Wealthy Texans are Petitioning Against Bravo and a Barney Greengrass Pop-up is Coming to the Hamptons

Plus: Pan Am's newly announced $129,000 Pan Am Journeys, Prada's members-club-but-not-really-members-club takeover of The Chelsea Hotel, a very little-known two-star UES restaurant, and more...

Did you miss me?

This is the longest I’ve gone without sending a letter since launching RPS. A weekend was involved, so perhaps I can give myself a pass. The real culprit, however, is a combination of deadlines and the RPS party, which is now less than a week away.

Actually, “party” may be underselling it. At this point, it feels more like an event. The whole thing has become so absurdly over-the-top that it will rival many of the weddings I’ve attended. If you’re confirmed, consider this fair warning. And while the guest list is technically closed, Founding Members operate under a different set of rules. (You can RSVP whenever you’d like. You’re family.)

Today, I want to talk about Texas, which is currently tied with Connecticut as RPS’s fourth-largest subscriber state. (You can probably guess the top three: New York, California, and Florida.) For most of the pandemic, every story about a wealthy person was a Florida story. Every editor wanted Florida. Every hedge fund manager was moving to Miami! Every billionaire was buying in Palm Beach! And every magazine writer seemed to have a theory about what would happen when New Yorkers discovered boating.

I know because I spent years writing those stories. Then something strange happened. The people who spent years talking about Florida? They suddenly started talking about Texas. And I don’t mean just Austin. I mean Texas Texas.

Late last year, I was working on a story for The New York Times that had absolutely nothing to do with Texas. My editor nevertheless asked whether we could somehow wedge it into the story. Suddenly, Texas was everywhere.

Part of the fascination is economic. The state has become a magnet for corporate relocations, energy investment, artificial intelligence infrastructure, and finance stuff. Dallas increasingly competes for firms that once would have defaulted to New York. Austin continues to attract founders and venture capital. Wealth is flowing in to the the Lone Star state from both coasts. Economics only explains part of the story. And the more interesting part is what happened after all those people arrived.

That brings us to Boerne. Located about thirty miles north of San Antonio, the affluent Hill Country town (pronounced BUR-nee) is now one of the most desirable addresses in Texas. No, really. Part of this is because Boerne used to be really private. Until Bravo showed up.

Last month, the network announced a new reality series set in Texas Hill Country that will follow a group of affluent women in the area. In most places, this would barely qualify as news. As Andy Cohen-aficionados know, Bravo has spent the better part of two decades turning wealthy ZIP codes into entertainment. You’ve got Beverly Hills, Orange County, New York, Miami. But the community of Boerne’s reaction was unusually intense. That’s what I want to talk about today.

And if you don’t mess with Texas—or reality television—there is plenty more for you in today’s letter: a Barney Greengrass pop-up coming to Babe's in Sag Harbor next month, Pan Am's newly announced Pan Am Journeys, a 19-day Africa journey aboard a semi-private jet (all yours for $129,000), Prada's members-club-but-not-really-members-club takeover of The Chelsea Hotel, a little-known Upper East Side restaurant that just earned two stars from The New York Times, and more.