A Way Forward and a Way Home
Humans Of The Kitchen
In recovery kitchens and Sicilian homes, a chef finds healing in tradition.
Buccio Cappello
I grew up waking to the scent of sauce simmering on the stove at six in the morning. We were in the countryside, near the sea. My grandmother would be up before all of us, picking basil and cooking for her grandchildren while we slept. That smell, the basil, the garlic, the bubbling tomatoes, that’s where it all started. Her food wasn’t just food. It was affection, ritual, and memory.
I’ve always had two passions: food and photography. As a kid, I’d sit for hours looking through old family photos—my parents and grandparents gathered around long tables, laughing and eating. Those images stuck with me. Even then, I could feel the stories behind them. And those stories always led back to food.
I started working in restaurants in Milan, then London. I learned how to cook by being thrown into it, standing next to great chefs who pushed me, challenged me, and showed me what it meant to care deeply about the craft. But before all of that, I found myself volunteering in a recovery community for people overcoming addiction. That’s where I realized I could pursue a path as a professional chef. I wasn’t getting paid, but every time I made a meal for those thirty young men struggling with addictions, something shifted in me.
Of course, there were challenges. When I moved to England, I didn’t speak the language. It was hard and frustrating. But my grandmother always told me that if you love cooking, you can overcome anything. And she was right.
When I was younger, I struggled with insecurity and had difficulties socializing with others. However, cooking helped me connect with people and get by every day. Through cooking, I have recognized my flaws and strengths, allowing me to grow personally and professionally.
The life of a chef is always full of surprises, and each positive interaction enriches my journey, reminding me of the joy and impact of what I do. My philosophy is to always look to the past and transform it into something new on the plate. Cooking is made up of memories, and for me, my first inspirations were my grandmothers. I strive to convey that essence through a well-prepared dish that tells a story.
After years in restaurants, I now work as a private chef and no longer spend countless hours in the kitchen. I don’t miss the 300-cover nights. Cooking for a few people with intention, without pressure, is a completely different rhythm. It’s more personal, more honest. The food tastes like home again.
Today, my project focuses on seeking out grandmothers across Sicily to learn their traditional recipes. I cook with them and translate their knowledge into my dishes, adding just a little twist of freshness. It’s more than just technique. It’s a way of honoring where I come from and the people.
I want young cooks to know that food should bring joy, not stress. It’s a demanding industry, yes. But if you chase money or prestige, you’ll lose the essence of why you started.
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
I am very fond of sweet and sour flavors, as they are widely used in Sicilian cuisine. I incorporate them frequently into my fish recipes, enhancing the dishes with that unique balance of flavors that truly represents the essence of the region.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
Fresh Pasta and BBQ vegetables.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen?
In London during Christmas, I worked 16-hour shifts with only a 30-minute break inside the kitchen. I would sit on the floor, grabbing a quick meal to recharge. It was an intense time, but those experiences taught me resilience and the true demands of the culinary world.
- What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
It was a tough period, and I wanted to prove I could complete the shift. Pushing through the long hours and the challenges made me stronger and more determined, reinforcing my commitment to my passion for cooking and my career in the culinary world.
- What tips would you give to other cooks and chefs to help them navigate their culinary careers and find peace amid the chaos of the kitchen?
My advice is always to listen to and trust the people around you who have more experience. After that, it’s important to tune into yourself and have confidence in your own instincts. Balancing guidance from others with self-trust is key to growth and success in any field.
- What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
At the moment, I’m not familiar with underrated ingredients. However, many ingredients can be overlooked depending on the cuisine or region. Exploring local markets and experimenting with lesser-known items can often lead to exciting discoveries and unique flavor combinations that unexpectedly enhance dishes.
8. What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
I am skilled at making homemade bread and creating various bruschettas with diverse flavors, from tomatoes to grilled vegetables to slow-cooked meats and braised dishes. I also enjoy incorporating fresh ingredients into my pasta dishes, allowing for a rich and flavorful experience, highlighting the best seasonal produce.
About Your City!
Santa Maria del Focallo
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
I would distance myself from restaurant kitchens and instead bring people into grandmothers’ homes who hold century-old recipes. This way, you can truly experience the authentic flavors of dishes passed down through generations. It’s about connecting with tradition and understanding the rich culinary heritage that shapes our food today.
Dreams Don’t Cook Themselves
Humans Of The Kitchen
Chef spent years pushing others to dream big. Now, from a 20-foot container kitchen, she’s cooking up her own.
Leicel Ros
Miami, Florida
I was born in Cavite City, Philippines and raised in Virginia Beach, VA.
My parents worked long days and multiple jobs to provide for our family, building a life as immigrants from the Philippines. Although they worked a lot, my favorite moments with my family were always with food, like when my mom had time to cook. She’d teach me little things: how to cut evenly, why consistency mattered. It wasn’t just about food — it was about care. That stayed with me.
When it was just me and my brother, or when I was home alone, I’d try to help out and make food for us. In high school, a culinary teacher, Mrs. Johnson saw something in me. She told me I had skill. My Uncle Jimmy, a Chef from the Navy, and my mom backed me up. He convinced my dad: “Let her try.”
So I did.
I went to Johnson & Wales University to study Culinary Arts and F&B Management. I absorbed. I learned. I competed on the Culinary team. I studied abroad in Singapore and Thailand. I later traveled to Vietnam, Philippines, Japan. I fell in love with Southeast Asia all over again — not just because of my roots, but because of what it opened in me.
After school, I moved to LA. I cooked at Nobu. I learned the balance between Japanese technique and Peruvian boldness. Then I worked with Chef Kuniko Yagi, who mentored me on techniques in the kitchen and it was the first Female dominated kitchen I worked in and I admired her leadership style.
Through working, I burned out physically. Mentally. I couldn’t physically cook for a while. Instead of leaving the restaurant life, I shifted. I moved to front of the house. From reservations to runner, to expo, to server, to eventually landing an Assistant General Manager position for a Modern Vietnamese Restaurant in Downtown LA. It wasn’t the kitchen, but it taught me the full operation. And it taught me humility. The dots don’t always connect when you’re in it — but they always do in hindsight.
Eventually, I craved to be back in the kitchen. I was blessed to be on the opening Culinary team for the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in Beverly Hills. I became a Sous Chef for Jean-Georges Restaurant in the hotel. I learned so much from my experience with the team and mentors from there.
I eventually went on to be in Education. I was a culinary instructor. The youngest at my school. I loved it. I taught at the Institute of Culinary Education in Pasadena, California and at Miami Culinary Institute. Teaching made me less selfish. I stopped chasing recognition and started focusing on how to lift others. I told my students to chase their dreams, to take risks, to live fully.
But I wasn’t doing it myself.
Then came the pandemic. I was home with my partner Nancy, and all we could think about was the food we missed — Thai Town, Koreatown, Filipino dishes that reminded us of home. We cooked for ourselves. Then for friends. Then for strangers.
That’s how the thought of Sili was born. We even came up with the name and concept while our friends Nik and Joyce were visiting Miami.
Sili means chili in Tagalog. It’s also a play on my mom’s name — Celie, short for Celerina. She’d always joke that people mispronounced it, calling her “Sili.” Now it lives on in our food.
After leaving a job as Chef de Cuisine of a local breakfast/brunch restaurant, we started with pop-ups around town in Miami. One pop-up was at the Filipino Block Party at 1-800-Lucky, where Cheryl Tiu invited us to be guest chefs at. This led to the opportunity to do a pop up at 1-800-Lucky after Gaby Chiriboga invited us to take over the container space. Then this container kitchen became our home. One baby fryer. One oven. Four induction burners. It isn’t glamorous. But it was real. And real is enough to start.
We cook with what we have. We’re still working full-time jobs — I’m still a server at COTE Miami. The team there was incredibly supportive when we began. That meant a lot.
It’s not easy. We budget week to week. We can’t buy in bulk or rely on reservations.
We try our best with what we have. We cook the comfort food we love from Southeast Asia — pulling inspiration from flavors of Filipino, Vietnamese, Thai cuisine . It’s food that reminds us of our loved ones who have impacted our lives, and moments had over food.
But Sili is still evolving. There’s the casual food we serve now, but there’s also the other version — the plated food we explored during our pop-ups. We don’t know if that becomes a second brand or just another chapter. We’re still figuring it out.
And through all of this, we’re learning to take care of ourselves.
We’re in a mode of reflecting on how to be better, how to stay healthy too — mentally, physically, emotionally.
The restaurant world teaches you to push through everything. But now we ask: Are we okay?
Some days are hard.
Mentally, I think there’s many times where we kind of just want to give up. It’s been hard to get up through certain days.
But then a guest tells us it’s some of the best food they had in Miami… And we keep going. We appreciate the support of everyone who has come by to try our food or spread the word and our friends and family who encourage us to keep going. Even the support of our dog Riesling, who we have had since Sili was born. Haha.
Even if some days doesn’t feel like we’re growing… all we can do is to become better every day, a little percent every day.
It’s better to build a wall brick by brick and put the brick well than just build a wall from one day to another that’s gonna fall.
We don’t know what tomorrow holds. But we’re here. Trying to grow in our skills and as people, and sharing with others along the way.
Because the truth is — you can’t wait for the perfect scenario to chase your dream.
You just have to start.
Photos by @starchefs @rubenpictures @thechilledlens @lilow_75r
Shifting the Post-Shift
Humans Of The Kitchen
From last calls to first light runs—how one chef is reshaping kitchen culture through healing and hope.
Philip Speer
How I got into cooking is a mixed story. There’s the romantic version and the raw version, grounded in necessity. I left home pretty young and didn’t have much education or work experience, so I started working in restaurants. But alongside that, I’d always had a creative side and a love for cooking. I had family in the restaurant industry, and they were people I looked up to. And once I found myself in a kitchen, it just clicked. I knew this was it.
From the start, I was drawn to pastry. I had a family friend who was a pastry chef, and he told me, “If you really want to understand pastry, start in bakeries.” So I did. I worked in scratch bakeries here in Austin for about five or six years. My first was Texas French Bread, where I got to work with laminates, sheeters, and all kinds of doughs—bread, breakfast pastries, and everything. The more I worked with those doughs, the more I fell in love with them. The science, the magic, and how you could tweak and refine things were addictive. I knew then that I wanted to bring that knowledge into restaurant kitchens.
Back in the mid-to-late ’90s, when I started working in restaurants, kitchen culture was… different. It was the height of that macho, toxic environment. I was a young pastry chef, hungry and driven. I worked in a few small restaurants where I wore multiple hats—pastry chef, sous chef—and soaked it all up. We were young, working at cool restaurants in downtown Austin, and I let myself become a product of that environment. There was kindness in me, sure, but I was also knee-deep in the culture: heavy drinking, partying after work, telling ourselves we were building “community” at the bar. Work hard, play hard. That was the motto, and I lived it hard, etc
My career took off. I got some national recognition, a few James Beard nominations, Food Network appearances, all that. But the more the success came, the more my ego fed off it, and the deeper I fell into that lifestyle. Over 20 years, I picked up four DWIs. The last one, while I was the culinary director and a partner at a major restaurant group, was the breaking point. It was public. It was humiliating. I spent time in jail, and I knew I couldn’t go on like that. I’d been given wake-up calls before, but this one finally shook me.
I went into rehab and started facing the reality of my addiction, really understanding it. For the first time, I accepted that I had a problem. And from there, my whole life began to shift. Personally, it was about rebuilding myself and reconnecting with my family. Professionally, I wasn’t even sure I could go back into restaurants. That world felt dangerous. But I started slowly, consulting, dipping my toe back in while working on my recovery. Eventually, I opened a restaurant called Bonhomie. I hired a mostly sober team, and we created an environment rooted in care and intention, not chaos.
That restaurant didn’t last, but it laid the groundwork for what came next. For the past six years, I’ve been the chef and partner at @comedortx here in Austin. This restaurant has become a vessel for change in the industry. We’ve created programming that directly addresses the pressures and pitfalls that come with this work. I chair the Austin chapter of Ben’s Friends, a national network of sober food and beverage professionals. We host weekly meetings—Mondays at 11 a.m.—where people can show up and talk about their struggles, celebrate their wins, and just be in community. It’s not a recovery program, it’s a support system. And it’s saved a lot of us.
We also started the @comedorrunclub. It began informally—just a few of us running loops around the block to get outside. Now, it’s a full-on community. We run Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 10 a.m.—a time that actually works for restaurant folks. You don’t have to be sober to show up. You don’t even have to be a runner. It’s about connection. It’s about building a new kind of community in this industry. One that’s based on health, support, and accountability.
When I got sober, I weighed nearly 280 pounds. I smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. I was fueling my body with fast food and soda while creating beautiful food for others. That disconnect hit me hard. So I decided to take care of myself, not just mentally, but physically. I changed the way I ate. I started running. And it wasn’t just about fitness—it was meditative, transformative.
Now, on any given Monday, my day might start with some pastry prep in the kitchen. Then, I’ll change into my running gear and go out for a few miles with the crew. After that, we host our Ben’s Friends meeting and then return to work. This is the rhythm of my life now, and I wouldn’t trade it.
To anyone in the restaurant world who’s struggling: You don’t have to do it the old way. There are people out here doing it differently. Look for them. Connect with them. Build something better for yourself and the next generation of cooks coming up behind you.
The Culture Within
Humans Of The Kitchen
How tradition, resistance, and fermentation reshaped a life in food.
Claudia Victoria Alzamora Moreno
I was born in Penonomé, Coclé, a small town in Panamá where tradition runs deep and love is often served in bowls. My mother is a pragmatic doctor and always pressed for time, but she’d cook for us on weekends. Her sopa de costilla is one of my most treasured memories. I learned by watching her, and one day, when I was going to add dried oregano, she leaned over and said, gently: “Add this at the end, when the heat is off, so it infuses smoothly.” She wasn’t always soft-spoken. But that day, in the kitchen, her tenderness shaped me more than she probably realized.
I didn’t grow up thinking I’d become a chef. I wanted to be a historian or an anthropologist. But the university in my town didn’t offer those programs. Cooking was just a teenage thought. Still, the idea of food as a short, technical study stuck. I packed my things and left to study in Lima, Perú. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Perú taught me that gastronomy is a mirror of a country’s soul. They had rediscovered and celebrated their culinary identity, and in that process, I began to understand what ours could become. Studying at San Ignacio de Loyola gave me techniques, reverence for the stories behind ingredients, and the discipline to build a future around them. Having mentors with professional training made me sincerely appreciate attending an academic institution to professionalize my career and my art. Cooking has been a profession that anyone with enough discipline and dedication can pursue. But voluntarily dedicating yourself to studying your work—the whys and the hows—means that cooking and chefs are beginning to receive the professional recognition they deserve.
The first professional kitchen I worked in offered a glimpse of what this profession would be like in my country: a bittersweet reality. I experienced unpaid hours, biweekly payments often three days late, and the challenge of working alongside people who exhibited little professional ethics. The procedures for ensuring food safety were poorly managed, and I dealt with extremely rude and corrupt bosses. That restaurant is closed now, and honestly, I’m glad. Although I have had better experiences since then, I will never forget this as the introduction to the real world that my professors and more experienced colleagues had spoken of so often.
My biggest challenge was realizing I didn’t love the restaurant model as it existed. The sacrifice of your private life, the creative stagnation, and the hierarchy that silenced reason were all too much. I couldn’t pretend it was okay, so I left. I cried, sat in silence, and reimagined what this career could be for me. I turned my grief into a path of my own.
I’ve found inspiration in unexpected places: in nature, fermentation, and remembering that discomfort sparks growth. My country inspires me. Our ingredients, our culture, our people—they fuel my work. That’s how @fermentnation.88 was born. I started a personal brand by researching food preservation techniques, fermentation, and food’s role in our lives.
One moment that changed me forever happened during my internship in the Basque Country at a 3-Michelin-star restaurant. It was intense—the pressure, the speed, the perfection expected at every turn. Over time, I cultivated a closer relationship with my chef de partie to the point where I knew he needed a shot of whiskey when he placed a small flan container on the plate. It was a secret code between us. One day, when we were sharing the plating process, he looked at me for a minute at one point of the shift with vivacious but tired eyes and said, “Anger is a problem, isn’t it, Claudia?” And I replied, “Anger is a cancer, PD.” In that moment, I learned that while I aspired for excellence, I wouldn’t lose myself fighting for someone else’s recognition.
But in that tough kitchen experience, I also found a connection like the young intern from Madrid, Pablo, who came into the team when I was already carrying more responsibility. I taught him, and he respected that. He listened. We helped each other, which made those grueling months not just bearable but memorable. He’s visited me in Panamá twice. We became family.
My kitchen philosophy is simple: if you believe something is possible, prove it, do it, and teach it. Don’t lead with ego—lead with proof and integrity.
I’m proud of many things—finishing my degree, surviving that Michelin internship, staying curious, and building @Fermentnation.88. But I’m most proud of not letting the industry swallow me whole.
Restaurant culture has its magic—teamwork, camaraderie, that indescribable rhythm. But it also has its poisons. I’ve seen too much pride disguised as tradition. I’ve learned to value what truly matters: people, respect, and empathy. If my coworker needs help, I will show up. If someone is struggling, I listen. It’s not about who yells the loudest. It’s about who shows up with both hands and a full heart.
I dream of an industry that honors its people as much as its plates, where producers are paid fairly, mental health is part of the conversation, and where regional cuisines are celebrated, not erased. I embody that daily through my work, values, and story.
For a long time, I thought none of my interests connected. But now I know better. There are infinite ways to practice gastronomy. I’ve just found mine.
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
I don’t know if it’s an ingredient, but it is a biological agent. It’s the Koji fungus, and it made me understand that if applied to a single product, there are endless futures or possible outcomes.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
Lechona frita con torrejitas de maíz nuevo.
- A food trend that you hate and why?
Things like “farm to table.” If it’s not from a farm, the soil, or the earth, where else will you get it from? It’s redundant, ridiculous, and in 80% of cases, it’s false. They’re front chefs; they reflect a tiny fraction of the reality of their cuisines. I hate when they link foods with spirituality, like cocoa, in regions where it has no sociocultural relevance. I find it unethical when they involve the native peoples of each region under the excuse of “giving value to what’s national.” They’re usually chefs who stop being people and become a brand. There’s little interest in marking a before and after in the lives of people in these communities, but it makes the chef’s work more praiseworthy and glorious. And I dislike “Instagram food” or “TikTok food.” They’re offensive and visually unpleasant.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen? What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
One where I had the most horrible migraine, I went to the bathroom to vomit twice, I saw bright spots, I was sweating cold, and I had low blood pressure. I don’t know how I was still standing. It was the pressure of knowing I had such a big responsibility. I discovered a new physical limit that day, but should have known when to stop.
5. What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
I still don’t know how I can handle it. The mind really rules the body.
- What tips would you give to other cooks and chefs to help them navigate their culinary careers and find peace amid the chaos of the kitchen?
Stay true to yourself, be honest, and ask yourself, “What do I want?” and go get it.
- What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
It may sound silly, but the types of pepper are just there, but most of us don’t know how, when, or which one to use.
8. What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
I make a good Sopa de Costilla.
About Your City!
Penonomé, Panama
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
If Anthony Bourdain were to visit me in Penonomé, I’d take him to the market very early in the morning to buy freshly fried torrejitas de maíz. I’d take him to Aguadulce to eat suckling pig at “La Fula.” At noon, I’d have a hearty chicken sancocho at the old Gallo Pinto in the Penonomé Central. I’d take him to eat “ropa vieja con patacones” from my godmother María de Los Santos in the historic San Antonio neighborhood. In the afternoon, I’d go to Balneario Las Mendozas for some cold balboas. By 6 pm, Feya had already set up the saus at the central. But just like Bourdain, her saus stand no longer exists..
A Kitchen Beyond Blueprints
Humans Of The Kitchen
Engineer. Butcher. Cook. His path didn’t just lead to a kitchen—it built a home.
Enrique Soltero
The smell of fresh tortillas was the first thing that pulled me in. I was a kid standing in my dad’s store, and those early morning trips to the wholesale market stuck with me. The way produce vendors talked about their ingredients and the pride they carried sparked something. That was when I knew food would always be a central part of my life.
Before I stepped into a kitchen, I studied mechanical engineering and worked as a butcher. It’s not the most obvious path to becoming a chef, but those experiences taught me discipline, how to break things down with precision, and how to pay attention to materials. Whether it’s a blade or a beet, it deserves respect. That same mindset carried over into cooking.
I did study formally at the Culinary Arts School in Tijuana, but the foundation was already there from growing up around food, helping in my family’s grocery store. That combination of technical training and real-life experience shaped my approach.
I was 19 when I stepped into my first restaurant kitchen. I felt the rhythm immediately, the urgency, the adrenaline, and the chaos. But somehow, it all made sense. I knew I didn’t want to do anything else. It felt like stepping into a room where I finally understood the language.
Of course, it wasn’t always easy. Initially, I felt like I was constantly catching up, learning under pressure, trying to meet expectations I’d barely understood. Over time, I learned to prioritize my mental health and grow stronger through every kitchen challenge.
What keeps me going is the culture I come from. Mexico’s cultural richness and fresh local ingredients, the land, the people, and the stories behind the dishes. Cooking is my creative outlet, a space to experiment and explore. It’s where I connect my heritage with global influences, pushing myself to innovate while honoring the traditions that made me fall in love with food.
There was a moment that marked me deeply. A mentor once told me, “Patience and attention to detail are everything.” That one conversation changed the way I moved in the kitchen. I began treating every dish with surgical precision, understanding that care, respect, and consistency are essential for the ingredients and the people I work with.
My kitchen philosophy is rooted in respect for ingredients and culture. I blend modern and traditional techniques to create innovative and authentic dishes, where every cook is a creator. I foster a collaborative environment that allows each team member to contribute their vision and talent.
I’m proud of Amor a Mí. Not because it’s a business, but because it’s an extension of who I am. It holds my roots, my growth, my gratitude. Every dish is personal. Every plate has a piece of my story.
I love the kitchen’s energy, creativity, and sense of purpose. But long hours and constant stress can be harmful. I’m working to change that by creating a healthier work culture that values balance, respect, and the well-being of every person behind the food.
I hope to see a more sustainable and mindful industry—one that supports local producers and prioritizes mental health in the kitchen. By choosing quality ingredients and caring for our teams, we can offer not only great food but also a respectful, enriching work environment.
For me, cooking is how I connect with people. Sometimes I struggle to express emotions with words, but every dish I make tells a story. Through Amor a Mí, I share my roots, gratitude, and vision—inviting guests to experience the soul of Mexican cuisine.
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
The most unexpected ingredient I’ve worked with is pipicha. Its citrusy, herbal flavor surprised me the first time I used it, especially in seafood and salsas. It taught me that even the smallest, lesser-known herbs can completely transform a dish. Now, it’s one of my favorite secret weapons in the kitchen.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
My guilty pleasure is a good carne asada taco from El Chalino in Tijuana. It’s simple, unpretentious, and packed with flavor—just meat, tortilla, salsa, and soul. It reminds me that sometimes the best food is also the most straightforward.
- A food trend that you hate and why?
It really bothers me when authentic Mexican food is confused with Tex-Mex, especially when those versions are imposed without understanding or respecting our culinary heritage. I also dislike overly complicated dishes that lose the essence of the ingredients. Food should be honest, highlighting natural flavors. Every ingredient tells a story, and as chefs, it’s our responsibility to honor them by creating dishes that reflect the authenticity and simplicity of true Mexican cuisine.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen? What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
The craziest shift I ever worked was during a massive event called Thrillist Taco. The demand was overwhelming, but the adrenaline and my determination pushed me through. I was assigned to run a taco station preparing confit sweetbread tacos with freshly made tortillas. I was supposed to work with a four-person team—but no one showed up. So I had to improvise. I used my ADHD to my advantage and managed to handle the workload of four people, facing a never-ending line of customers. Despite the chaos, I stayed focused and ended up winning first place. It was an unforgettable, defining moment in my career.
5. What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
During the event, the pressure was intense. I had to juggle multiple tasks—making tortillas, taking orders, assembling tacos, charging, and handing them out—all by myself. What got me through was persistence, adrenaline, and the mindset that quitting wasn’t an option. Even though someone who didn’t contribute tried to take credit at the end, I knew what I had achieved. That shift tested me, but it also reminded me that when you’re passionate and focused, you can push past any obstacle.
6. What tips would you give to other cooks and chefs to help them navigate their culinary careers and find peace amid the chaos of the kitchen?
To other cooks, I would say: always trust your instincts and find moments to disconnect. The kitchen can be chaotic and demanding, but taking care of your mind and body is essential. You can’t create something beautiful if you’re not well inside.
7. What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
One underrated ingredient I absolutely love is epazote. Its unique, bold flavor can completely transform a dish. It’s essential in traditional Mexican cuisine and deserves more appreciation for the depth it brings, especially to broths and beans.
8. What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
A dish I’m really proud of is my Chino-Poblano: Braised Kurobuta pork belly, Pastor-Chino adobo, Tepache Gastric, onion, cilantro, Guaca salsa, served in a steamed heirloom blue corn bao bun. It blends diverse cultures with tradition and modern technique. It’s a reflection of my story and my love for cooking.
About Your City!
Los Angeles USA
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
We’d kick off with soulful breakfast at Amor a Mí in Burbank, then bold, modern Mexican at BALAM in Lynwood. At Evil Cooks, wild flavors meet rebellion. Dinner at Ashoka The Great in Artesia delivers spice and soul, then end the night with unforgettable tacos at Sonoratown. Pure L.A. magic.
Honoring The Past, Cooking The Future
Humans Of The Kitchen
Raised in the rush. Leading with care. Tradition taught him to cook, but experience taught him to lead differently.
Martín Rodríguez Loyola
Most of my childhood memories are around a table.
On weekends, my entire family would gather at my grandparents’ house in Mexico City. My grandparents cooked together, feeding everyone and showing their love through food. They also ran a small cafeteria in a school, and later a restaurant. My mom worked with them, so kitchens and service were always part of my world. I didn’t know it at the time, but my story was already being written in those kitchens.
When it was time to choose a career, I was torn between becoming a lawyer or a chef. My parents sat me down and said, “Whatever you choose, just commit to it, and we’ll support you.” That gave me the push to follow gastronomy.
Culinary school taught me more than recipes and techniques. I learned how to cost dishes, manage a team, and understand what it takes to run a restaurant. But the reality after graduating was tough. Like many young cooks, I quickly realized the pay didn’t match the investment. You have to really love this to stay in it.
My first real job was at Emilio, a Spanish restaurant in Polanco. I started as an intern, but they kept me on. From there, I spent over a decade with a hospitality group specializing in Spanish cuisine. I rotated through different restaurants, working my way up from cook to sous chef. It was non-stop—long hours, catering events, no time for much else. But I was learning, building trust, and becoming someone my team could rely on.
Along the way, I was lucky to have mentors who didn’t just teach me skills, but became close friends. The way they guided me has shaped how I try to lead today.
One of the biggest shifts in my career came when I was offered the chance to open an Italian restaurant, Nera (now Cortile), with Marco Carboni and Atala Olmos. Moving from Spanish-Basque cuisine to Italian Mediterranean was a challenge, but I embraced it. We opened right before the pandemic, which made everything harder, but it was an experience that taught me a lot.
In 2021, life forced me to pause. I lost both my grandparents. We were very close, and their passing made me rethink everything—how I was spending my time, where I was headed. I took some time off, traveled, and reflected. What helped me through that period was the support of my team. They reminded me why kitchens have always felt like a second family to me.
Around that time, I reconnected with Isra, a chef I had met 15 years earlier, who had once given me one of my first jobs. He was now a partner at Zeru Group and invited me to be part of a new project in Miami. I thought about it for a few days, and then said yes.
Coming to Miami was a leap, but it felt right. A group of us from Mexico made the move together, which made it easier. And culturally, Miami still feels very Latin—it feels close to home.
At Zeru, I continue working with Mediterranean flavors, but I always look for ways to bring my Mexican roots into what I cook. I love merging traditions, finding ways for different ingredients and cultures to speak to each other. That’s how you create food with identity.
But what matters most to me now is team culture.
I grew up in kitchens where shouting was normal. That’s just how things were. But today, I choose to lead differently. My co-chef Cristian and I believe in respect. Yes, kitchens are intense, but that doesn’t mean you have to break people down. We focus on teaching, listening, and building each other up. That’s how you build a restaurant that lasts.
This industry is demanding. You miss holidays, family gatherings, important moments. We all know what we signed up for—but I believe we can still make it more human. At Zeru, we cover for each other. If someone needs a day, we find a way. When I started, there was no chance you could ask for a Sunday off. Things are slowly changing, and I’m proud to be part of that change.
Someday, I hope to open my own restaurant. But for now, I treat this one as if it were mine. I show up every day with the same dedication my grandparents had when they cooked for us at home.
That’s where it all started. And that’s still the heart of why I cook.
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
I think the rarest ingredient I’ve worked with is sea cucumber. Visually, it’s not very appetizing, but when prepared properly, it becomes surprisingly good.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
The classic McDonald’s burger. I think it’s incredible!
- A food trend that you hate and why?
Oversized dishes. I believe in well-balanced portions, and when plates are exaggeratedly large, they lose their magic.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen? What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day are always the craziest. The restaurants get packed and everything feels chaotic, but once the shift ends, it’s very satisfying to know you made it through.
- What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
Salt. It’s one of the most important ingredients in the kitchen, yet many people underestimate it. When used properly, it enhances flavors, improves desserts, and plays a key role in more complex processes like fermentation.
- What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
Ceviches, aguachiles, and seafood.
About Your City!
Mexico City
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
For breakfast Barbecue tacos at the market.
- Recommended Places in your city:
- Neighborhoods: Walk through the center of Coyoacan.
- Popups: Night of mezcales in Tlecan in the Roma neighborhood.
- Restaurants: Eat seafood in “Mi compa chava”.
Stillness in the Pit
Humans Of The Kitchen
From mosh pits to fire pits—a chef’s journey to finding balance where most fall and fewer rise.
Zachary Berger
Cooking wasn’t my first love—music was. Hardcore music, to be exact. The kind that tears through amps and speaks from the gut. For years, I lived that life—on the road, in the pit, riding adrenaline from South Africa to Central America, through Europe and back. My bandmates were out partying, and yeah, I joined them sometimes. But I really wanted to sit in a corner of a busy kitchen, talk to chefs, and eat my way through every city, and food became my second obsession.
I grew up in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by rivers, forests, and farmland. No matter how far I went, it called me home. There’s a certain raw beauty in that land—and in the people—that shaped me.
I had worked random restaurant jobs before—busboy at a BBQ joint, gigs here and there—but nothing serious. Then, I started seeing food as fuel, a culture, a language, and a way to understand people. While my band played shows, I slipped into kitchens, watching, learning, and tasting. That changed everything.
Eventually, music took a backseat, and I dove into the kitchen full-time. However, I spent years balancing three worlds. By day, I worked with at-risk teens in Ulster County’s social work system, requiring patience, adaptability, and endurance. By night, I cooked. In between, I was on the road, touring and exploring food wherever I landed.
A pivotal chapter in my journey unfolded in Cusco, Peru, where I visited Peru to turn depression into passion. It was my first deep immersion into another culinary tradition in many years and it cracked something open in me. After about a year of hard work I opened my restaurant Cultura Paraiso in Cusco Peru . But when I returned to the States, I felt the jarring contrast—the ego, the yelling, the grind-for-grind’s-sake. In too many American kitchens, burnout is a badge of honor. I never understood that. Why should growth come at the cost of well-being?
So I made a change.
I sold my restaurant and came back to do popups and make a name for myself in the US. Then the pandemic came and swept those opportunities away with my events being canceled. I saw the influx of people moving to my home and knew I had to adapt to the change that was coming if I wanted to stay in the area I love. I started offering private chef services to where it leads me as the chef I am now—work that allowed me to travel again. Along the way, I found Southeast Asia, and especially Thailand. And that changed everything.
The food, the generosity, the ease of life—it was a kind of peace I hadn’t known before. In the U.S., we’re taught to equate success with exhaustion. But in Thailand, I learned that stillness can be strength. That joy matters. That presence is its own kind of mastery. Buddhism had already resonated deeply with me—not as a religion, but as a rhythm. And while you don’t need to travel across the world to find it, being there helped me realign with what truly matters.
Today, I can find peace even in the middle of a mosh pit—or the chaos of a kitchen. Hardcore music, to me, is meditative. I might start the day in stillness and end it in the frenzy of a dinner rush or the energy of a hardcore show. I believe in balance—finding calm amidst the chaos. When you’re truly tuned in with yourself, the noise outside becomes manageable. I split my time between summers in Woodstock, New York—cooking with local farms, foraging, and feeding the community—and winters in Southeast Asia, studying food culture, reconnecting with simplicity, and cooking for private clients.
The Guatemalan Engine Behind a Filipino Kitchen
Humans Of The Kitchen
A former soldier, a young mechanic, and a family butcher—three men who never imagined they’d become cooks, now holding the line behind one of Austin’s rising Filipino restaurants.
This is the United States.More specifically—this is Austin, Texas.
A Filipino restaurant led by a Filipino chef.
And behind him, a powerhouse of three Latin American line cooks—Guatemalan, hard-working, and relentless.
The kitchen moves in a mix of languages: Tagalog, Spanish, Spanglish, broken English, and unspoken rhythm. It’s the kind of connection that rarely happens anywhere else—but happens every day behind the pass.
In this space, you’ll find a former soldier, a mechanic, and a butcher working shoulder to shoulder.
You’ll find a team that might not share a mother tongue—but shares timing, pressure, fire.
Kitchens, for all their flaws—and sometimes toxic, outdated culture—still hold something sacred.
Something beautiful.
A unity beyond borders.
A shared language built on movement, urgency, taste.
Sometimes, if you look closely enough, you’ll find hope in humanity standing right there on the line—burnt arms, fast hands, tired eyes, and hearts wide open.
At the center of it is Chef Harold—someone we’ve always admired not just for his food, but for the way he works with people, not above them. He’s building something different.
And this team is proof of that. Here, William, Kevin, and Francisco don’t just hold down the line—they shape it. And their stories speak to the quiet power of kitchens built on second chances, shared effort, and fire that doesn’t just cook—but transforms.
From Soldier to Sous Chef — William Martínez
I wasn’t always a cook. For eleven years, I served in the fuerzas armadas de Guatemala. I grew up drawn to weapons, to structure, to discipline. That was the path I chose early on.
But there was always something that gave me peace: my grandmother’s kitchen.
She’d say, “Vas a venir a cocinar conmigo?” And in that small space, something shifted. It made me put my weapons down. It disarmed me. Cooking with her felt calm, real—nothing like my job.
I had always been interested in food, but back in Guatemala it wasn’t easy. Time and money made it feel impossible.
Here in Austin, it was different.
The kitchen was what opened the door for me. I started as a prep cook and dishwasher.
And honestly, I think the discipline from my time in the military helped me grow. The structure, the organization—that, combined with my love for cooking, helped me move forward on the line.
Now I’m a sous chef. I work with Chef Harold, and together we’ve been creating recipes and trying new ideas. People leave happy, and that motivates us. But more than anything, I value the team. Everyone here puts their heart into it. I always tell them: this only works because of you.
It hasn’t been easy. I’ve burned myself many times.
But there’s one moment I’ll never forget—cooking halibut with oil at high heat and an oven over 500 degrees. I got badly burned. For a second, I thought, maybe this isn’t for me.
But I kept going. Because when you really love something, obstacles turn into lessons—and motivation.
Here in Austin, I’ve started to find my voice as a cook.
Mexican food—especially from Bacalar—is very similar to Guatemalan food. The moles, the pepián, the seasoning… those flavors run through our blood. And Austin is a great place to bring those traditions together.
I’m grateful for every chef who’s opened a door for me, taken the time to teach me, and inspired me to pursue this career.
From Engine Blocks to Sauté Pans — Kevin Hernandez
“I’m from Rotableo, Guatemala. I moved to Austin two years ago. Back home, I was studying auto mechanics—but money was tight, and I had to drop out. I never thought I’d work in a kitchen. But here, most of my family and friends already did, so it was the easiest place to start.
I began as a dishwasher, then moved into prep. Now, I’m on the sauté station.
It’s nothing like mechanics. There, if you mess up, nothing works—or worse, it breaks.
In the kitchen, you can fix a mistake with a little water or a pinch of sugar. Unless someone has an allergy—then it gets serious too.
I used to cook for myself back in Guatemala, especially when my parents weren’t around. Just simple things. I didn’t think much of it. But now, I’m starting to enjoy it more and more.
It wasn’t my plan, but this job grew on me. The pace, the teamwork—it gives you purpose.”
From Family Butchery to Restaurant Line — Francisco Lopez Lopez
“I came to Austin at the end of 2021. But I already knew how to cook. Back in Guatemala, my family and I used to butcher pigs every week. It was part of our business. We cooked chicharrón, sold food to the neighbors, worked side by side. It’s still going—my brothers are running it now.
Here, my first job wasn’t in a kitchen. I lasted two months doing something else before I said: I need to be cooking. That’s where I feel good. That’s what I know.
I’ve been working with Chef Harold for seven months now. He’s a good person. I’ve learned so much from him—different cuts, different cuisines, even Italian dishes and quesadillas. Every kitchen I’ve worked in has taught me something.
My dream is to return to Guatemala someday and open a place of my own.
To mix what I know with everything I’ve learned here.
To bring it full circle. Back to my family. Back to the fire.”
Photo credits to @robertjacoblerma
Lone Wolf no more
Humans Of The Kitchen
Once an outsider finding refuge in the kitchen, now using her voice to inspire more women to lead.
Nat Thaipun
Australia
My journey in the kitchen has never been conventional. Honestly, neither have I. I’ve always felt like an outsider, which is probably why I ended up in the kitchen. It became my sanctuary, a place where I could build something meaningful out of nothing and create comfort for other people, even if I didn’t feel it for myself.
When I started hosting potlucks while traveling, I wasn’t trying to be a chef. I just loved feeding people. I would spend hours cooking and often lose track of time. But when everyone sat down to eat, something changed. They would tell me that my food felt like a nostalgic hug. It was as if I had provided them with a sense of home they didn’t realize they were missing. It made me realize how powerful food really is. It doesn’t just fill your stomach, it fills a space in your heart. That’s when I knew this was more than just a skill. It was something I wanted to dedicate myself to.
Technically, I’ve been in the hospitality world since before I could walk. If you count me watching my mum cook on a stainless-steel benchtop at just a few weeks old, then it’s been almost 30 years. I started by washing dishes at my parents’ restaurant before I could even reach the bottom of the sink. By age 10, I was already doing front-of-house work, making coffee, and waitering. It’s been my world for as long as I can remember.
But I’ve also seen the parts of this industry that need to change. There’s still a lack of women, especially women of colour, in leadership roles. I attended the Good Food Awards in Sydney this year and was genuinely excited to connect with other young women chefs. But there were hardly any. That hit hard. It made me realize how many women have opted out of the toxic, ego-driven environments common in commercial kitchens. And honestly, I get it. We create our own spaces, we thrive, but it also means our presence is missing from the big picture. I want to change that. I want to see more women at the top, taking up space without compromising who they are. People don’t always recognize the work women do when it’s nurturing, when it looks like care. But that work is hard. It’s skilled. It deserves respect.
If I had a restaurant, my signature dish would be Kangaroo Larb Tartare. It’s lean, sustainable, and full of flavor. Kangaroo meat requires less water and land than beef, making it a more environmentally friendly choice. I especially enjoy the moment when someone who usually turns their nose up at kangaroo tries it and ends up loving it.
I don’t have a permanent spot yet, but I run pop-ups worldwide. And honestly? Pop-ups are the future. That’s where chefs get to play. It’s where we test ideas, take risks, and connect with people over food we love. If you ever get a chance to go to one, do it. And, if I’m in town, come to mine.
Secret Sauce
- What is your guilty pleasure?
Blasting a banging playlist and cooking for hours, completely losing track of time. Or skydiving, getting a tattoo, or escaping into the wilderness for a hike with no reception. Those are the moments that let me check in with myself, uninterrupted.
- What ingredient do you find overrated?
Truffle and caviar. Sorry! Don’t get me wrong—it’s a beautiful product when used simply and respectfully. But too often, people slap it on anything and everything, thinking it’s the magic ingredient. It’s not. Leave the truffle in its pure form, and please, don’t drown fried food in it.
- If you could recommend one dish from your restaurant, what would it be?
I don’t have a restaurant, but if I did, it would be my Kangaroo Larb Tartare. It’s lean, sustainable, and packed with flavour. Plus, I love convincing people to try something they usually turn their nose up at. Kangaroo is far better for the environment than beef—much less water, less land. It’s time we started rethinking what we eat for the planet and our palates.
- Where does the industry go in terms of dive bars or speakeasies? Can you share specific recommendations?
Funny enough, that’s the type of thing I’d probably open! But for now, I’d recommend Franklin’s Bar, The Gasometer (especially when there’s a gig on), The Night Cat, Black Cat, Creatures of Habit, Rooks Return for Wednesday jazz, Bar Ampere, and Wax Music Lounge.
- Are there any pop-up concepts that people should not miss?
Every single one. Pop-ups are where chefs let loose creatively. They’re hungry for an outlet beyond their regular menus, testing the waters and connecting with people over food they truly love. And, of course, my pop-ups! They’re scattered worldwide, so catch me if you can.
- What local food staples or traditional dishes represent the city’s culinary heritage?
In Melbourne, I’d say our Asian food is second to none—dumplings, Banh Mi, Japanese fare, and Thai street food are outstanding. I’m also loving the shift in breakfast dining, with spots offering hyper-focused, non-traditional breakfasts like Asian-inspired dishes instead of the usual Eggs Benny.
8. What are your favourite local food markets to explore in the city?
Victoria Market for nostalgia and hot jam donuts. Footscray Market for its chaos, affordability, and the memories it brings back of home.
A Shift That Shifted It All
Humans Of The Kitchen
Before Nobu. Before Miami. It all started with carrots, questions, and one big ‘what if?’
Cory Kurtzman
Miami
I was born and raised in Toronto, Canada, but my kitchen story really begins at a Martini Bar in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I was at Dalhousie University working towards a Bachelor of Arts, still unsure what I wanted to be when I “grew up.” I eventually got a job washing dishes, peeling carrots and potatoes, and microwaving the occasional dessert for guests.
Constantly peeking my head onto the hotline, asking questions, and cooking more at home, the rest of the cooks knew that I was interested in learning more. One day during my tenure, one of the line cooks quit, which gave me the opportunity to leave the dish pit behind and strap on an apron. This was the day that my mom remembers as the day that I called to ask, “What would you say if I told you that I wanted to be a chef?”
After graduating from the University with my BA, I immediately enrolled in George Brown Culinary School in Toronto. While attending culinary school, I had the opportunity to work as a Garde Manger at a well-known Italian restaurant. It was during this time that I realized this was my true passion. I remember one time working in my first real scratch kitchen at a restaurant in Toronto.
My chef was going through my fridge. We had a bar menu that never got ordered, and I had some items from the menu that had gone off. My chef found them and told me, “Get a spoon. If it’s in your fridge, it must be good. Taste it.” It was the worst night I’ve ever had in a kitchen. That chef and I became very close after that incident, and my fridge has never been anything short of immaculate ever since.
Following my time at culinary school, I completed an internship at Coi in San Francisco. After that, I received a call from the Corporate Chef of Nobu and spent three years at Nobu Miami, learning the ropes of a large corporation and upholding their high standards.
When my work visas expired, I joined The @fooddudes, a prominent hospitality group in Toronto. I worked at various restaurants and in their catering division, eventually becoming the sous chef at their flagship restaurant, Rasa. I then expanded and managed catering operations in Miami, the city that always draws me back.
I grew up with a pretty old-school mentality, where cooking to perfection was everything — you did whatever it took to make it happen. I really respect that now we’re paying more attention to mental and physical health in kitchens. It creates healthier cooks, and that matters. But I also think sometimes the awareness swings too far, and it becomes an excuse not to show up fully. There’s got to be a balance — taking care of yourself shouldn’t mean letting go of standards or accountability.
