86ing the Old

I was six or seven when I fried my first egg. My sister and I would be home alone after school, and one day I figured it out—cracked, cooked, proud as hell. I made another one. And another. I don’t remember how many I ate that afternoon, but I remember getting sick from eating too many. Still, I was hooked. That feeling of making something with your hands stayed with me.

When I moved to California at 17, I thought I would be a tattoo artist. I spent most of my time at a tattoo parlor after school, learning to draw and helping set up appointments. That was the dream. But life had another plan. One day, Chef Pink walked in and offered me a dishwasher job. I took it, and something just clicked. The knives, the fire, the pace felt like a sport. That was it for me. The kitchen had everything I didn’t even know I was looking for.

I tried culinary school, and it lasted about three months. Sitting in a chair, taking notes wasn’t going to work for me. I needed to move, and I needed to feel the heat. So I went back to the line and started working my way up.

One of my first real gigs was at Wine Cask in Santa Barbara. A farm-to-table spot, everything made from scratch—stocks, sauces, braises, and market runs. That’s where I met Nik Ramirez. He was my sous chef, a former pro soccer player who treated the kitchen like a training ground. Precision, speed, endurance. We’d compete to see whose oven was cleaner at the end of the night. He taught me how to push myself and treat the kitchen like it mattered. He showed me what this path could look like.

In 2016, while working at Saison, I took a vacation to Hawaii. I was skating a bowl in Lahaina when I hit my head—traumatic brain injury, frontal lobe hematoma, induced coma for three weeks. They said sodium saved me. After seven months of therapy and volunteering at UC Gill Tract Farm, I was finally ready to go back. Saison welcomed me in. Chef Scott Clark, my CDC, created a plan. I started from the bottom again and worked my way back to the hearth. The fire, the pressure, the beauty of it, it brought me back to life. I am forever grateful to him and the Saison team for taking such good care of me during those hard times.

The kitchen’s never been easy. Embers have landed on my eyelids mid-service. I’ve finished the night with one eye, cleaned up, and gone to the hospital later. Glory mattered more in those moments. Still does.

Over the years, my inspirations have changed. The chase for perfection became a chase for purpose. I don’t just want to make good food—I want to create a space where people feel safe and seen. That’s why I co-founded @petitepercebes with my partner Natallie. It’s an oyster bar in Mendocino County, but more than that, it’s a space for community. We cook bistro-style dishes using ingredients from people we know—farmers, fishers, and foragers. Even our dishware is sourced locally. We want everyone to feel welcome, whether they’re here for coffee or crab risotto.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned came from a hard one. Years ago, I confronted a chef about sexist and homophobic language in the kitchen. His response? “You dont understand the context, it was used as a joke” i was labeled as “too woke and problematic, not wanting to go with the grain, shortsighted and immature.”

Now, I’m trying to change what restaurant culture looks like—from the inside. Educating the staff and creating trips to town events for staff appreciation day is what is on our calendar starting this first year of owning Petite PERCEBES. We share playlists to shift the mood when someone’s having a rough day. Because I’ve been there, and I know how much that little shift can help. Chef Adam Lawrence and I built that bond through service after service. He’d see me down and throw on some rocksteady—lifted the whole room.

My biggest pride isn’t a dish or a title. It’s that I’ve built something that feels like home. Growing up in São Paulo, where social classes are divided, I never imagined I’d create a space where everyone eats at the same table. That’s what I care about now. Community. Access. Respect. We don’t charge more because a dish is served on a beautiful plate—that’s for me. I’m just glad they get to enjoy it too.

My hope for this industry is simple: tend your own garden, care for your people, cut out the big man, and support your community. Work harder to ensure that it all stays within us and does not spread to the massive corporations spraying and adding chemicals to food that should be intended for the nourishment of our body, mind, and soul.