamored with an event that seemingly celebrates a white culture in a neighborhood that was once an enclave for white, blue-collar Baltimoreans. Even Baltimore’s beloved “Pope of Trash” John Waters has dismissed the Hon culture that he helped to popularize, telling The Baltimore Sun in 2008 that “it’s used up” and “condescending now.”

At one time, Waters incorporated the Hon image in some of his movies, most notably in his 1988 film Hairspray. The original movie, which later became a musical and then a film again, featured teens and women of the early ’60s wearing exaggerated beehive and bouffant hairstyles. In the movie, the late Baltimore star Divine played the larger-than-life character Edna Turnblad, who delivered the line, “Fetch me my diet pills, would you, hon?”

Over the years, “hon,” a shortened version of the endearment “honey,” has secured a place in Baltimore’s lexicon.

“You used ‘hon’ because you didn’t know everyone’s name,” Hockstein says.

With the right accent, it’s pure Bawlmerese, a dialect that originated among the city’s white, blue-collar residents. Whatever its pronunciation, Waters told The Sun that he’s done with the word and the Hon image: “I used to say, ‘Come to Baltimore and you would see people with those hairdos.’ You no longer see that. They’re dead or in nursing homes.” The years haven’t softened his stance. When asked recently about the Hons, he said, through an assistant, that he feels like he’s already shared his opinion about the Hon phenomenon and has nothing fresh to add.

The Hons are also in a bit of a tussle with Waters. “He thinks we’re appropriating his characters. We think he’s appropriating our characters,” Hockstein says. “We go back and forth. It has never been settled.”

David Puglia, who wrote Tradition, Urban Identity, and the Baltimore “Hon”: The Folk in the City (Lexington Books, 2018), sees Hon folklore as a way for people to have meaning in their lives and create a group identity.

“It arises to meet an inferiority complex,” he says. “Baltimore, in my opinion, is often in the shadows of New York and Washington, D.C. It used to be one of the United States’ major cities. Perhaps not anymore, and so because of that, there appears to be in the celebration of Hon culture a way of calling attention to what makes Baltimore distinct or special.”

HonFest started benignly enough in 1994 when Denise Whiting, owner of the now-closed Cafe Hon, held a small pageant to find Baltimore’s Best Hon during Hampden’s annual Summer Fair. There were six contestants. “I always loved beauty contests,” Whiting explains. “The whole Hon thing harkens back to a softer time. It’s all those good, solid memories you have of growing up and watching your grandmothers and aunts.”

Whiting was also following, as many Baltimoreans were at the time, the escapades of a mysterious man dubbed “The Hon Man,” who would hang a sign saying “Hon” next to the “Welcome to Baltimore” sign on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, so it would greet motorists with “Welcome to Baltimore, Hon.”

Some officials and residents took offense, complaining that the moniker was patronizing to women as well as exclusionary to Black people. Others, like Sun columnist Dan Rodricks, supported Hon Man’s gesture. So did Whiting. “I did a petition to leave it up,” she says. She also put the word “Hon” on coffee mugs and had them delivered to Maryland elected officials. “It was something to talk about,” she says. “It was fun. It was celebrated.”

 

“THE WHOLE HON THING HARKENS BACK TO A SOFTER TIME.”

 

In 1996, Whiting, 64, parted ways with the Hampden Summer Fair, which folded the following year, and moved her festivities to Cafe Hon’s back parking lot, branding it HonFest. By 2002, the festival, which was drawing more visitors each year, spread out to Hampden’s main street—36th Street, or The Avenue as it’s known—to accommodate the hordes of people.

Whiting received a lot of support over the years. When city inspectors badgered her to pay a hefty fee to keep the 30-foot pink-flamingo structure on her restaurant building, Baltimore citizens rallied around her in 2009, organizing a protest by staking smaller plastic pink flamingos in the ground at War Memorial Plaza. While John Waters titled his 1972 movie Pink Flamingos, the signature Baltimore lawn ornaments became popular years earlier. Instead of going to Ocean City to vacation, the newly working women of the mid-20th century would use their extra money to go to Florida, bringing back as many plastic birds as they could. They put them in their yards, so neighbors would know they could afford to visit the Sunshine State, Hockstein says.

While Whiting got to keep her giant flamingo, she had another idea that didn’t endear herself to many Baltimoreans. She trademarked the word “Hon,” planning to use the term to her commercial advantage. When word got out in 2010, protestors marched outside Cafe Hon. The restaurant’s business dropped 20 to 25 percent, according to a Sun article. British celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay showed up with his Kitchen Nightmares crew, embarking on a redo of the troubled Cafe Hon and Whiting’s reputation. Whiting eventually offered a teary apology on MIX 106.5 FM and gave up her trademark in 2011. She acknowledged at the time, “Trademarking the word has not only almost killed me but has just about killed the business.”

Despite the unsettling hiccup, HonFest continued that year without repercussions. And even Cafe Hon’s closure in April 2022 hasn’t deterred the annual ode to Hons from proceeding.

“I didn’t realize HonFest was going to happen even though Cafe Hon is gone,” says Mary Rizzo, author of Come and Be Shocked: Baltimore Beyond John Waters and The Wire (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2020). “At first, I found HonFest really fascinating because of the contradictions that it represented. I loved the kitschiness and campiness of the people dressing up like Hons and competing.”

But Rizzo, who started going to HonFest in 1999 when she was working on her dissertation about class identity in the United States and how people mold their class identity through clothes and fashion, also found the concept more complicated.

“This was a neighborhood going through a transition, a demographic transition that you might call gentrification,” she says. “As working-class people were being pushed out or were leaving the neighborhood or were passing away, they were being replaced by middle-class and upper-class people, who were then taking on the sort of costume of the working class.”

Rizzo says today’s working-class people in Baltimore don’t fit the typical image of the Hon of the past since Baltimore is not a majority-white city anymore.

“There have been changes to who competes for the Best Hon title and who participates in HonFest,” she says.

Baltimore rapper, songwriter, and philanthropist Anthony Parker—aka Wordsmith—never expected to perform at HonFest in Hampden.

“I never felt like it was a festival where I would be wanted or that I would want to go to,” he says. “Prior years, the Black community has not been represented.”

But this year, the hip-hop artist, who is also an artistic partner with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, is looking forward to taking the stage on June 11. It will be his first visit to the community, thanks to the efforts of Hockstein and HonFest emcee Judy Templeton to make HonFest more inclusive.

“They see that there’s been a void for years in inviting the Black community, and not just the Black community but all of Baltimore to feel welcome to HonFest,” says Wordsmith, 43, who has lived in Baltimore for 25 years. “I see two women who want to do the right thing. They see where we are in America right now, and they’re trying to do what they can to open people’s eyes.”

Hockstein, who doesn’t want to reveal her age, and Templeton, who gives her age as “timeless,” have been working steadily to broaden the festival’s reach.

“When we talked to Black men and women in the community, it turned out they were afraid to come to Hampden because it still had a white feeling that they didn’t necessarily feel a part of,” Templeton says. “We want to start changing that.”

She also realized that the festival had a stereotype of being about only white women. “But women who contributed in Baltimore were many different races and had their own stories,” she says.

Templeton, who grew up in a rowhouse on the west side of Baltimore, attended her first HonFest more than a decade ago and found herself in the Best Hon contest that day. She made it to the top 10 but didn’t win, though she was later picked Baltimore’s Best Hon 2021. HonFest founder Whiting named Templeton and Hockstein, crowned Best Hon 2020, as reigning title holders while the event was on hiatus during the pandemic. “We both share an extreme love for Baltimore,” Templeton says of Hockstein. “We feel as passionate now, because there’s more work to be done.”

One success was convincing Naomi Burrell, an African-American mother of three who was raised in West Baltimore, to come to HonFest in 2017. “That was my first time when I was invited,” says Burrell, who met the two women at the Baltimore Flower Mart. “Everybody was there to have a good time.”

Templeton and Hockstein eventually encouraged Burrell to enter Baltimore’s Best Hon contest. She was resistant for years but succumbed to the two Hons’ pleas last year. “I don’t know what made me agree,” Burrell says. “I guess it’s because I trusted them.”

 

“PRIOR YEARS, THE BLACK COMMUNITY HAS NOT BEEN REPRESENTED AT THIS FESTIVAL.”

 

She went on to win the crown in the competition, during which the top 10 contestants are picked on Saturday and then come back on Sunday to perform a talent and discuss their goals to make Baltimore a better place. On the first day, Burrell, inspired by the lemon stick, a classic Baltimore treat, wore a dress splashed with print lemons, accessorizing with a red- and-white headband with a bow and matching gloves. On stage, contestants were asked to say a Bawlmerese word. Burrell’s word was “tin foil” (yes, aluminum foil).

“Growing up in Baltimore, this was a no-brainer,” she says with a laugh. “Tin foil, you wrap your food in it.”

On the second day, she serenaded the audience with Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” wearing a Caribbean outfit that included a grass skirt and lei. She chose Baltimore’s hidden treasures as her platform.

“I’m a Baltimore native, and there is so much here that people don’t know about,” she says.

When the judges announced her name, Burrell, 40, experienced a range of emotions, from shock to joy. She wasn’t the first POC winner—Hockstein says there were two previous winners of color: one Native American, the other from a Black and Italian background—but Burrell appreciated its significance.

“It’s why my win is so important,” she says. “Hons are from all cultures, especially African Americans. I’m grateful we’re getting to a place where we’re being included.”

Chris Riehl, a longtime Baltimore tour guide who also sings at the festival, will be judging this year’s contest for the second time.

“It’s more than big hair and outfits,” he says, describing what he looks for in a winner. “It’s a combination of energy, creativity, spirit, and enthusiasm, and how they will find ways to make Baltimore better.”

Besides the adult contest, two other pageants are held during HonFest: Lil’ Miss Hons for ages 3-7 and Honettes for ages 8-14. The youngest Hons don’t compete for a title. Instead, each youngster is given a crown and a goodie bag.

The organizers were still deciding at press time about whether to select a Honette winner this year. They have in the past, but they feel like the contestants have been through enough after COVID. Still, they look for future Hons among the group—an effort to stave off the belief that the Hon is a dying breed. “We do recruit them,” Hockstein says.

And why should Baltimoreans care that the tradition continues? Well, first and foremost, it’s a fun event, but the HonFest Hons aren’t just about dressing up for two days in June. There is a philanthropic arm called Hon Hive, where participants donate their time and talents to various causes like Baltimore Station, a residential treatment program for veterans; Hampden Family Center, a community program that offers support groups, youth activities, and other services to area residents; and HER Resiliency Center, which helps women between the ages of 18 and 25 who may be facing domestic violence, sexual exploitation, substance abuse, and homelessness.

The Hon Hive also engages in outreach by performing at events throughout the year. “We get to do fun things,” says Templeton. “Our goal is to connect Baltimore, so it’s not just one little pocket here or one little pocket there.”

A criticism that’s been leveled against the Hons is that out-of-towners, who have no connection to Baltimore and Hon culture, are adopting a Hon persona when they attend the festival, which, to some, seems insincere. That accusation doesn’t bother the Hons at all.

“The tourists love us,” Hockstein says. “We invite everyone. We’re diverse and inclusive.”

William Chickering might as well be in Texas on this Thursday evening at the end of April—his pink patterned button-up tucked into black jeans over snakeskin boots, his thick white mustache twirled perfectly beneath a crisp cream ten-gallon hat.

Instead, he’s at the Waverly Brewing Company, beneath the hum of I-83 in Hampden, where once a month, the beer-packing room transforms into a country-western dance party, known as the Baltimore Honky Tonk. On this night, the four-piece Karen Jonas Band twangs out a cover of the classic 1972 “Ballad of Spider John” by Willis Alan Ramsey as dozens of dancers partner up and move in time with its lilting melody across the ad-hoc dance floor, the smell of brewer’s yeast wafting through the air.

“I’ve been two-stepping for over 25 years,” says Chickering, pictured second from left, above, the 70-year-old board president of The Peale Museum and a regular Honky Tonk patron with his partner, Mike. “I started with two left feet—and some patient friends.”

Before long, the event’s host, Alex Lacquement, appears and then the duo is off, hand in hand, heels and toes synchronized in a precise tandem—four steps in the same direction, four in the other, repeat.

“I was tired of having to travel around the country to dance,” says Lacquement, a 36-year-old musician and elementary school music teacher, who years earlier had become enamored by this simple partnered dance style, often paired with classic country music. “I’d been two-stepping in Nashville and in Austin, attending festivals in West Virginia or Louisiana, and I just wanted to have a place where people could get together and dance to live music right here in Baltimore.”

As a member of the local Americana music scene, Lacquement was hip to other dance styles already underway across the city, like the upbeat swing and peppy square dances at Mobtown Ballroom. But from his days performing with the alt-folk Bumper Jacksons and bluegrass-inspired Charm City Junction, he found himself increasingly drawn to that old lonesome country sound. With friends Letitia Van Sant and Luke Chohany, he started a new band named Rusty Sal in 2016 to play exactly that, and the following year, launched the first dance night that would eventually become the Baltimore Honky Tonk—first at 1919, then at the Ottobar, before winding up at Waverly.

“There’s just something about this music that feels good to move your body to, and it’s so easy to grasp from the start,” says Lacquement, who mans everything from promotional marketing to sound engineering for this grassroots event, with the help of dedicated volunteers. “I always tell people, if you can move your feet back and forth, and if you’re having fun, you’re dancing.”

There’s a degree of vulnerability to dancing in public, so each Honky Tonk begins with a lesson. It’s explained that any participant is able to lead or follow, and the importance of respecting personal boundaries is emphasized, as two-stepping can be both romantic and platonic. To enhance accessibility, Lacquement offers sliding-scale admission, from $10 to $20, which allows him to pay his bands a fair wage.

Headlining acts are often regional favorites like Caleb Stine and Arty Hill, and on June 22, Oregon’s critically acclaimed Caleb Klauder and Reeb Willms will likely draw a packed house.

“It’s a big love fest, isn’t it?” says Melissa Yukna, co-owner of Waverly, popping in to observe the scene as the band fires up “Can’t Let Go” by Lucinda Williams.

By 9 p.m., the room is nearly full, with novice and veteran participants, ranging in age from twentysomethings to retirees, with a diversity of genders and ethnicities. They try out moves, switch partners, and pop into the taproom as songs lilt between serenades and barn burners. Some show up in pearl-snap shirts and belt buckles. Others wear saddle shoes or sneakers.

“It’s grown into a beautiful thing,” says Lacquement. “My dream is to get it to a place where people start to associate Baltimore with country music, and country dancing…and it makes them want to come here, too.”

Caitlin Kiehl first became smitten with baking while making an Oreo cheesecake in a high-school cooking class at the age of 15.

“By the third week of class, I was like, ‘I’m going to own a restaurant someday,’” says Kiehl, laughing. “That cheesecake was super easy and the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten. I was like, ‘So this is what I’ll do.’”

After high school, Kiehl studied pastry at a culinary school in Lancaster, PA, then interned at a chocolate shop with a pastry chef. Employment soon followed, with stops along the way at the famed Proof Bakery in Los Angeles and, eventually, Charleston and Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore.

In early March, Kiehl opened Maillard Pastries, a snug storefront in Hampden, where, after arriving at 3 a.m. (and toiling until 8 p.m.), Kiehl makes everything from morning buns to chocolate-chip cookies to scones.

“People here care about small bakers and restaurants,” says Kiehl. “I am still shocked that people come in and buy so much.”

What inspired the name Maillard?
I love learning about how things work and why they work. I have a big book on the scientific reasons behind things. I was paging through a chocolate book, and they were breaking down chemical reactions and Maillard is one of them that spoke to me. [In a Maillard reaction], the sugars and amino acids react with the heat where you get that beautiful brown color, which is a big part of what makes croissants look so delicious.

Why baking?
My dad is an engineer and I think that I have that kind of mindset. I like to know how things work, why they work; I need to know all the things about all the things. That’s a big difference between bakers and cooks. Bakers do things more by feel.

With so many bakeries here, what did you want your niche to be?
The bakery I first learned to make croissants at was Proof. I enjoyed working there. The vibe there was like, “If there’s something you want to try, we will try it and see if it works.” It was mostly women who worked there, and it was really supportive, collaborative, and respectful—I’ve modeled my whole baking businesses off that.

What should a first-timer get?
If they get here early enough, they should get chocolate croissants and almond croissants—we sell out so fast. And get the chocolate-chip cookies. They’re my favorite thing. I eat at least one a day.

What’s the most labor-intensive product to make?
The croissants are especially time-consuming. I make the dough at night, and it sits overnight. I laminate it the next day. They get sheeted and shaped and sit overnight again. Then I proof for two hours and then I bake them. It’s a three-day process and takes up a huge portion of every day. I’ve only ever been a scratch baker, but I sometimes forget to pro- mote that. I’ve always had a commitment to that quality—it makes a difference.

On a normally busy Saturday, things are unusually calm at The Turnover Shop, an upscale consignment store located in the 3800 block of Roland Avenue, on the border between Hampden and Roland Park.

It’s an overcast day, and around mid-afternoon, the elegant shop with its hard-to-miss cerulean storefront is devoid of routine foot traffic. But give it just a couple of minutes, says co-owner Alice Ann Martin.

Patrons, family, and friends begin to float through the store’s entryway, lingering a little to exchange a few greetings and laughs with Martin before dispersing to browse. And across from the register, over which myriad antique light fixtures hang from an ornate ceiling, two men prepare to lift a wooden table onto the nearby curb for pickup. Martin, 59, rolls and neatly wraps an oriental rug that was in the front room. Living up to the store’s name, a near-identical red one then takes its place, covering the Georgian tile that dates to the building’s origins in 1892.

Warmly lit, thoughtfully curated, and whimsical, with each quaint nook and cranny named for its purpose (the bathroom, for example, has long been dubbed “The Necessary Room”), the shop dates to 1943, when it was owned by members of St. Mary’s Church in Hampden.

“They named it The Turnover Shop. I didn’t,” says Alice Ann Finnerty, 83, Martin’s mother and business partner, who acquired the shop in 1978.”The idea was to have a quick turnover of product—that being the clothing and antiques are consigned—and that theme has continued today.”

Clothing sales have since gone by the wayside. Nonetheless, the store’s guiding ethos of quick turnover remains the same. And over the years, a kind of natural selection has occurred—people know to bring only their finest goods to the store for consignment. Items that come through the door are quickly approved, listed, and priced.

As pieces sell, consignors are sent checks for each one sold. Which means what we see today in the shop—from Westminster clocks and throw pillows to Royal Worcester ramekins—is fleeting. Some goods remaining at the end of a 90-day period return to their original owners. Others are donated to thrift stores, including The Wise Penny on York Road.

A few things have changed over the store’s history. In the 43 years since Finnerty bought it, the shop—which recently made the decision to close its doors on Sundays—has undergone renovations. And under the influence of Martin, who started working here with her mother 37 years ago, bookkeeping has gone digital.

But much remains the same since the ’70s. Finnerty still rents out the store’s upstairs apartment. And per her mother’s secret recipe, the much-anticipated “magic eggnog,” is made in the kitchen at Christmastime.

“It’s a family that’s incorporated into a business. That’s really what it is,” Finnerty says, adding that the working relationship she has with Martin—like any mother-daughter dynamic—can be tricky. “But we’re gifted in that we’re able to understand each other.”

Finnerty, who’s recently begun to slow down (today is her first time visiting the shop in quite a while—not that anyone would know it) hopes that its magic will continue on.

“I love The Turnover Shop. And I love the people that are here,” the grandmother of 19 says. “I think looking into the future, Hampden is going to continue to grow,” she adds. “And I think that our presence here will help to establish that.”

For most of us, vermouth is an ingredient. Swirled around a martini glass or splashed into a Manhattan, it is quickly placed back on the bar cart as the stars of the show (gin, vodka, bourbon, pick your poison) make their entrance.

But at Hampden’s The Wine Collective, co-founder Enrique Pallares and his team are on a mission to push vermouth into the spotlight, a placement it already enjoys in Spain, where the daily “hora del Vermut”—vermouth hour—brings young people out in spades to sip the fortified wine on its own, with olives and orange slices, or fizzed up with a bit of seltzer. 

Sitting in the cozy Barrel Room at The Wine Collective as Pallares pours from the first batch of his Vermú Rosé, it takes very little convincing to consider borrowing a tradition from the Spanish. The pinkish-orange concoction of the collective’s 2019 rosé aromatized with cinchona bark, Spanish oranges, chamomile, wormwood, gentian root, juniper berries, clove, and star anise is spicy and bittersweet on its own, and refreshing and mellow served “vermuteria style” with soda water, an orange slice, and an olive. There are also several vermú cocktails on offer, including a light, botanical spritz and the warm, sugary “Burnt Flamingo.”

“It’s one of the most versatile drinks out there,” says Vallares. “You can really drink it on a Sunday morning spritzed up with bubbly water, or you can mix it with sparkling wine and it’s a perfect anytime drink like the Aperol Spritz. At the same time you can have it in the afternoon, or you can serve it in like a little Nick and Nora after dinner and it’s the perfect cocktail or digestif. It’s very, very simple, and that’s why I think it’s so popular among young people in Spain.”

With trends pushing drinkers more and more toward options with less sugar and lower alcohol content, Vermú Rosé has arrived at the perfect moment, ticking boxes in flavor and versatility and clocking in at just 16.5% ABV in the bottle.

“It’s the meeting point between the distiller, the winemaker, the chef, and the witch doctor. All those [botanicals] have components that are good for you, and then you blend that with the wine,” says Vallares. “[The American palate] is learning to let go of the sugar a little bit, and it’s learning to love bitterness a little bit more. [Vermouth] has this wave of people ready for that palate, but it’s also tied to the interest in the lower-ABV stuff. There’s all these interesting forces in the booze and culinary movement in America that are perfect for vermouth.”

They may not quite be doctor’s orders, but Vallares recommends pairing the spirit with salty pintxos such as tinned fish and olives. (The Wine Collective’s smoked fish dip, served with crackers and chili crisp, is a stunner.) And look for a new red vermouth —“More vanilla forward, more herbal, more of the traditional style,” according to Vallares — launching this month. With the rosé variety already lauded by Wine & Spirits, Condé Nast Traveler, and Forbes, we look forward to adding a second style to our vermouth hour supplies soon.

Alan Kolb knew his salon wouldn’t last forever. He had opened Sprout, an Organic Salon, in the fall of 2006 on “The Avenue” in Hampden. Offering organic products and minimal packaging, the salon’s eco-friendly mission was trailblazing at the time and has since gone on to become a major beauty trend.

Seven years later, in 2015, Kolb launched organic hair care line Organic Chemistry. The brand was supplied to salons across the country and was a mainstay at Sprout, whose clients were among some of the first to test each new product.

“There was always a plan for Organic Chemistry to live beyond Sprout,” says Kolb. “My idea was that one day soon, I’d sell Sprout to the people who have worked there all these years.”

But things changed in a way Kolb couldn’t have have seen coming. In 2020, like many small businesses, Sprout was hit with financial hardships stemming from COVID-19 and was forced to close. In turn, Organic Chemistry took off.

“Even though a lot of the salons we sold to are now closed, a lot of people have begun to buy online, and Organic Chemistry has been there,” says brand co-founder Davina Grunstein.

Today, Organic Chemistry carries on the environmentally conscious mission Sprout once held. Each product is formulated and packed in small batches right here in Baltimore.

The packaging is made of recyclable plastic and filled with ingredients that are organic and natural. The suppliers Organic Chemistry chooses to work with also must have a low carbon footprint. And sometimes, for customers close to home, Kolb might even ride his bike to hand-deliver orders to doorsteps.

Years ago, Liz Irish dreamed of opening a Korean restaurant to honor the foods of her heritage and help demystify the cuisine.

“On and around Charles Street, there’s a cluster of old-school Korean restaurants, says Liz, “and, whenever I would talk to friends, that was their only introduction or knowledge of Korean food—we wanted to do something that was a little more modern.”

Welcome to the adorably named Toki Tako at the Rotunda in Hampden, just a few hundred feet away from The Local Fry, the other spot Liz and her husband, Kevin, own and operate.

Back in 2019, the couple signed a lease, hoping to open Toki Tako in the spring of 2020—then COVID struck. In January 2021, at long last, they opened their (rounded) pink and white doors, which are shaped like bunny ears, their sly wink to the word “toki,” which means rabbit in Korean.

“We chose that name because my parents sent me to Korean school when I was a kid,” says Liz, who was born in Baltimore and raised in Ellicott City. “They didn’t want me to lose touch with my heritage. In the school, we were taught that the Korean peninsula, with North and South Korea together, is the shape of a rabbit, so it’s cool to bring that idea back to the name.”

Despite the sound of the name, Toki Tako is not a South-of-the-Border/Korean mash-up, though the original concept was to open a Korean-Mexican fusion concept.

“As we were developing the recipes and the concept, I was like, ‘I’m not proficient in Mexican cuisine or culture, so I don’t want to cook something and pretend that I do know it,’” recalls Liz.

“I wanted the restaurant to be 100 percent Korean. “There’s no Mexican side at all here,” adds Kevin. “People come in here and they think that some things will be Mexian, but we are like, ‘This is literally straight Korean, but you can get it in a tortilla.’”

While the menu features many of the delectable dishes you’d get in a Korean barbecue joint—the spicy pork belly, the pickled radishes, the kimchi—Liz and Kevin came up with the idea of using tortillas as a vehicle to make the fare less intimidating to patrons.

 

DESPITE THE SOUND OF THE NAME, TOKI TAKO IS NOT A SOUTH-OF-THE-BORDER/ KOREAN MASH-UP.

 

“We wanted to serve the Korean food in an approachable, familiar vessel,” says Liz. Another option for holding the fillings: lettuce wraps or “ssams,” (which is Korean for wrapped).

“When people think of lettuce wraps, they think of P.F. Chang’s or something very Americanized,” says Liz. “It’s not intimidating to have the meat and pickled vegetables inside the lettuce wrap.”

In addition to the tortillas and ssams, there’s also doshi boxes, as well as elements of Korean street food such as tteokbokki (stir-fried rice cakes in fish sauce) and corn cheese (similar to creamed corn), a popular bar snack in Korea.

“I also want people to know that Korean cuisine is vast,” says Liz. “Korean food is not just rice and Korean fried chicken and kimchi. It’s very vegetable-heavy, so when you go to a Korean restaurant, typically, the meal is served with a bunch of side dishes at the table.”

“We are trying to educate people about the common items, and the ones that are not common, as well,” adds Kevin. “The majority of items on our menu, you can’t get anywhere else.”

While The Local Fry, with its spud-centric fare, honors Kevin’s Irish traditions, Toki Tako harkens back to Liz’s childhood. “I grew up eating Korean food,” she says, “but it was the adults who would make the food and the kids would just rush into the room to eat it. Other than mandu, which we sat around and made together on holidays, we were really never taught to make stuff.”

Eventually, she did learn, while living abroad in Italy, where she studied fashion for five years. “When I was living there, I missed Korean food,” says Liz wistfully. “I was always asking my mom for recipes and asking her how it was made.”

Toki Tako is considered a fast-casual concept, though it’s anything but fast food. Everything, from the hand-sliced garlic to the giant bowls of kimchi, is made with complete consideration and care.

“We use as our business model fast-casual food, because people can come in and out and get their food quickly,” explains Liz, “but on the kitchen side of it, we’ve always focused on making everything super-fresh and super-hot—and we don’t do anything frozen. We make things to order.”

In addition to educating patrons all about Korean cuisine, Liz is also keeping continuity with her culture. The latitude and longitude of Seoul are prominently displayed on a wall near the cash register, and the dishes on the pegboard menu are spelled phonetically with their Korean names.

“I am American, and my parents were immigrants,” says Liz, whose father passed away in 2001. “But even after my mom goes, and our connection to Korea is gone, I want to be able to still hold on to it.”

TOKI TAKO: 711 W. 40th St.; 443-708-4993. HOURS: Tues.-Sat. 5-8 p.m. PRICES: Ban chan and sides: $3-8; tako and ssam: $4.50 each; (or $13-14 for three); DIY meal kits: $25-28. AMBIANCE: Think pink.

Shortly after sunrise, on most mornings during this peculiar pandemic-stricken summer, strollers, joggers and dog walkers in Baltimore’s Roosevelt Park go about their routines to the odd rhythm of maple, polyurethane, and aluminum repeatedly cracking against concrete.

The awkward beat is augmented by a unique fusion of frustrated grunts and exasperated exhales followed by the occasional profane exclamation spicing up the cadence. That odd mix of sounds may seem exotic, but anyone who has spent time on city streets, suburban cul de sacs, or in public parks, should recognize the cacophony as the sound of skateboarding.

In the early morning hours, however, it’s not the stereotypical teenaged, mayo boy, Mountain Dew enthusiasts, who create the clamor.

It’s a gaggle of early-morning pushers consisting mostly of professional men in their 30s and 40s. Guys who, prior to COVID-19, spent early-morning hours commuting to work, coaxing reluctant children to get dressed for school, and queuing for Starbucks.

Jarret Jeffery, 35, a married father of three who teaches in Prince George’s County, is among the most dedicated of Hampden’s early-morning skaters. Since schools closed, Jeffery has used the time he would’ve spent driving to work on his board.

“That huge chunk of time that I have now, I’ve been throwing that into spending time with family and skateboarding,” Jeffery says.

Fittingly, Jeffery, bespectacled, about five feet, five inches tall, and wearing a pair of mid top Vans with duct tape on the left front toe, approaches skating with the methodical nature of a science and math teacher.

He occasionally heads to the skatepark with a list of tricks he’s working on, and checks them off as he practices. Doggedly, and adroitly, Jeffery works on moves repeatedly, tweaking his technique after each failed attempt until he lands the maneuver.

On a recent morning, he skated alone on an elevated ramp, diligently practicing his front-side boardslide. Over and over, Jeffrey cruised up the nearly vertical wall of the ramp, pushed his board’s front wheels over the ramp’s metal coping, and used the slick bottom of his board to slide along the ledge before rolling back down the ramp “fakie,” aka with his dominant foot on the front of the board.

“These last few weeks things have just been clicking, and I think that’s because I’ve been consistent with my practicing, and taking breaks too, because I’m an old dude,” he says with a laugh.

John Rohrer, 42, a nurse, and married father of a toddler, skated as a child and again as a teenager before picking up the sport again about six months ago.

An avid biker and Hampden resident, Rohrer says that, as a result of the pandemic, the convenience of the skatepark—especially with a baby at home—has turned skating into his current exercise of choice.

“It’s a good core workout, and it’s quick and easy cause it’s right up the street from my house,” Rohrer says. “I’ve done a lot cycling my whole life, but a lot of fun bike rides, for me, take a lot longer. So this is a lot more conducive to get my activity itch scratched, and it reminds me of being a kid, I guess.”

Rohrer’s not too interested in pursuing the board flips and grinds associated with street skating. Riding a wider board with larger wheels, he focuses on cruising the skatepark’s banks and maintaining momentum over obstacles because he enjoys the speed.

“The park is a lot different from where I skated in high school so it’s a big learning process,” he says, “and way more balanced than I remember. It’s just really fun to go fast, simply put.”

At the other end of the park, 48-year-old Ben, who asked not to use his last name, skates the park’s “bowl” in near isolation.

The discipline of skating in a bowl dates back to the sport’s early days in the 1970s, when pioneering pushers—particularly in drought-stricken southern California—cruised along the walls of empty swimming pools like surfers riding a concrete wave. Cruising in bowls, however, has taken a backseat to other styles of skating in terms of popularity, particularly street skating.

Ben, who said he first began skating between 1985 and 1991, is one of the few pushers at the park who prefers to coast in the bowl, which is set on an elevated perch above the rest of the park.

He rides a wide board, with a single kicktail, and larger wheels—a style popular in the 1980s when “vert” skating was the sport’s most popular discipline that went out of vogue about the time Ben stopped skating.

Ben, who arrives at the park via white BMW crossover, started skating the bowl in Hampden about three years ago, he says, primarily for the same reason most men his age start getting active again.

“I needed to get exercise, and I didn’t grow up with such a wonderful bowl in my backyard,” says Ben, a Massachusetts native.

If there’s been an increase in the number of guys his age skateboarding since the COVID-19 outbreak, Ben says, he wouldn’t know. He chalked that up to his type of skating, which encourages social distancing by default.

“I skate the bowl. No one [else] skates the bowl,” Ben says. “Everyone’s over on the other side.”

Back on that side of the park, John Shea, 43, is one of the more accomplished skaters among the early arrivers.

Shea is one of the few skaters his age who never dropped the hobby for a prolonged period of time, and it shows in the aggressiveness and speed of his skating.

While dynamic with his feet on the board, Shea will never be accused of being loquacious. He’s friendly, and answers questions, but it’s clear being interviewed makes him uncomfortable.

Still, Shea explains what he wants to accomplish by continuing to skate, and the reticent Catonsville resident may have summed up the goals for all the early-bird skaters: “Just roll around and try not to get hurt.”

Trohv owner Carmen Brock and I both joke we gave birth the last week of October 2006. Carmen to an amazing shop on the Avenue, and me to my oldest son, Milo. Throughout every milestone—from the terrible twos to the angsty double digits to the Bar Mitzvah stage just this past year—we were both proud mamas.

So hearing that Trohv is closing next month feels like a death in the family. It makes my heart ache. I feel like I should be sitting shiva.

When Trohv—then called Red Tree—opened on the Avenue in 2006, it immediately became a favorite spot for holiday shopping, special gifts (the first thing my daughter, Willa, uttered when she heard about Trohv closing was, “But where will we get your Mother’s Day gifts now?”), items for the home, beautiful jewelry, and funny cards.

“When we first opened up people were trying to figure out what we were and what we were doing,” recalls Carmen. “People would come in asking for wigs, hair dryers, and sports bras—I loved that so much,” she laughs.

In my 14 years at Baltimore magazine, first as Style Editor and now as HOME and Weddings Editor, I have probably pulled 6,000 items to photograph for various shoots. Carmen always said yes. Even if I busted through the door breathless, gasping “trivet”—something vital I thought was missing from my latest styled shoot that was happening in five minutes—she would always say, “no problem” and have me quickly on my way. We’ve pulled tables and chairs and vases and books and jewelry and baskets. I remember at one point, the late Baltimore magazine executive editor Dick Basoco calling me into his office, “No. More. Trohv,” he admonished. That only lasted a few weeks before I was back there again.

Since I’ve known Carmen for so long, I was honored to be sent a Google document to sign up for shifts and help out the last few weeks the store is in business. The crowds have been huge (lines wrap around the block with only a few customers inside at a time) and if it could help Carmen and her associates, including Dawn Hudson and Bree Fischvogt, of course I would do it. My daughter and I spent a few hours there this past Sunday zhuzhing, rearranging, and, yes, shopping. Even with everyone coming and going and wanting to bask in the light that is Carmen, she made my daughter feel like she was number one. She gave her tasks, trusted her to answer the phone, and wrote everything Willa would need to know on a scrap of paper in her beautiful handwriting. That is the Carmen aura: freshly baked doughnuts, puppies, and a bouquet of peonies all wrapped into one.

I was also able to witness so many approaching Carmen—it’s so hard not to wrap her in a big hug—and telling her “this shop was my favorite.” Or “I bought my most beloved gift here.” Or “I came to a pop-up and it was amazing.” Ohh, the pop-ups. So many good ones.

“We did this ‘Beers and Spears’ event in 2012 where we featured Union Craft—they were really new—and Gordy’s Pickles,” Carmen remembers. “It was a really fun thing to do.” And then there were all the events with Damian Mosley from Blacksauce Kitchen. And truly one of the best gatherings involved Krystal Mack and the release of Cherry Bombe: The Cookbook. Krystal brought together local female chefs and they “all came to the shop and made amazing food,” Carmen recalls.

In my forever memory, a beautiful blanket Carmen gifted my daughter at her birth in 2009, is now my 9-year-old’s most beloved lovey. It’s probably in 17 million family photos and will always make me think of Trohv. (That and the smell of rose hips and anytime anyone mentions store windows—Trohv’s were the best.)

And on Facebook, so many stories of artists and makers repeat over and over that Carmen always welcomed them. “Trohv is one of my favorite shops anywhere and Carmen is the sweetest person on earth,” commented Elisa Shere. “They were the first ‘big’ store that approached me about wholesaling my jewelry after I quit my ad agency job.”

My friend Kate Beck posted, “It feels larger than the fact that Carmen was one of the first to make shelf space in her beautiful shop for my jam, and the enormity of her generosity towards me (and my little business) at that time. Larger than the faith they had in my quirky creativity when I borrowed items for photo shoots. And larger than the smiles, hugs, and high fives received time and time again when I went in there to chat about another nutty new business idea…”

I don’t want to give up valuable space in my Trohv eulogy to address the why. But I will say it didn’t have to be like this. Small businesses should have been given a lifeline. Now, this city, specifically Hampden, won’t be the same. It’s hard to believe all these empty storefronts are the only answer.

Trohv is the heart and soul of this community—sponsoring Stoop Stories, Pile of Craft, Skatepark of Baltimore, among a million other things. Hosting crafters and dreamers. Always saying yes. The ripple effect of this closure will be felt by many.

Asking Carmen what her next move will be is like asking a newly engaged bride when the wedding day is…we have to give it some time. I have my own fantasies that involve a Champagne bar and a curated selection of items. Or pairing up with a local chef for a restaurant and mercantile combo, like Jacoby’s in Austin. I just know Carmen won’t be sidelined for long.

“It has been the joy of my life to have a small business in Baltimore,” Carmen says. “For me, Trohv felt like a laboratory that sort of became a personal love story, and I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to have worked, hustled, lived, and loved the many creative people in this beautiful town. So many people have been involved: friends, families, community members, and artists, and they are all a really big part of raising Trohv.”

And even though there have been tears, there are also big belly laughs. “We have enormous pieces of furniture and often they come wrapped in big cardboard boxes,” Carmen says. “It became a tradition: I started hiding inside of them. So when a person on staff and sometimes a customer—it was always during open hours—came in, I would jump out of it or wait until they opened it and try to move it,” she says laughing.

The thing that is most genuine about Carmen, aside from her wanderlust and wanting the world to be a better place, is that she truly gets joy from other people. She’s fueled by their energy. It’s hard for her to take a compliment because she wants to put the attention on YOU.

But Carmen, please listen up. I hope you understand why you are so loved. I hope you know the huge imprint you leave behind. Thank you for Trohv.

Editor’s Note: After this piece was published, Hotel Revival’s Virtual Happy Hour scheduled for Friday, June 12 was unexpectedly cancelled.

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EAT

June 14: Bake Sale for Black Lives Matter

Peabody Heights Brewery. 401 E 30th St. 1-4 p.m.

This weekend, you can quell sweet-tooth cravings while supporting the Black Lives Matter movement. The Charm City Night Market is partnering with Peabody Heights Brewery to raise money for two local organizations including Black Yield Institute, a Cherry Hill-based initiative that works to end food apartheid, as well as the Baltimore Action Legal Team, which provides legal support to those protesting against racial injustice. Chef Cai Lindeman from Noona’s will be running the sale at the brewery with options from local favorites including Codetta Bake Shop, Bramble Baking Co., Dutch Courage, Black Rock Orchard, Red Emma’s, and True Chesapeake Oyster Co. To limit contact at the bake sale, you can buy virtual vouchers in advance to redeem for your goodies of choice. If you can’t make it out, donations are also being accepted online.

DRINK

June 12: Hotel Revival Virtual Happy Hour

Instagram Live. 5-7 p.m. Free.

After a long week, there is no better way to unwind than with your favorite summer cocktail or an ice-cold beer. While we’d love to enjoy our drink of choice in-person at Hotel Revival’s upstairs garden bar, tuning in to this virtual happy hour from your cozy couch or breezy porch is still a worthy way to start your weekend. Head to the Mount Vernon hotel’s Facebook or Instagram account to bump along to beats spun by DJ Trillnatured and turn your living room into a dance party of your own.

SEE

June 12-21: Maryland Film Festival’s Virtual Fest

Times and prices vary.

For all of the film buffs and cinephiles out there—this Friday the Maryland Film Festival is bringing the big screen to you. Although the Parkway Theatre is temporarily closed due to COVID-19, the show must go on, and this year the annual movie event is going virtual. Unlock access to 17 feature films and 15 short films or browse the website and buy individual tickets to the movies you know you can’t miss. TT the artist’s Dark City Beneath the Beat will kick off the festival and explore Baltimore City through its club music and dance scene. Don’t forget the popcorn!

HEAR

June 12: Lafayette Gilchrist Trio Streaming Concert

7 p.m. $5.

There’s nothing like listening to live music, especially when it’s coming from acclaimed pianist and local legend Lafayette Gilchrist. This Friday, An Die Musik will stream a performance by Gilchrist alongside his jazzy trio as a part of the venue’s quarantine concert series. The group will be previewing their new album Now, ahead of its October release. Get your tickets and listen to Gilchrist and his fellow musicians use their instruments to confront social issues, such as police brutality and wealth gaps, affecting Baltimore.

DO

June 13-14: Virtual HonFest

11-4 p.m. Free.

Not everyone’s got what it takes to be one of Baltimore’s Best Hons, but if you’re fluent in Bawlmerese and no stranger to a wash-and-set hairdo, you may just get the gold. This annual festival honors the working women of America, but especially the working women of our cherished Charm City. No need to go downy Hampden, hon—this year the competition is virtual. Don your Bawlmer fashion and snap a picture to share on social media using the hashtags #HONfest2020 and #SaferatHomeHON to have your shot at local fame. Just remember, the higher the hair the closer to god.

For an entire week after George Floyd’s death at the hands of Minnesota police, Amanda Mack didn’t bake a thing.

The Crust by Mack owner, a lifelong baker who considers being in the kitchen part of her self-care routine, couldn’t bring herself to turn on the oven. And the grand opening of her stall inside the newly refurbished Whitehall Market in Hampden—a dream she’s had since launching the business in 2017—seemed insignificant given the weight of her grief and what was happening in the world around her.

“It’s been a very heavy time,” says the black business owner and mother of three. “Promoting stuff for people to buy was just hard for me to come up with the words to start talking about. But I had a conversation with my husband that really brought me back to life.”

Mack’s husband, Jarrod, was able to convince her that—even as protests continue and dining establishments remain closed for indoor service—she has much to be proud of.

“He just said, ‘You deserve this,’” she recalls. “I realized I should be celebrating the journey it took to get here. I should be celebrating women in business and minority-owned businesses. Even though times are hard, we still have something to celebrate.”

On the heels of that conversation, Mack took to social media to announce that she would be offering $25 “Celebration” pastry boxes filled with four full-sized treats as a way to toast the opening while giving back to the black community. She’s donating 10 percent of all proceeds from the packages, which sold out in two days, to Invisible Majority—a local incubator that provides resources for the black creative community. Mack raised more than $400 for the organization, and she’s donating 40 of the boxes to families who have lost loved ones to gun violence or police brutality.

“At the end of the day I think it’s a call on my people to show up for me,” she says. “Right now, the country is looking to support black-owned businesses and to amplify our voices. Let this be an invitation to them.”

Amanda Mack and her signature hand pies at Crust by Mack.

Meanwhile, all of the merchants in the renovated, 18th-century flour mill agreed that now is a time for the community to reflect on the current climate—which is why the market, a project more than five years in the making, opened quietly last week with little fanfare.

Currently, Crust by Mack, boutique catering and prepared foods eatery Gundalow Gourmet, local teahouse Wight Tea Co., and Western Maryland-based Firefly Farms Market are open for curbside pickup and takeout Wednesday through Sunday from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Satellite locations of Cocina Luchadoras and Ceremony Coffee, as well as sustainably sourced gift shop Homebody General Store and chef Rey Eugenio’s Filipino restaurant, Heritage, are expected to debut in the market in the coming weeks.

“[Because of the pandemic], we’re stretched as thin as we’ve been in a long time,” says Michael Koch, who co-founded Firefly Farms with his husband, Pablo Solanet, in 2002. “But we’re all so proud of what we’ve built together. As exhausted as we might be, the space is gorgeous.”

Inside the 18,000-square-foot property developed by Terra Nova Ventures’ David Tufaro and Jennifer Nolley, each stall reflects the spirit of the individual makers. Heritage highlights a 10-seat steel bar beneath golden light fixtures, Gundalow boasts shelves stocked with cookbooks and pantry goods, and Firefly features a walk-in cheese cave that will be used to educate visitors about the art of cheesemaking.

“There’s a real geekiness at the heart of Firefly,” Koch says. “People can engage with us and ask about what makes one cheese different from the other.”

Brittany Wight of Wight Tea Co.,which is donating 10 percent of proceeds from its first week to Colin Kaepernick’s Know Your Rights Camp.

Pablo Solanet of Firefly Farms.

Mack collaborated with designers, and fellow black business owners, Tiffanni Reidy of Reidy Creative and Phylea Carter of Design My Investment ATL to create her inviting stall that features blush tones, comfy high-top window seats, plush chairs, and lots of interior greenery.

“It was really important to create a structure that allows me to invite people to sit down so I can ask, ‘How’s your day? How’s your heart?’” Mack says. “You’d be surprised how much you can find out about a stranger over a cup of coffee and a pie.”

Creating unity with neighbors is one thing that vendors hope can be a silver lining of the market’s opening during a global pandemic and a national outcry. As Baltimore continues to place an emphasis on supporting small businesses, especially those that are black-owned, Koch hopes that Whitehall can be part of the recovery.

“Now the return to hyper-local and the need to connect with one’s community is so underscored,” he says, “not just from a food system perspective, but from a true diverse community perspective. It’s just never been more important.”

Though diners aren’t going to be able to fully experience the bakery until restaurants reopen entirely, Mack knows this period is not forever. She’s looking forward to the day when she can host her first of many social justice-focused panel discussions and events in the space. “We’re going to get through this,” she adds. “It’s hard right now, but it’s going to get better. The city is coming together.”

As for Mack getting back into the kitchen: “Once I start, I probably won’t stop,” she says. “I’m pouring everything I have into these boxes. When we talk about the whole idea of soul food, it’s more than a cultural thing. Our ancestors literally put their blood, sweat, and tears into their food. That’s why you can taste the difference. They were planting those seeds. They were harvesting the grains. It was different because their experiences were different. That’s where that flavor came from, so I’m definitely going to be putting a lot of soul into these boxes.”

While some restaurants have temporarily closed for business in the wake of the COVID-19 crisis, others, per Governor Larry Hogan’s directive, have gone into survival mode by staying open for curbside and carryout.

To talk about what it’s been like to pursue this new business model, we checked in with Irene Salmon, co-owner of Dylan’s Oyster Cellar in Hampden. In addition to trying to make ends meet, the emotional toll has been toughest, says Salmon.

“We are social people—we are restaurant people,” she says. “We miss our staff and our customers. We are used to seeing 100 people a day. The restaurant is an empty shell—that has been the hardest part for us.”

What has life been like for you and your staff since Governor Hogan closed restaurants and bars?
We are hanging in there. [Two weeks ago] was really wild—we had to totally overhaul our business model and lay off half of our staff. We went from being a thriving business to a failing one overnight. Every restaurant I talk to is in the same position.

From the looks of your social media account, where you and your staff are waving flags and doing Chuck Norris-style kicks as a way of advertising that you are open, it looks like you’re trying to keep it light.
We are trying to have as much fun as we possibly can and put out funny messages on the internet—maybe that’s just an avoidance. We are definitely a ship at sea. To be frank, we are bringing in a third of the income we are used to bringing in—that will only pay for what’s remaining of our payroll and food costs.

We still have $21,000 of fixed expenses—that’s rent, it’s the BGE bill, it’s Comcast, our linen company, and cleaning products, and things like that—and we are sitting on a little bit of savings, which puts us in a better position than other restaurants, but it’s not much without help. We are applying for the Maryland Relief Grant Program—that’s for up to $10,000—but that would only scratch the surface.

I think as people become more cautious and know more people who get sick, it will drop down even more, and also as people worry about their finances. I’m anticipating that. We are trying to find a new norm. It’s like we have fallen into a black hole and need to see what the new normal is.

“We went from being a thriving business to a failing one overnight.”

What changes have you had to make to the menu with this new carryout model?
We’re not doing oysters anymore, which is a shame. They are too perishable, and we don’t have enough business to sustain the volume. This is hurting our distributors and farmers. It’s a whole chain reaction. We are doing a lot of burgers, fries, and catfish sandwiches. We are hoping to sell a fried oyster sandwich. We are trying to differentiate ourselves. Everyone has a burger and fries.

How are you handling your carryout?
We have our little side door set up. People can enter and swipe their own credit cards, and we have their food ready. We change our gloves often and we are constantly sanitizing surfaces. [Three] weeks ago, when the restaurant was open, I was like, ‘There’s no way to maintain this level of cleaning with the volume of people.’ We were thankful that Hogan put the [order] in place—that takes a lot of pressure and guilt off us. The Sunday before he made the announcement, we were like, ‘This is starting to feel too scary.’

Did you offer carryout prior to this?
No, we never allowed carryout food. In fact, people would get angry about it. But when we have a full restaurant, our priority has to be our customers who are seated. Now, I’m thinking that everyone’s wish can come true—and everyone can get their soft crab sandwich to go. I’m hoping soft crab sandwiches can save our restaurant—I’m hoping that maybe the crabs can start shedding their shells a little sooner…

“We are trying to find a new norm. It’s like we have fallen into a black hole and need to see what the new normal is.”

What’s it like being in the empty space?
People are so deprived of human interaction. When that synergy is back, it’s going to be wild. Maybe I took a little bit for granted when we were so busy. At the same time, I’m like, ‘This is the saddest thing to walk into an empty restaurant.’

How is your staff doing?
We are always telling jokes. We have the most awesome staff—even the staff members who are gone are not really gone. We’ve been doing giant group texts. We are restaurant people—this is hard for us emotionally—what we are feeling is grief, and some people have never experienced grief before.

Julia Lieberman and her two-year-old daughter had been searching for ways to remain entertained during the coronavirus outbreak. With the closure of public areas throughout the state, they, like most families, have been doing all work and learning activities from home.

A teacher herself, Lieberman had been researching projects to do with both her daughter and her students when she discovered the viral trend of hanging artwork in windows through social media. Hanging rainbows, an initiative that started in the United Kingdom, has sparked a global response all over the world. People are now putting teddy bears, sculptures, and other creative works up on display from inside their homes.

Thinking that it was the perfect opportunity to keep both kids and adults in the Hampden community active, she organized the first Outdoor Museum Art Walk last Friday. “I had no idea people would be so excited about it,” Lieberman says.

Through the Hampden Neighbors Facebook page, she is encouraging people to hang artwork in their windows that face the street, so that the community can browse them like an outdoor gallery.

“With little ones it’s great to be able to walk around,” Lieberman says. “Since we can’t go to the park anymore, it’s nice to say to my daughter that we’re going to go look for art in the windows. It’s like a scavenger hunt.”

A sampling of portraits hung throughout the neighborhood.

Courtesy of Julia Lieberman

While large gatherings are still prohibited in Baltimore, the project gives people a reason to go outside while still practicing social distancing. “It’s a great way to stay engaged with people without actually being with them,” Lieberman says.

The community is sharing pictures in the Facebook group constantly, and the hope is that more participants join in each week. Especially during these difficult times, Lieberman hopes that creating art will provide an outlet for others, as it does for her.

“For kids it can be a trying, scary, depressing time,” she says, adding that creative outlets are important to maintain for everyone, not just parents and their children.

Lieberman also emphasizes that this doesn’t have to stop once things eventually go back to normal. She hopes that people will continue to participate at their own pace, and will wait and see how the neighborhood maintains the project in the future.

“I hope it gives people something to look forward to,” she says. “It can become part of a routine at a time when routine has been thrown out the window.”

Ekiben owners Steve Chu and Ephrem Abebe tried to remove their famous “Neighborhood Bird” sandwich from the menu once. As fans might expect, it didn’t go over well.

“People came in and they were like, ‘Come on, I drove from Delaware,’” Chu remembers. “We were like, ‘Oh they’re definitely going to burn this place down.’”

Rest assured, the change only lasted as long as a special event. And when the new Ekiben location in Hampden debuts in soft-opening mode on Monday, February 10—a grand opening will follow the next day—all of the Asian-fusion staples that diners have come to rely on at the Fells Point flagship will transfer over. (That, of course, means dishes like the Taiwanese fried chicken-topped “Neighborhood Bird” bun or rice bowl, as well as the spicy peanut-flavored “Tofu Brah” nuggets and the addictive tempura broccoli.)

In fact, thanks to an expanded kitchen with additional equipment and prep space, Chu says there’s room for more dishes to become a part of the regular roster: “We’re definitely going to expand the menu a little bit,” he says. “Our whole team is really excited.”

Since taking over the former home of TigerStyle in the alleyway behind Avenue Kitchen & Bar last summer, the owners have gutted the interior to make way for updated plumbing, electricity, and equipment including woks and convection ovens. In true Ekiben fashion, they have also added their signature white subway tile and covered the walls in local art. A mural hand-painted by Baltimore artist The Groovy Vandal will welcome visitors into the intimate space, which features Ekiben’s counter-service model and 12 barstool seats.

 

 

Though the dining experience will be similar to the Fells Point location, the open kitchen and separate prep room will allow the team much more room to breathe during service in Hampden. It’s the staff, after all, to whom the owners are quick to attribute their success.

“They make the experience,” Abebe says. “Food is something you can get anywhere, but it’s about the way somebody makes you feel when they serve it to you. Our staff is like, ‘I love being here, so I’m going to make every person that walks in love being here, as well.’ People like that—I like that. That’s what I want when I walk into a restaurant.”

When they first learned about the available space, Chu and Abebe were excited by the thought of joining the Hampden food scene—specifically mentioning friends at La Cuchara and Union Collective.

“Hampden has a lot of energy,” Abebe says. “It has a good heartbeat, and it’s always really exciting every time we come here to do events.”

Another plus was the idea of a space that was a bit removed from the hustle of the Avenue: “It’s really off the beaten path, just like where we are in Fells is off the beaten path,” Chu says. “Everyone wants that dream alleyway restaurant.”

Since the UMBC grads first launched their steamed bun startup at the Fells Point Farmers’ Market in 2014, collaborating with other chefs has been a main part of their mission. Their signature mashup events, which have recently brought in the likes of Washington, D.C. chefs Johnny Spero and Jerome Grant, will continue in the new space.

The duo says they especially enjoy hosting the visiting chefs because it gives them the opportunity to highlight what the city, and its food scene, have to offer. “At the end of the day that’s what we care about,” Abebe says. “This is the city that raised us, and we want to show it off.”

Details about the grand opening celebration will be announced on Ekiben’s Instagram in the coming days, but, in the meantime, the owners are looking forward to tying up loose ends and finally getting their customers in the door.

“We try to keep it simple,” Chu says. “There aren’t too many frills in Ekiben, just good people. That’s kind of like the charm of Baltimore, right? If you stay here long enough you’ll understand why it’s called Charm City. It’s good people who really care about what they’re doing, and that’s what Ekiben is.”

Bob and Darlene Hosier have enough Christmas decorations to deck out four houses, top to bottom. Over the past few decades, the couple has adorned the front of their three-story rowhome with countless strings of lights—along with a rotating cast of bright snowmen and wreaths, an inflatable purple hippopotamus, vintage Christmas dolls, and a handmade replica of the train garden from It’s A Wonderful Life—and hundreds of thousands of people have traveled to their home on the corner of a sleepy Hampden block to see it.

“It’s just some Christmas lights,” grumbles Bob, repeating the phrase over and over in conversation. The 62-year-old has given this response to countless people over the past few decades—reporters, grocery store clerks, documentary filmmakers—who ask him why Hampden’s Miracle on 34th Street tradition has become a local and national phenomenon that’s now woven into the narrative of Baltimore’s quirky character.

Sometimes, when Bob repeats the phrase, he pulls on the ends of his graying handlebar mustache; other times, he gently slaps the knee of his worn-in blue jeans for emphasis. It doesn’t matter how many times or in how many ways he repeats it, he says, there will always be people who don’t get it. People who question why he and his neighbors living on the 700 block of W. 34th Street spend the weeks between Halloween and Thanksgiving decorating their front porches, stoops, and lawns with over-the-top holiday light displays. People who don’t understand how the residents deal with the tens of thousands of strangers who pack the block during the holiday season to take pictures of “the most outrageous Christmas lights in Maryland.” People who press them about what kind of break they get on their electric bills or whether they get paid for their appearances on HGTV, CNN, or the homepage of Bing.

But it’s never been about the cost or the publicity, although Bob understands why no one can believe that he and his neighbors do all of it—the planning, purchasing, decorating, hosting—for absolutely no money. The Miracle on 34th Street tradition is simply how Bob and his neighbors decorate for the holidays, and no matter how the block and its residents have changed through the years, that sentiment stays the same—at least as long as Bob has a say in it. “I’m just a guy who puts up some Christmas lights,” Bob says. “I can’t help that the whole world shows up to see them.”

The story of how the tradition started is a tale almost as time-honored as Christmas itself. In the early 1980s, Bob, who was working as a meat cutter at Kash & Karry at the time, fell in love with Darlene, who was working as the grocery store’s head cashier. The pair tied the knot in 1983, and Bob moved into Darlene’s three-story rowhome on W. 34th Street’s 700 block, where she has lived for all of her nearly 70 years.

As a young married couple, they realized they shared an affinity for Christmas decorations during their first holiday season. Bob, who grew up decorating the outside of his parents’ house in Northeast Baltimore with as many multicolored lights as possible, asked Darlene if he could add some twinklers to the outside of the house. Her father, who purchased the home in 1947, had always decked out the home’s exterior during the holidays, and Darlene had carried the torch since his death, but Bob took it to a new level with themed displays, illuminated figures, and even a full-sized tree on the roof. “To any rational human being, what I do during the second half of the year to prepare to decorate would be too much work,” Bob says. “To me, it’s just getting ready for the holiday.”

 

“If someone wants to join this party that we have with the lights every year, we’re here for you.”

 

In the early 1990s, Bob rigged a speaker system so they’d have Christmas music playing along with the lights. Their neighbor across the street wanted to be able to enjoy the holiday tunes from his house, too, so Bob wrapped a speaker wire around a string of lights and ran it along the light pole that adjoins the two houses. Other residents on the block admired his handiwork, and before long, Bob was going from rowhouse to rowhouse installing hooks on his neighbors’ roofs and draping lights to connect all 25 homes on the block.

Something about Bob’s commitment to creating extravagant displays that grew in size and spectacle each year, along with the over-the-street lights, seemed to motivate other residents to get in on the act. While there was always plenty of holiday spirit and a strong sense of community to spare, residents began adding countless bulbs, as well as things like working train sets, brightly lit palm trees, and handmade sculptures, to the outside of their homes. By the late ’90s, as word spread to the rest of the region, 34th Street became a popular destination for holiday revelers who would walk or drive down the block to admire the rows of merry houses. “People were pulling over to take pictures of everything,” Darlene says. “The attention just started rolling from there.”

Full-scale notoriety came in 2001, when the Maryland Lottery contacted Bob with the request to capture the block in its full holiday glory for a TV commercial. Bob hesitated, not only because he didn’t feel comfortable getting paid for the commerical, but also because he believed that once the rest of the state saw what locals had begun dubbing the “Miracle on 34th Street,” there’d be no turning back. “A bunch of the neighbors came to me and said they really wanted to do the lottery commercial,” Bob says. “I said it was okay with me, but I told them, ‘Remember folks, if we do this, we can’t stop doing this. Once it starts, we can’t stop,’” he says.

Sure enough, the week the commercial ran, the tightly knit working-class neighborhood was practically gridlocked. “Cars couldn’t move, the fire department couldn’t move, the police department couldn’t move,” Bob remembers. “There were people stuck on both sides of I-83 waiting to get in. I have never seen so many people in my life.” Thousands of people streamed into Hampden that winter to see the now-famous lights, and media attention from both area and national news organizations followed close behind.

Thanks to coverage from national outlets such as The Travel Channel, Nightline, and Better Homes & Gardens, as well as the rise of social media, the Miracle on 34th Street tradition has steadily grown into the sensation that it is today. As depicted in the commercial that escalated it all, there’s a countdown that marks the block’s “lighting” on the Saturday following Thanksgiving, except now every square foot of the street is filled with onlookers and the night is known as an unofficial block party. The tradition still comes to a close on New Year’s Eve with a handmade ball drop, but now instead of four people watching a slightly toasted Bob run through the street as “Baby New Year,” roughly 4,000 people show up to catch a glimpse of him in a diaper and bonnet.

Some residents have even developed their own methods of measuring the crowds, including the Hosiers, who leave composition notebooks on their porch for visitors to sign and collect about 20 books-worth of signatures every season. Longtime resident and artist Jim Pollock, who converts his living room into a pop-up art gallery during the holidays, uses a handheld clicker to count people as they walk in. (He averages about 1,200 visitors per night, and nearly 300,000 people have walked through in the past seven years alone.) “One time, a woman came through the gallery and said, ‘In a world full of chaos, this is a beacon of hope,’” says Pollock, who’s famous for the 10-foot-tall hubcap tree in his front yard. “What more could you ask for from some Christmas decorations?”

 

“At the end of the day, it’s about nothing else but decorating for the holidays.”

 

Of course, fame has its downsides. The sidewalk, as well as people’s porches, steps, and circuit breakers, have experienced significant wear and tear, and finding street parking during the holidays is a decades-old issue. Far from immune to the city’s increased crime rates, the block’s residents threatened to go dark during the 2014 holiday season in an effort to bring attention to a string of violent crimes that had occurred in the neighborhood. (The lights stayed on, but the bluff attracted plenty of buzz.)

But despite transforming from a kitschy block-wide hobby into an internationally recognized attraction, the only thing that has really changed about the Miracle on 34th Street—besides the added foot traffic—is its residents. It’s still strictly voluntary: There isn’t a homeowners’ association or a committee that organizes the event, and, undeterred by persistent requests, there are no vendors or businesses sponsoring the block.

Over the past few years, all but seven of the original decorating households have left the block, making way for a new generation of renters and homeowners. “I’ve had a lot of good neighbors who have passed or left the block and took some of that magic with them,” Pollock says. “We’ve had to find new people to pick up the spirit.”

While longtime residents don’t have a say in whether new neighbors embrace the street’s tradition, many make an effort to ensure that newcomers are aware of the four-to-five week spectacle that will take place outside their front door and offer decorating assistance. “If somebody needs lights, I’ll certainly spread the joy,” Bob says. “If someone wants to join this party that we have with the lights every year, we’re here for you.”

Since most residents know about the block’s signature event before moving day, many are prepared to carry on the tradition, or in some cases, start their own. Hillary Strilko, who moved onto the street in 2009, now teams up with local animal rescue and welfare organizations to serve cookies and cocoa to 34th Street visitors in exchange for donations. The initiative started as a way to honor the memory of her brindle pit bull, Roo, and has raised more than $135,000 over the past decade. “We use a tall money box, and a lot of parents will lift their kids so that they can donate themselves,” says Strilko, who calls her home “the doghouse” and decorates the outside with inflatable pups and photos of pets in holiday gear. “It’s heartwarming to watch people teach their kids about giving back to local causes.”

-Amanda White-Iseli

Down the street, Riley Wilks and his wife, Heather Franz, have embraced their role as “the flock party,” thanks to the 60-some illuminated lawn flamingos they bought from a MICA student to use as holiday decorations. While they have fun scattering the flamingos in the yard and being the go-to house for Christmas parties, Wilks says that the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve are mostly just like any others for them, thanks in part to their parking pad. “We just stay inside and do our normal routine: Netflix, ice cream, and Chinese food,” Wilks says.

Previous renters Carla Johnston and Jennifer Wright did not have quite as positive an experience when they moved onto the block in 2013, however. The 20-something roommates were excited to reuse some of their Halloween decorations, including handmade fake ceramic limbs, to create a “Zombie Christmas” themed display. A few days before the lighting ceremony, they transformed their lawn into The Walking Dead meets Christmas, with zombie heads atop trees and a fake blood-stained sheet next to candy canes and a blow-up snowman. Wright says that, within a few days, one of the neighbors confronted her on their front lawn, saying she had “never seen decorations so inappropriate.” Wright and Johnston took down the spookier parts of their display, but shortly after, news trucks and reporters showed up at their door and, even though neither commented to the press, the story of the disagreement appeared in The Wall Street Journal. “We were just trying to do something different; we weren’t trying to disrespect Christmas,” Johnston says today. “I love Hampden, but that street is very much like, stick to the rules, or else. The following year, our theme was Home Alone, and we hung paint cans from the roof and played music from the soundtrack. That went over well.”

 

Bob told his doctor, “Fill me up with some morphine, I gotta go light the street.”

 

As time goes on and Hampden continues to change—the neighborhood’s average home value index has increased by nearly $90,000 since January 2012—many wonder what the future holds for the Miracle on 34th Street. As Bob and the remaining original decorators reach the age when climbing onto three-story roofs to replace Christmas lights is no longer an option, he says it will come down to whether the younger residents are willing to invest the time and energy into keeping the tradition alive. As it stands, the Hosiers operate all of the lights hanging above the street. “More people on this street can get involved, but the magical question is, where are you plugging all of this in? And who is going to pay for all of this?” Bob asks. “It’s not an exorbitant amount of money, but is anyone else in the younger generation going to put the time and effort into it?”

While some residents, like Wilks and Strilko, believe that the block will continue to decorate for years to come, especially since the Hosiers’ daughter and grandson live on the block, others aren’t so sure. “Nothing lasts forever,” Pollock says. “I would love for me and all the neighbors to take over when Bob is done, and then we’ll be set for the next 10 years. But when Bob chooses not to do it anymore, I think a lot of other people on this block are going to choose not to do it anymore, too.” He adds: “My biggest fear is that when this all ends, John Waters is going to swoop in and do a movie here because he always does a movie about stuff after its death.”

But the man who started it all isn’t done yet. Bob and Darlene have made so many amazing Miracle memories—proposals staged on their front porch, meeting Gov. William Donald Schaefer, helping their neighbors plug in for the first time—that they’ve forgotten more of them than they remember, and he doesn’t plan to stop leading the charge anytime soon. (A few years back, Bob was in the hospital the Friday before the lighting with a gallbladder issue, and he told his doctor, “Fill me up with some morphine, I gotta go light the street.”)

Bob’s biggest concern for the future—besides still being able to climb his ladder safely—is whether they’ll be able to preserve the integrity of the event by keeping vendors and sponsorships at bay and stick to bringing joy to the neighborhood. “At the end of the day, it’s about nothing else but decorating for the holidays,” Bob says. “When I have to keep track of the cost or I have to take money from vendors and things like that, that’s when it’s time to stop.”

The Miracle on 34th Street started with just some Christmas lights, which is why every year during the final hours of Christmas Eve—after the thousands of bundled-up onlookers who packed the street earlier have gone home to bed—Bob stands on the empty sidewalk and takes a photograph of each illuminated home. Then, sometime after the lights have been taken down and the decorations returned to storage, Bob will add the photos to his ever-growing collection of mementos that he’ll pass on to his grandson, Colt, to show him what a string of lights and an idea can do. “It’s just some Christmas lights,” Bob says, one last time, “but what it’s done, for this block and tons of other people, is absolutely amazing.”

The Arthouse, which dubs itself a “pizza bar and gallery,” is just different enough in just enough ways to have carved a niche for itself in hype-competitive Hampden. Owner Joan Dolina added food and drink to an existing art gallery in 2013, and the result is a welcoming, slightly funky bar that’s neither as fancy as some of its newer neighbors nor as divey as some of its older ones. Creativity is paramount here. During one of our recent visits, I ordered a pickle-topped pizza and was rewarded with a crunchy, tangy pie unlike anything else I’ve tried.

The focal point of the first floor is the long wooden bar, where couples sip wine, friends throw back beers, and solo drinkers enjoying a post-work cocktail. On my visits, the two TVs were turned off while bands like Gang of Four and Devo played on the sound system. Paintings by local artists hang on the yellow walls of the narrow dining room. We particularly admired one of a woman with a Dalmatian by Mattye Hamilton that’s selling for $1,500.

Luckily, happy hour deals at The Arthouse, 1115 West 36th Street, 443-438-7700, are considerably more economical. For every $12 cocktail like the Bitters and Smoke I imbibed——a combination of tequila, mezcal Cynar (an artichoke-based bittersweet liqueur), and fernet that packs a serious punch—there are several $6 craft beers. Drafts are $2 off from 4-7, and Natty Boh and Miller High Life are always $3.

Plenty of them are downed on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights when late-night revelers pass the hours in the second-story lounge with a pool table, dartboard, and bagatelle table (a centuries-old tabletop game involving balls, pins, and pegs) and devour pizza until the kitchen closes at 1 a.m.

About those pies. They emerge from the brick oven in the back (split logs rest in a bin just beside it) with perfectly charred crusts. Artsy combinations like spicy blueberry and brie—blueberry and chili compote, mozzarella, brie, chives, and balsamic reduction—dot the menu. After eating one slice too many, a few sips of the Bitters and Smoke remained in my glass. “It’s very spirit-forward,” said the bartender, Nick, who’s always happy to whip up something new for a customer. “It’s a sipper. An end-of-the-night drink.”

He was right. After finishing it my evening was over, but I plan on ending many future nights at The Arthouse.

Throughout the past few years, the brick exterior of the shop stationed at the corner of West 34th Street and Chestnut Avenue in Hampden has boasted many different colorful murals. Locals might remember the red tricycle that graced the facade when it operated as kid-friendly Play Cafe, or the most recent funky wall design that welcomed neighbors into New York City-style bodega Prime Corner.

Now, the entrance is decorated with hand-painted trees and vines that represent the ethos of Treehouse Cafe and Juice Bar—a new holistic concept that features an entirely gluten-free menu of juices, smoothies, soups, salads, wraps, and pizzas.

“What we’ve seen more than anything else is how much the neighborhood wants something to succeed in the space,” says Kirsten LaPointe, a fitness instructor at Movement Lab in Remington who co-owns Treehouse with fellow yoga teacher Shariff Roberts. “Everyone has come by and been so kind and supportive. Even the people who came in and weren’t so sure they wanted only healthy choices were willing to roll with them.”

As a certified nutritionist, Roberts had always wanted to open his own juice bar. And LaPointe, who worked as an art teacher before joining the local fitness scene, had long envisioned opening a bed-and-breakfast where she grew her own ingredients. Together, they came up with a menu that fuses the two ideas while incorporating superfoods—including turmeric, flax seeds, cacao, and MCT oils—that are medicinal to the body.

“Both of us are coming from the same angle of nurturing people,” LaPointe says. “We want our customers to feel like they’re having a treat, even though it’s all healthy.”

A few of LaPointe’s favorite dishes include the gluten-free pizzas made with vegan cheese, savory hand pies that resemble empanadas, a vegan charcuterie board highlighting smoked hummus and caper berries, and a roasted root salad topped with orange and purple sweet potatoes.

After trying to make the concept work in another space for a number of months, the owners switched gears when they learned that the former Prime Corner store was available.

“Oddly enough, all of the equipment that I had collected for the other location fit into this space just like a puzzle,” LaPointe says. “I got it all in, and I couldn’t even stick a nickel in between two things.”

Once all of the equipment was in place, the team got to work decorating the 50-seat cafe with steel chairs, reclaimed furniture from Second Chance, and new countertops made with live wood collected by local arborists.

“That’s what makes it Treehouse,” LaPointe says, mentioning that she hopes to add ficus and fairy lights soon. “Our name originally came from the beautiful yard and tree at the first location we attempted, but I think it also works here because it hints at the story that everything is made of fruits and vegetables. We’re also using sustainable packaging.”

Though the space is currently operating in soft-opening mode, an official grand opening party is scheduled for Wednesday, October 30 from 5-9 p.m. The pre-Halloween bash will feature free wine and card readings by Bonnie Tarantino.

Overall, LaPointe says she’s looking forward to getting to know the neighborhood—especially those who might be skeptical about making a healthy lifestyle change.

“The joy I get is when someone feels better because of something that I served them,” she says. “What I’ve been saying is, ‘It’s our party and everyone is invited.’”