Built Outside the Lines

“I guess it all started with a Chinese delivery box.” That’s what I tell people when they ask about the moment that sparked my love for food, and they usually look at me funny, but it’s true. My mom was deep into a cake-decorating phase, and one day we built a Chinese takeout box out of modeling chocolate for a friend’s party. That’s when I became obsessed, not just with how things tasted, but with how precise and careful the whole process was. You had to control the temperature. You had to pipe straight lines. You had to trim, adjust, and still stay flexible. It was discipline and art all in one.

 

In high school, I started baking seriously. I followed pastry chefs like Rustam Kungurov and Dinara Kasko. They inspired me to experiment with different methods like creating sharp edges with ganache, and mold making. I kept a cabinet stocked with baking supplies, even when life pulled me in other directions. Funny enough, that obsession with precision eventually evolved into a love for seafood. It turns out seafood, like pastry, demands technical discipline. You can’t fake it.

 

At first, though, baking was “just a hobby.” That’s what everyone told me. So I got my business degree and stayed on that path. Even now, I still juggle a corporate job with my work as a chef and running my pop-up, @piscator.ny. For a while, I was shy about telling people that. I thought it would make me less credible. But then I read this quote, “When you don’t have many resources, you have to be even more rigorous with your style. Limitations are style if you make them so.” That stuck with me. Now I lean into it. My time is limited, sure. But it forces me to be intentional, to create something curated and authentic. I think that’s a strength.

 

I never went to culinary school. I’m self-taught. That means when I create something, it doesn’t start from a recipe but from a vision in my head. I just try to get it on the plate and let that process guide me.

 

My first time in a restaurant kitchen was in college. I was a food runner in San Diego, working nights after classes. I didn’t click with my university community — connecting was hard. But I found myself drawn to the pastry team. I’d eat extra crème brûlée at the end of lunch shifts and chat with the pastry chefs. They took me in. A few months later, I was helping them make desserts. That’s where I first learned what kitchen camaraderie felt like. That unspoken bond you build through work and repetition.

 

But early on, one of my biggest challenges was advocating for myself. Cooking had always felt like a solitary craft to me. Suddenly, I was in environments where everything had to be communicated — my needs, vision, and values. You can’t stay quiet and expect results. I had to learn that.

 

What inspires me most now is the pop-up community in New York. There’s so much collaboration and openness. You get to create without ego, without being boxed in by traditional kitchen hierarchies. It’s a space where people are excited to share; I love that energy.

 

One moment that marked me forever was when a woman who’d grown up in Greece started coming to my pop-ups — every one of them. I eventually approached her and asked why. She told me that when she eats at @piscator.ny, she closes her eyes and feels at home. That was the first time someone had called my cooking nostalgic. It shook me in the best way. The realization that food can make someone feel affectionate and personal made me addicted to the pursuit of being a chef.

 

My whole philosophy now is about intention and community. I want everything on the plate to have a purpose. I always give a subtle nod to the ingredient’s original form or natural state. It’s a way of honoring its integrity and reminding the diner of its source. I love presenting a whole fish because of the flavor, but it also celebrates its natural beauty and connection to the ocean. It’s also an active food that can be shared with other people. This guides my approach to leadership in that every action must have some “why” or reasoning behind it.

 

I’ve seen firsthand how kitchen camaraderie can carry you through hard times. In college, I was closeted, guarded, and unsure of myself. But that kitchen was a space where I felt looked after—where people cared, even if we didn’t know each other well. That kind of support stays with you.

 

I’m proud of many things, but one of the moments that sticks out is when my fishmonger first knew my name. It was early in Piscator’s journey. I had finally acted on what I wanted to do, and that simple recognition — “Hey, you’re that guy”— meant so much to me. I served my first 3-course menu to a party of 50 a few months later. Growth happens fast when you’re in it.

 

I love the dedication in this industry and how people pour themselves into their craft. But I do find the barriers to entry frustrating. Too often, you’re expected to sacrifice pay, time, and well-being just for the “opportunity” to work in high-caliber spaces. That shouldn’t be the norm. Pop-ups help level that playing field — they give chefs from all backgrounds a platform. I hope that culture keeps growing.

 

For the future, I want to see more collaboration and community. I’m doubling down on my own pop-ups and building a stronger network around my home venue. I hope diners keep challenging themselves to try unfamiliar foods. That’s how we grow—all of us.