Two Decades After Hurricane Katrina, Chef Dominick Lee Is Still Carrying New Orleans

When Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans in late August 2005, a 16-year-old Dominick Lee evacuated with friends, expecting a few days away from home. What began as a spontaneous road trip turned into a life-altering migration. Two decades later, Lee is a celebrated chef in Houston, known for bringing Creole cuisine far beyond the borders of Louisiana at Augustine’s, soon to open at Hotel King David.

For Lee, food kept him tied to New Orleans. Cooking Creole cuisine has been his way of preserving identity through displacement, grief, and reinvention. As the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina approaches on August 29, chef Lee reflects on the storm that shaped his journey, the culture that raised him, and why, no matter where life takes him, New Orleans is always at the table.

Henna Bakshi: Take us back to 2005. You were just 16 when Hurricane Katrina hit. What do you remember about that time?

Dominick Lee: Man, it still feels surreal to think about. I was living near Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans, and going to McMain [High School]. Hurricanes were a regular thing growing up, so when they said we had to evacuate, I didn’t take it too seriously. I actually convinced my parents to let me go with my friends instead of heading to Alabama with them. Our plan was to go to Atlanta and have a good time, just thinking it’d be a three-day weekend. But somewhere along the way, we ended up heading west, and eventually, we landed in Houston.

That decision changed my life. We got to Houston, rented a hotel, and then turned on the TV and saw [New Orleans] flooding. I remember just sitting there watching the news, not really understanding. It didn’t feel real. At 16, you don’t grasp the weight of: “You may never go home again.”

Did you realize right away how serious it was?

Not at all. I think the weight of it hit my mom more than me. She had worked from nothing to have a home, a life, and suddenly it was all gone. I was still in that teenage mindset. But everything changed when we moved to New York for a bit. That was my first time realizing I was different — my speech, my clothes, my whole culture. It felt like being an immigrant, but within my own country.

You ended up returning to New Orleans to attend Xavier University. What pulled you back?

I missed my people. My friends, my culture, everything. It’s funny because I eventually chose not to live there long-term, but the longing to reconnect brought me back for college. At that point, I didn’t even fully realize how deeply ingrained the culture of New Orleans was in me. But the more I left, the more I saw how much of my identity was rooted there.

Let’s talk about Creole food. You’ve said it’s not just a cuisine, it’s who you are. How did that show up in your career as a chef, especially as you moved around?

The first thing I had to do was realize what I was carrying. I had grown up with gumbo and red beans — all these dishes were just normal life. I didn’t realize they were special. Other people would come to New Orleans for tourism and talk about the food like it was this spectacle, but for us, it was just dinner.

I went to culinary school in Houston, cooked in all kinds of restaurants, including an Indian one where we made things like Indian shrimp and grits. Alison Cook, the critic, once wrote about it and mentioned my name, and that review kind of snapped me into focus. She was like, “I don’t think you’re doing exactly what it is that you normally do, you know?” And from there you begin to question your identity as a chef and what it is that you represent. You want to be pushing the envelope to tell the story of Creole people and the story of New Orleans and to make sure that people are excited and understand that there are deeper layers to the city than just Mardi Gras and Bourbon.

And you found success doing exactly that, with your restaurant Augustine’s in Houston, for example. What does it mean to carry New Orleans with you, especially when you’re not physically there?

It means understanding that home isn’t a place, it’s the people, the culture, the food. Like, when my sister went to school in New York, my mom used to fly up with gumbo for her. That gumbo was home. Now, I make it. I can recreate that experience wherever I am.

Even when I was living in Italy for almost three years, I found that people connected with my food because it carried something real. I wasn’t just cooking dishes; I was bringing people into the culture that raised me.

What role does migration play in all this? Both the historical migration that shaped Creole food and the forced migration you experienced with Katrina?

Migration, to me, is about seeking a better life — sometimes by choice, sometimes not. Katrina was a forced migration, but it pushed me to discover the world beyond New Orleans. Just like the Creole cuisine itself is a result of global migrations — West African, French, Spanish, Caribbean — my own journey became part of that story. It’s about leaving, yes, but also carrying who you are with you.

Do you ever feel homesick for New Orleans?

No. I used to. But I’ve come to understand that you can be home wherever you are. If home is in your heart, and in your hands, if it’s in the way you cook, the way you speak, the stories you tell, then you’re never far from it.

I can make the gumbo. I can play the music. I can invite people into a space that feels like New Orleans. So no, I’m not homesick, because I carry it with me.

As we mark 20 years since Katrina, what does it mean to you now, looking back?

It means transformation. Tragedy made me who I am. Without Katrina, I don’t think I’d have discovered the world the way I have. I wouldn’t have understood what it means to live somewhere else, to bring your culture into new spaces, to evolve.

What does home mean to you?

Home is wherever I am. Home is the people I love, the flavors I carry, the stories I tell. You don’t lose it. You bring it with you.

Hurricane Katrina flooded about 80 percent of the city and historic communities in New Orleans, including the Lower Ninth Ward. A massive storm surge devastated communities along the Gulf Coast in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Nearly 1,400 people died, according to the National Hurricane Center, and the catastrophic storm remains the costliest storm in U.S. history at around $200 billion in today’s dollars.