During the next few days, I’ll be concluding the online publication of Food & Dining Magazine’s “lost” Spring 2026 print edition (Vol. 89).
The Spring edition was almost ready to be sent to the printer in late February when John Carlos White, F&D’s founder and publisher, died suddenly at 65.
The articles and photos were almost entirely finished and ready; only the restaurant listings and maps were incomplete. Collectively, everyone involved expressed the desire to release whatever could be shared electronically.
I thank them profusely. The team John built over the years is stellar, and it has been an honor to be part of it. F&D was never a better publication than it has been these past few years.
Obviously, the magazine cannot possibly be the same in this truncated format. Still, my view is that closure comes in many forms, and this method of publication works best for us at the present time. The future of the magazine remains uncertain; in my colleague Marty Rosen’s words, it “hinges on the disposition of the estate.” That’s a family matter, and all we can do is wait.
The past two months have been unlike any others I’ve experienced in my employment history. I’ve previously mourned friends who died, and I’ve lost jobs in a variety of ways both fair and foul, but have not been faced with both losses at the same time. I wouldn’t characterize my response as depression so much as demoralization.
As I’ve tried to keep F&D alive online pending the settlement of John’s affairs, it’s as if he’s been looking over my shoulder ― something that seldom occurred in a negative sense while he was alive. John was very detail-oriented, and yet he didn’t micromanage in terms of style once he knew you were capable.
Consequently, “looking over my shoulder” is to be taken as the spirit of John showing support from The Great Beyond. It has been strange and emotional, something I’ve described as being in the cockpit, continuing to fly the plane, while everyone else is gone, and I’ve no idea when the fuel runs out.
Every now and then, I’ve been compelled to pause and reach for a hankie. The intensity has been beyond anything I’ve experienced, even during almost 30 years owning a business.
So, I just keep going, and will continue until someone tells me to stop.
I knew John for almost a quarter-century, but once I began my stint as digital editor in 2019, he and I became much closer, and yet our friendship was largely not separable from the magazine, just as John himself became synonymous with his creation. We communicated constantly, and often about things that had nothing to do with F&D, but we didn’t socialize apart from working together on the magazine.
For the past two years, we tried to schedule a simple extracurricular outing to drink a few beers, and for whatever reason, it never came together. I regret this, although not too awfully much. One must accept reality as it is, and how it comes to us. There are infinite varieties of friendship. I happily accepted what we had as friends, and so be it. Whatever it was, it worked.
I appreciate the many comments we’ve received since John’s death, and I’ve tried to answer the questions of readers as best I can. However, the biggest question is the one I can’t begin to explain: So, what happens next?
As previously noted, John’s family will decide. His estate is in probate, and that’s a time-consuming and lengthy process for anyone, anytime. This may result in the magazine’s resurrection, although the longer it takes, the harder it will be to move forward.
John built F & D as a sustainably rotating ecosystem of information, one that needed constant attention to openings, closings, moves and changes, all of them documented using a electronic spreadsheet custom-built. John has been the spider to his spreadsheet’s spider web since 2003.
Yes, it all might be incorporated into a computer program that’s far easier to track, but this simply isn’t the way John did it. Following the Spring issue’s release, I was to have begun the task of reviewing the restaurant guide’s 1,750 listings; John paid constant attention to them, but understood that another pair of human eyes needed to be deployed to see what he didn’t.
It’s been old school, unique and functional. Luddite, and also artisanal. John was disciplined, and regularly devoted attention to necessary updates. However, after two months, I’m beginning to grasp just how much John actually did behind the curtain; every day, little by little, he kept that motor humming. He may have gotten into the weeds, but he didn;t stay there long.
Now we’re getting behind. Yes, we can catch up, and it’s merely a question of money and time. Until then, it’s just another reminder that our leader is gone.
Simply stated, Food & Dining Magazine has succeeded as a print publication (as abetted by the online and social media components) where others failed during an era unfavorable to reading, primarily because of John’s own unstoppable force of will.
Absent this force of will, I’m unsure whether even the best-intentioned efforts at renewal can be successful UNLESS there is a willingness to revamp, reformat, change it up (and, truthfully, spend a bit to ease the reformation).
A couple years ago, John called me and said he was planning a trip to Spain (his first, although he traveled the world while in the Navy) to see the sights and scout retirement options. He explained his many reasons for retiring, and for moving into a new phase in life, and then posed a question to me (paraphrased):
Roger, do you want to buy the magazine and keep it going?
It was flattering, of course, while at the same time I quickly gleaned from the conversation that John assumed I was younger than him, except we were born only four or five months apart in 1960, and so I told him this: John, (grawlix) how do you know I’m not thinking the same way, for the same reasons you’ve just stated?
Why would I want to work this hard!
We both laughed, and I said: How ‘bout we work together to find a buyer who’s actually younger than both of us?
It was agreed. It didn’t happen.
It is incredibly sad that John didn’t get to retire, and that he left us so soon. His passing has been far too close for comfort, and I cannot describe how surreal the past two months have been. I’ve been a damn basket case.
All this being said, the conclusion I’ve reached is that a vacation can’t come too soon; fortunately, we have a break scheduled in Vienna and Budapest.
At some point in May, following Derby 152, I’ll probably reduce the number of weekly postings at F&D’s website and social media pages. In complete honesty, this reduction will allow time to find a part-time gig that pays me a little bit (attention, readers: I’m available, offering my customarily narrow range of abilities, like writing and building killer beer programs).
Naturally if there are signs that F&D might reappear, I’m flexible. If I could snap my fingers and make t=it happen, you bet I would.
In closing this diary entry, please allow me another round of thanks to everyone involved with F&D, and everyone who reads the words (and adores Dan Dry’s photography).
It’s been one of the best and most rewarding gigs in my life, and for this, thanks to John. He allowed me considerable rope, while not hesitating to provide stewardship when it was called for.
He was Irving Thalberg to my Groucho Marx; if you know, you know.
