Growing up in Santiago, Chile, food was about survival. My earliest memories—maybe when I was four or five—aren’t of birthday cakes or holiday dinners, but of collecting scrap metal and cardboard with friends to make a few coins. If we got lucky, we’d earn enough for a coin to play at the arcade, and maybe a sandwich—pan con jamón y queso. Simple. But to a stomach that hasn’t eaten, it was everything.

Later, things got a little better. My dad started doing well, and suddenly, we were eating food that wasn’t just to survive. I remember the first time I tasted Chinese takeout—probably one of the cheapest foods in Chile, but to me, it was magic. That’s when food became not just a need, but a language.

I didn’t dream of being a chef as a kid. I switched schools often, and at one point landed in a middle-class school where my classmates talked casually about vacations, airports, boarding passes. I didn’t know how I’d ever afford to see the world—but I knew I would. At an early age, I realized a good cook can work anywhere. Good food speaks for itself, and the language barrier somehow starts to vanish.

Somehow, cooking didn’t click until later. I started studying engineering, then law—because I wanted to understand how the game was played. But nothing stuck. I was always more resourceful than academic, the kind of person who’s constantly solving problems with his hands. When I asked myself what I really wanted, it was still the same answer: I want to travel. I want to understand the world beyond the pretty resort façade. I realized law was only going to pull me deeper into my own country—so I quit. That’s when I decided to pursue a culinary career.

My initial thought was basic—I didn’t know much about the industry. I had heard the best cooks at Johnny Rockets could get transferred to different countries if they were good enough. So that became my first definition of success.

Culinary school gave me the technical foundation and opened my mind. But what changed everything was a magazine. One of my professors passed around a food magazine with a photo of a dessert—art on a plate. That’s when I discovered Gustavo Sáez, one of Chile’s best pastry chefs. I reached out—no experience, just passion. He said no. But I showed up anyway, before he arrived. And when he walked in and saw me already in the kitchen, he just said: “Well, now I can’t kick you out.”

Eventually, he started paying me. He created a position just so I could learn. I worked 18-hour days. Secretly, I sometimes slept in the restaurant’s garden when it was too late and I had to come in early—my house was far, and it could get dangerous at night. I was obsessed—not with prestige, but with understanding how someone turns ingredients and sugar into emotion.

My time there eventually came to an end, and it didn’t end in the best way. But at the end, Gustavo asked, “Can I recommend you and give your number to other chefs in the industry?”

That led me to Colombia, where I joined Villanos en Bermudas—a restaurant that had just made the 50 Best list. That’s where I became the head pastry chef and met Nicolás, who gave me true creative freedom and taught me how a kitchen could be handled with respect. But it’s also where the cracks started to show.

I brought a different vision: desserts that tasted like broccoli, or chicken skin, or cured fish. Ingredients that weren’t hidden under sugar, but celebrated for what they were. Minimalist. Honest. I wanted people to taste things that made them pause, not just smile politely. The team believed in me, and the dishes started to get attention. But behind the scenes, I was spiraling.

In Bogotá, I felt like I had reached a creative and social high point. I was growing, experimenting, connecting—with people, with ideas, with a way of living that felt alive. But that sense of arrival also sparked something deeper: a desire to keep moving, to explore more cultures, more perspectives. I wanted to see how far this language of food could take me.

At one point, I was invited to join a new project in Japan with Sergio, a chef I deeply admire. But the pandemic hit, and everything came to a halt. Over the next five years, I worked across Europe, Asia, and the Middle East.But Japan was always in my mind  it wasn’t about money—it was about the craft. Precision. Discipline. No cutting corners. It was the challenge I needed. I dreamed of  a space where food didn’t just feed, it challenged. A limited collection on a plate. One-time dishes, no recipes, no repeats. If you were there, you were part of something that would never happen again.

When I finally returned to Asia, I met Moeko Tamakawa—now my creative director and partner in the project we’re about to launch: OIL. Tokyo Japan.

OIL is not just a restaurant. It’s a sensory space where food, art, music, fragrance, and fashion blend together—transcending cultural and temporal boundaries. The boutique cargo-style dining room curates a rotating selection of flowers and vintage tableware. The menu is enhanced by a range of original oils, curated to elevate food and drink, with each dish telling a story from my travels—each plate a portal to a place I’ve lived, a lesson I’ve learned, or a culture I’ve touched.

These days, I stay clean. I run. I cook. I listen more. I mentor younger chefs. I try to build kitchens where people feel safe, not scared. Places where cooks don’t eat hunched over trash cans, shoveling food like it’s war. I want to lead with respect, not fear. Because I’ve been on the other side, and I know what it takes to survive.

And if my food tastes a little like the street, like resilience, like a dream you refuse to let go of—that’s because it is.