Chef and Song

ot many people have lived in Dallas as long as octogenarians, Jack Evans and George Harris. Not many couples have been together as long as Jack and George — 55 years and counting. But no one in Dallas shares their unique notoriety. After five decades together, Jack and George are the first gay couple, in Dallas County, to be married. To hear them tell stories of their lives together is to also hear stories of a Dallas that most of us never knew and is forever changed. Pour a cup of coffee and listen to PART 1, of our conversation. Jack & George met at a party on Lomo Alto Drive, in Dallas, Texas, on January 19, 1960. They were married on June 26, 2015. “I was 26. I had looked all over the United States for this and this exactly what I want. I said, ‘This is it!’” — George reflects on the first time he met Jack in 1960. Pour another cup and listen to PART 2, of our conversation.

erry Loftis was on his way out of town the evening of our first Chef & Song and wouldn’t be able to stay for dinner. He did, however, stop by long enough to do one thing — save the entire evening from complete disaster. It’s true. The secret hero for the evening was Terry. The artists’ microphone went dead at soundcheck. No spare. One SOS call to Terry and he was up at Kitchen LTO with a replacement. That’s Terry. He’s there when friends need him most. We talked over a long breakfast at Café Brazil in Oak Cliff. “As I started singing more, I realized I couldn’t do what I was trying to do for others, at the sacrifice for doing it for me.” “We were, I think, the second black family in our neighborhood. It was the first time I saw racism up close and personal. We moved in and for-sale signs started to go up. I mean, literally, the next day.” “In under 90 days, I went from saying ‘yes’ to being a Tony-nominated producer.” Later in our conversation, Terry shares his feelings on spirituality, emotions, and our place in the universe. “Thoughts have power, and they’re not simply ours. You hurl your ‘boomerang’ out into the universe and it comes back ten-fold with everything you put on it to affirm and support you.” “I’ve been to psychics. I’ve been to channelers. There’s been a consistent, common denominator that goes back years … and that story has never changed.” “Everything is from the perspective of acceptance and believing.”

Liz Mikel at Opening Bell Coffee, Southside on Lamar in Dallas. (Photo by Ron Thompson.) efore I started recording my conversation with Liz Mikel, we talked about her late friend, pianist Buddy Shanahan. His memory brought with it emotion. I asked if it upset her to talk about him. She looked at me flatly and responded with her eyes still flooded, “I’m talking about him, aren’t I?” And in that moment, I knew Liz Mikel doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean. Her mother was a PhD and sang opera. Her father promoted East Texas clubs on the “Chitlin’ Circuit”. Liz’s encyclopedic knowledge of artists who shape American culture comes from growing up around and knowing them. She has one of Dallas’ favorite local-girl-done-good career stories spanning neighborhood stages and regional theaters, Broadway and Hollywood. We didn’t talk much about the entertainment business. We did talk about the days when people called her Elizabeth, though. Days when her mother encouraged her to follow her passion, when others thought a “big girl” who loves ballet should hold to different expectations. Years later, Liz would offer up the same encouragement to a young performer she met, insecure about her own similar stature. Liz told her, “Don’t let [anyone] put you in a basket of what their ideals are.” I think Liz appreciates being a role model and mentor. Through most of our conversation she talks about the people in her own life whom she looked to for encouragement and were there for her during her times in need. She says, “We are God’s hands to help each other.” And indeed, I believe she means it. “I made sure to always try to do my best, to give the most that I could. Somebody would have to recognize I didn’t belong in the back.” — Liz Mikel Pour a cup of coffee and listen to our conversation.

Sheran Goodspeed Keyton in her natural environment — the driver’s seat. (Photo by Ron Thompson.) made the drive west to meet Sheran Goodspeed Keyton at the Fort Worth Community Arts Center. We sat in the theater space where she stages her productions for the theater company she started eight years ago, DVA Productions. I brought coffee. (She prefers tea.) We didn’t have long to talk in the span of time she had available leaving “job one” headed to “job two” but I was happy for it. Sheran is a bootstrapping, multitasking entrepreneur, artist, actor, entertainer, vocalist, advocate, mentor, arts administrator, mom, and (believe it or not) college student. She’s one of those people with a work ethic most of us envy but don’t have the stamina to maintain. We talk about her 20-hour work days, her now famous “in transit” transformations, and her passion for encouraging young people through the arts. I asked her what inspires her and what makes her vulnerable. Surprisingly, it’s the same thing. “I’m a starving artist. That’s all I’ve ever been. But I run the company.” — Sheran Goodspeed Keyton Pour a cup of coffee and listen to our conversation.

he story of Linda and Larry Petty is a love story started over 36 years ago, at Dallas Baptist College. They met, fell in love, and got married. Unfortunately, at the time, it wasn’t to each other. I had coffee with them last week. We talk about their first marriages and what finally brought them together, including an obsessive ex promising to have her in “life or death”, a Dukes of Hazzard-style standoff between a leather clad Linda and her stalker, armed guards at their wedding, and a secret proficiency in martial arts. Since then, our own Liz and Dick have become arguably two of the most recognizable performers in the local music scene. Linda’s flame-red hair, custom designed Joan Ross wardrobe, her Texas-sized collection of jewelry, and stalwart piano man have become iconic in Dallas. It hasn’t always been that way, of course. We talk about the early days when a shy classically trained gospel singer first took the stage, in the 1980s, at an Oak Lawn nightclub. Music is so many things. It’s light. It’s sound. It’s color. It’s energy. It’s emotions. — Linda Petty Pour a cup of coffee (or maybe, a Dr Pepper) and listen to our conversation. Linda’s stage persona may be finely crafted and familiar. But what you don’t know will probably surprise you. She tells me the story of the time bandleader, Les Brown, invited her to move to California and front his band — an invitation she declined but artists like Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and Nat King Cole didn’t. She’s an ordained minister, holds degrees in psychology, and is a certified clinical hypnotherapist. The Pettys could teach MBA classes in the business of show business. But she will tell you, first, her voice is a gift from God to “bless and heal everyone it touches” and that is why she sings. I believe people will do good, if you give them the opportunity to do good. — Linda Petty We talk more. Pour another cup and keep listening.

few days before the attacks on the World Trade Center, three men kicked down the front door of Rob Todd’s Perry Heights townhouse, punched him to the ground, dragged him outside, and took turns kicking and stomping him in the head. They robbed and left him for dead. Rob survived. He survived the attack. He survived the emotional and physical injuries. He survived the painful reconstructive surgeries. He survived the rehab. He survived teaching himself to walk, again. He survived being failed by the local justice system that let his assailants go free. He adjusted to the changes. And in the 14 years since, not a single day has slipped by without a reminder of the toll surviving can take on a person. We talk about this over coffee. Rob is one of the most successful attorneys in town. He helps disabled people get Social Security and Veteran benefits. As we chatted, I kept trying to connect dots between his experiences and that of his clients. My suggestions that being better at his job than most could be attributed to his survival seemed more distracting, to him, than anything. Rob spends every single day fighting intransigent government bureaucracies for people broken and on the brink of disaster. He just sees it as his way to help people. He could brag. He doesn’t. He could use his story as a platform for himself. He doesn’t. He could extol his survival as something exceptional. He doesn’t. There aren’t huge payouts in the kind of law he practices. So, when I asked him why he invested in something as risky as a restaurant, his flat lawyerly response seemed to belie a larger significance of what it means to be a survivor. He said restaurants make people happy. Life is fragile. Life is short. You need to do your best, to make the best of it, while you can. — Rob Todd Pour a cup of coffee and listen to our conversation.

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.” — Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky When Anastacia Quiñones left the restaurant world, to be a teacher, we weren’t sure she would be back. She had a newborn daughter. The classroom demanded less of her time than the kitchen. She was doing exactly what she thought she wanted to do. Then one day Casie Caldwell called. A long time ago someone told me I was born to be an executive chef. I corrected them and said I was born to cook. — Chef Anastacia Quiñones

ike most really cool things in my career, the idea of Chef & Song started at the Sammons Center for the Arts — a unique space for a unique need in the community. Located in a century-old water pumping station, Sammons helps grow startup to mid-sized performing arts groups through affordable office, rehearsal, and performance space, as well as, management, education, technology, and collaboration services. Sammons is home to over a dozen performing arts groups and used by hundreds more representing every part of the creative sector. And if that wasn’t enough, it programs the longest running jazz series in Dallas, has a youth jazz program, and recently launched a wildly popular cabaret series — all featuring local artists. I had coffee with the executive director, Joanna St. Angelo. We talked about the business side of the arts, advocacy, arts and entrepreneurship, and Dallas as a creative city. “Given its importance, everyone should have access to the arts.” — Joanna St. Angelo Pop in your earbuds, pour some coffee, and listen to our conversation here:

effrey Robertson left a thriving practice in a quiet part of North Texas, bought an ugly building no one wanted on N. Bishop Avenue in Oak Cliff, and transformed it into something truly special for his own ophthalmology practice. And in the midst of all this, he sponsored our very first Chef & Song. We talk about it over coffee, er … martinis. “I never realized how disconnected I was in the day-to-day business of running the office, until I started my own practice. Now I do it all.” — Jeffrey Robertson, MD

One of the first people to champion Chef & Song was Judy Smithey. She encouraged me every step of the way. And at our first delicious revel, she brought the biggest, rowdiest crowd of hometown folks to help us celebrate. She and fellow Chef & Song patron, Dotti Pennebaker, met me at David’s Seafood Grill in Cedar Hill to offer me feedback. We got caught up talking about music, art, theater, food, mixing cocktails, serving the community, and travel. Afterwards, they invited me to have dinner with them and a few friends at the restaurant. For this pair, “a few friends” meant the restaurant staff accommodated the growing number of guests by adding tables end-to-end as more and more people arrived. This went on until the final party required a table almost the entire length of the dining room. I have so much to learn from these ladies. So. Very. Much.