Sweet, but Never Soft

I’ve known I wanted to be a pastry chef for as long as I can remember.

When I was little, while the other kids were outside, you’d find me on the kitchen floor with a tiny notebook, scribbling recipes from cooking shows on TV. I wrote as fast as possible, terrified I’d miss a step. Later, I’d try them out, usually changing them. Back then, I didn’t know how ingredients really worked, so half the time they didn’t turn out. But it wasn’t about getting it right. I was learning how to create.

 

Later, in pastry school, I was the only one who put vegetables in my final cake: avocado and chocolate. In Argentina, at that time, it was seen as crazy. My professor told me, “Keep the avocado for guacamole next time.” But years later, I found myself in Denmark, standing in a Michelin-star kitchen on a trial day, and the ingredients they gave me were cucumber, pear, and celery. I knew right then I would have so much fun, and I had traveled to the right place in the world.

 

Today, at my restaurant @Surbydemitierra_in Oslo, my desserts include green peas, corn, mushrooms, and even garlic. And that notebook kid is still here, still trying things that might not work, still dreaming.

 

I never had another career. I finished school and jumped straight into pastry, even though almost nobody supported the decision. My family was worried. They wanted something “safer” for me. But I couldn’t see myself anywhere else. Pastry wasn’t just cakes and cookies to me. It was creativity, freedom, and the chance to travel and learn. When I was younger, I even dreamed about becoming a pastry chef on a cruise ship. That didn’t happen because life had other plans for me.

 

I first studied in Argentina, then in Spain, at the Basque Culinary Center in San Sebastián. That experience changed everything. I learned techniques I couldn’t have imagined before, and my entire view of what was possible opened up.

 

But before all that, my mom, trying to dissuade me, sent me to work unpaid at a neighborhood bakery. I was 17. She thought the long shifts and physical work would scare me off. Instead, I loved it. I learned how to handle 200-kilo batches of bread dough and industrial machinery. Later, that gave me the confidence to land my first job in a five-star hotel in Argentina. I was the youngest one there. After my trial day, they called me two blocks away: “You got the job.”

 

That first job taught me more than skills. It taught me to understand my value. I would later remember that lesson when offered unpaid work in prestigious places. Fair treatment matters—no matter how young or new you are.

 

Moving to Europe was a turning point. I wanted to grow, so I left for a Michelin kitchen. I started as a commis and quickly rose to head of pastry. It was exhilarating, but also a period that came at a significant personal cost. I learned the hard way about setting boundaries and protecting my well-being. At the moment, it nearly broke me. Now, I see it shaped me.

 

When things get tough in the kitchen, I tap into my creativity. Ideas come to me in dreams. I wake up with new flavor combinations in my head, or the vision of a new texture, a shape, a plate. When that happens, I run to the kitchen. It’s like a language I speak with myself. Sometimes I’ll sit before an empty plate for minutes, building something in my mind before my hands move. Drawing and writing help too. They connect me deeper to what I’m trying to say through food.

 

One night marked me forever. After a long shift, exhausted, about to head home, a guest asked the entire kitchen staff to come out. We gathered in the dining room and had no idea why. The couple told us they had decided, during that meal, to start a family. They thanked us for making it the most memorable night of their lives. That moment changed how I see food. It isn’t just what’s on the plate. It’s what food can hold—joy, memory, transformation. Since that night, I’ve never seen this work the same way.

 

My philosophy is simple: respect, cleanliness, love. Food can move people, tell stories, make you cry, or remind you of someone you’ve lost. It’s not just fuel. It feeds the soul and memory. In the kitchen, I create an environment where that power is respected and where every chef feels they can contribute to it. Leadership means putting ego aside and helping others bring out their gifts. We should all remember why we do this.

 

Cooking has saved me more than once. It’s my language, my therapy, my anchor. When few believed in me, the people who did became my family. Now, in my own restaurant, I’m trying to build a different kind of kitchen where respect is foundational, every voice matters, and we grow together.

 

Starting my own business five years ago is my proudest milestone. I came close to quitting many times, but something kept me going, and there are so many exciting projects coming soon that I know wouldn’t exist without the knowledge and experience of the road I have had to walk. Sometimes we need to trust our instincts.

 

What I love about restaurant culture is that in my country, Argentina, food brings people together. Around a meal, life happens—friendships, celebrations, hard conversations, love. But there is also a darker side to this industry: toxicity, ego, abuse. People suffer in silence, afraid to speak out. I’ve lived it. The unspoken rule is that you won’t work again if you talk. But that has to change.

 

I know I’m just one person, but I do things differently in my kitchen. I listen. I treat people fairly. I lead even when no one’s watching. If more of us did this, the industry could change for good.

 

My hope for the future is more collaboration, sharing, and support. We need to stop hoarding knowledge like it’s power. There is room for everyone in this industry. Let’s help each other, recommend good people, and lift each other. That’s how we’ll build a better culinary world.