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.
The Redemption of Chocolate
Humans Of The Kitchen
Building a more honest, equitable future for cacao.
Diana Cruz Zarta
I wasn’t the kid baking cookies or glued to the stove, but I come from a family of women who cook. My grandmother and her mother worked in farm kitchens, feeding workers and moving from place to place, sometimes with my mother tagging along. My mom never worked as a cook but had this incredible “sazón.” I learned that from her, not in any formal way, just by being near her.
At first, I studied cooking because it was the only thing that didn’t cost money. My family was going through a hard time, and it felt like my only option. But what began as a necessity slowly started to feel like coming home. Cooking reconnected me with my roots, the women in my family, and a deeper part of myself.
My first experience in a professional kitchen was back in 2009. I was still a student, working events with a team of classmates. It was full of energy, a little chaotic, but in sync. Throughout my time in kitchens, the experience was generally consistent: hard work, intense heat, and long hours. Some establishments provided better working conditions and pay than others. I remember one restaurant where I worked one shift of 14 hours. They didn’t allow us to eat in the restaurant or provide a staff meal. That was an eye-opener. It made me realize how much effort we put into creating happiness for customers while the staff in the back worked under entirely different conditions. That was one of my last experiences in restaurants.
I worked in pastry for nearly ten years. Then, I moved to Mexico City, hoping to learn more and to push my boundaries. But life had other plans. I ended up back in Colombia, lost and uncertain. I started baking at home, delivering pastries, and trying to figure out what was next. One of those deliveries took me to a former colleague who happened to be working with locally made chocolate. They needed help. I didn’t know it then, but that visit changed everything. They were making chocolate from the bean to bar. I had never imagined chocolate outside the scope of a big industry. But the moment I started working with cacao in its raw form, I felt something shift. It was like all the pieces of my life- gastronomy, storytelling, and purpose- suddenly clicked.
Cacao trees had always been around the house where I grew up, yet it never occurred to me that this fruit, which surrounded my childhood, was the same one processed into the chocolate bars I saw in supermarkets. I began to understand just how deeply the system had erased that connection.
I never formally studied chocolate making. There weren’t many places to learn how to process chocolate from the bean at the time, and honestly, even now. It’s an industry dominated by engineers and massive machinery. But I had the background and an intuitive sensitivity to flavor. I could translate the tasting notes of a cacao bean the way a winemaker might describe grapes. Chocolate was different. But even there, I ran into barriers: misinformation, industry secrecy, and colonial systems that exploit cacao growers while celebrating chocolatiers in the Global North. Cacao is farmed in the tropics, but the financial and cultural value is captured elsewhere. Culinary schools barely scratch the surface. They teach milk or dark percentages but not variety, terroir, or the hands that grow it.
In 2019, I went to Europe for the first time to attend the Salon du Chocolat. That trip marked me. On the second day, I met Frank Homann, founder of Xoco Gourmet. He had spent 14 years planting single-variety cacao in Central America, not for volume, but for flavor. He talked about fermentation like it was jazz. He talked about disrupting the system and creating direct trade relationships with farmers. I knew instantly that I wanted in.
Now, I work with Frank and the Xoco team. I’ve spent years developing a roasting method specifically for single-variety cacao. Most machines are built for blends. They burn the subtleties right out of the bean. I wanted to protect the cacao’s identity, not flatten it. I worked with engineers to build a program to preserve the true flavor—roasting not by tradition but by logic, intuition, and respect.
The Mayan Red was the hardest. It’s a rare variety found near old Mayan settlements in Honduras. It has high acidity and notes of red fruit and wood. My first full recipe was a 100% bar. There was no sugar, just flavor. People told me it couldn’t be done and that it would never sell, but I made it anyway.
My philosophy is simple: teach everything you know, empower people, and share knowledge freely. There’s no room for ego in chocolate, which has already been taken from too many people for too long.
What I love most about food is its power to connect. We can change lives if we start paying attention to where ingredients come from, who grows them, and how we treat the people who feed us. Chocolate is my lens, but the principle applies across gastronomy. We can create more equitable systems and bring diners into that conversation.
I hope restaurants begin to evolve—not just their menus but their ethics. I want fair pay, reasonable hours, respect for immigrants and women, and when it comes to chocolate, I want chefs to treat cacao with the same reverence they give to wine or coffee. I want them to taste the difference, ask where it came from, and know that in doing so, they’re helping rewrite the story of chocolate.
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
Cacao. This product changed my life and the way I walk in the world. I feel there are so many more things to explore than chocolate.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
Hamburgers.
- A food trend that you hate and why?
Molecular cuisine. I don’t like to play with non-natural ingredients and create a show for eating, but this trend brought some tech into the way the profession perceived food and inspired more R&D.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen? What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
I remember my first time in the kitchen when I was 17. I almost felt sick from the stress when all the orders started coming in. However, I managed to recover, and by the time I finished, despite not being perfect, I felt incredibly happy with how the tables turned out.
5. What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
I remember my first time in the kitchen when I was 17. I almost felt sick from the stress when all the orders started coming in. However, I managed to recover, and by the time I finished, despite not being perfect, I felt incredibly happy with how the tables turned out.
6. What tips would you give other cooks and chefs to help them navigate their culinary careers and find peace amid the chaos of the kitchen?
I encourage you to trust in your abilities and remember that it’s not the end of the world if you find yourself struggling at times. In fact, you often grow the most from mistakes. It’s also important to lean on your team because a kitchen relies on teamwork.
7. What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
The pistachio bar is the most popular dessert on the menu. It has different textures and layers that are delicious.
8. What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
I’ll answer this in chocolate! My favorite is Mayan Red, both the 100% and 70% varieties. But one of the chocolates I’m proudest to have made was during my bean-to-bar days: a chocolate bar infused with rosemary and topped with candied uchuva. The cacao beans came from Putumayo, in the Amazonas region of Colombia.
About Your City!
Ibagué, Tolima
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
Ibagué, Tolima is located in the central mountain range of Colombia. It’s known as the Capital of Music and also for its tamal and lechona.
Breakfast: Tamal tolimense in the city center with hot chocolate, achiras, and cheese. We have a lot of colaciones which are small salty cookies made of different kinds of starch usually with fresh cheese inside and baked in stone oven.
Lunch: Lechona. My favorite dish is a whole pork stuffed with its own meat, pulled with adobo, yellow peas baked in a stone oven for around 46 hours. The skin is crispy, and the inside is soft and flavorful. We used to give this in weddings and birthdays where as fun the head of the lechona was giving to one of the luckiest in the party.
At night: Aguardiente Tapa roja and if we are in June/ July there is the Fiestas de San juan a carnaval of music and traditional dance.
My favorite place is Cañón del Combeima, on the riviera of the snow/volcano mountain Nevado del Toluma. The vegetation there is fantastic; it is surrounded by rivers and fresh weather. There is traditional to eat Arepa de chocolo, merengon, forcha, and pan de bono. You can see the guardian El cóndor de los andes if you are lucky.
We like to dance a lot, so one night in one of the clubs in the ibague, which is usually open air, is enough to end the journey.
- Recommended Places in your city:
- Food Markets: Plaza de la 21
- Cultural Events: Fiestas San juan y San Pedro
- Neighborhoods: Parque el centenario, La pola
- Street Food/Food Trucks: Mercados Plaza la 21 y mercados campesinos on sundays
- Dish or food you must try: Lechona and Tamal
Finding your way through the chaos
Humans Of The Kitchen
Leaving behind the self-destruction—without leaving the kitchen.
Gabriel Borges
I grew up in New Orleans, where my family runs a wholesale seafood company. It’s been in the blood for generations. My dad took over when he was 18, and they’ve been supplying Gulf seafood to the city’s best restaurants ever since.
I remember our house always smelling like the sea. Shrimp, oysters, redfish. It was just part of life. My dad was always bringing something home. My siblings went their own way—my sister’s a ballerina in Cincinnati, and my brother works at the Met, but I am stuck close to food.
When I was seven or eight, my dad took me on a seafood delivery to Emeril’s. Emeril Lagasse gave me escargot, and I spit it out right before him. He laughed while my brother stood beside me, ate the escargot, and said it tasted like chicken. To me, though, it was a little gnarly. I don’t think it was because it tasted bad, but my palate wasn’t advanced enough to appreciate eating snails. If you ask me now, most seafood still seems like it’s missing a kick unless it’s cooked the way we do back home.
I decided I wanted to be a chef when I was 13. I’d spent so much time in kitchens, watching chefs come through our house or seeing them interact with my dad. They felt like rock stars to me. Covered in tattoos, loud, fearless. There was something romantic about the chaos, the burns, the yelling. As a rebellious kid, it felt like home. I never wanted the straight-laced path. I wanted a life that moved fast and felt real.
I started working in kitchens in New Orleans, then moved to New York. I cooked at Golden Diner, Atla, and Estela. I also spent a year at Illata in Philadelphia.. Now I’m back in Brooklyn at Chez Ma Tante, and it just feels right. It’s a neighborhood restaurant in Greenpoint, but we’re not trying to be anything other than what we are: a team of cooks making tasty food we love to eat. No labels, no pretense. We use refined techniques, sure, but it’s not about flexing. It’s about feeding people. It’s pancakes and perfect eggs but also creativity rooted in ease. We don’t take ourselves too seriously, and that’s the point.
I’ve worked in restaurants with every gadget in the book—PacoJets, blast chillers. But my favorite meals have happened in garages with folding tables, hot plates, and chefs who couldn’t afford much more. That kind of raw simplicity speaks to me. The best kitchens I’ve worked in made magic with almost nothing. That’s the kind of cook I want to be.
That kind of environment—family-oriented, low-ego, collaborative—is the opposite of what so many of us grew up in. I’ve worked in kitchens where the culture was brutal. I’ve had chefs who didn’t care if you were in the ER, bleeding out from slicing a jicama on a mandolin. I don’t ever want to work somewhere that makes you feel disposable.
I didn’t read the Anthony Bourdain book until I was well into my 20s, so I didn’t really understand that he was already talking about all this. But yeah, as a kid, I’d see these tattooed chefs smoking, drinking, cursing, getting burned—it looked romantic to me. Something in me wanted that kind of destructive lifestyle. I couldn’t explain it back then, it was just how I was wired.
When I got into the industry, I found that this behavior wasn’t just accepted—it was kind of expected. As a rebellious kid who liked to party and drink with my friends, that felt exciting. It felt freeing. But I got into a lot of trouble. My school, my parents, my friends—none of them approved of that lifestyle. So when I got into the kitchen and someone offered me something—“take this, take that”—it felt like I finally fit in.
What I’ve seen in this industry is that it’s almost like an unspoken trade-off. You’re expected to work long, hard hours, and in return, you’re allowed your vices. No one calls you out for it. And hey, fair—do what you want.
But I’ve also seen it ruin people. A lot of cooks start with real passion. They love food. But over time, that passion shifts. They start chasing the high instead—getting fucked up, chasing the image of what being a chef looks like instead of what it is. People stop cooking for the love of cooking.
And no, it’s not everyone. But I’ve seen it stall careers. I’ve seen it burn people out. You’re hungover every day, not performing at your best. And in this role—where you’re managing people, responsible for a team—you need to be emotionally and mentally present. You’re supposed to care for your staff, guide them, teach them. But how can you do that if you’re not taking care of yourself?
For a long time, I was showing up hungover, calling out, and missing shifts. One morning, I showed up to a brunch service, and my friend wasn’t hungover for once. He said he was done feeling like shit. That hit me. I was tired, too. So I stopped. Got help. And everything changed. Not just the cooking but my whole life. Suddenly people have come for me for answers and guidance and that feels great.
Now, when I hire people, I don’t ask if they’ve worked at the fanciest places. I ask if they want to be here. Do you want to be a chef? Do you want to grow? If the answer’s yes, we’re good. My team is everything. We talk about life, not just food. We get through good services and bad services together. We’re human.
I think we’re moving past the era where kitchens are all about drinking, drugging, and big egos. Personally, I’ve worked in a lot of places where that wasn’t the case. So if you’re in a toxic environment, just know there’s a better way. Healthier kitchens do exist—look for those spaces.
Story in collaboration with TheLineUp
There are still some seats available for Gabe’s dinner on 4/28. You can find them and more details about this season’s dinners at thelineupdinner.com/tickets
Secret Sauce
- What’s the most unexpected ingredient you’ve ever worked with, and how did it change your perspective on cooking?
I remember Yuba striking me as very unique a couple years back when I had to work with it.I never heard of it before and didn’t fully understand how or where it came from. I wouldn’t say it changed my perspective on cooking much, but just made me realize there are so many things I have yet to learn about.
- What’s your “guilty pleasure” meal?
Popeyes 5 piece tender combo – spicy
- A food trend that you hate and why?
I don’t hate much on food trends, but I do get a little frustrated by “food content creators”. Food and cooking is very very important to me so when I see some bullshit instagram person getting praise for some half-ass dish or whatever I get a little angry. I think these social media food creators also have a lot of control over what people what to see and eat these days and I don’t think they should have so much power over it.
- What’s the craziest shift you’ve ever worked in the kitchen? What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
Working brunch at Golden Diner was hell. I was a very green cook when I worked there, but I remember not sleeping on nights before brunch. It sucked.
5. What happened, and how did you manage to get through it?
I sucked it up, cried when I needed to, and eventually left that restaurant realized it’s not the type of cuisine or services I wanted to work. I will say, those services made me a really good cook in hindsight.
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?
Find joy in an anything little part of the day. Most days are really stressful and can be quite deteriorating to ones mental and physical health, but if you constantly find joy in the people you work with or a new technique you learned, etc. you’ll make it through. Having gratitude for the job helps a lot.
7. What’s an underrated ingredient and why?
Trying to find unique “underrated” ingredients is a little overrated. What’s good is good. What belongs on a dish is just what it is. I don’t know.
8. What’s a must-try dish from your kitchen or the one you’re proudest to have prepared?
Right now, I am very excited about a new quail dish we are running. It’s grilled quail, with spring vegetables and a vermouth veloute. Quite classic, but also unique. Its good.
About Your City!
Brooklyn, New York
- If Anthony Bourdain or a chef came to your city, what would be the perfect tour itinerary from breakfast to dinner?
It would definitely be in New Orleans. For breakfast we’d go to either the Brown Derby gas station and get grits, eggs, and bacon or go early to Cafe Du Monde and get some beignets and coffee. For lunch, we would 100% go get shrimp poboys from Verdi Mart in the French Quarter and for dinner we might have a meal at Peche or Herbsaint. In between meals we would definitely have to go check out Cochon Butcher, maybe get some snacks.
From Palettes to Plates
Humans Of The Kitchen
A chef shaped by color, craft, and family roots.
Gabriel da Silva Carvalho
São José do Rio Preto
I was born and raised in São José do Rio Preto, a city in the interior of São Paulo, Brazil. As the son of a house painter and a cook, my first profession was that of my father, which I am proud of, a profession in which I learned the principles of cooking. He often told me, “When you put putty on a wall, you should imagine putting meringue on a cake.” I have emphasized the importance of using sharp tools, just as a cook needs a sharp knife.
My father’s work with paint sparked my interest in studying colors, which has helped me combine color palettes in my dishes. At home, my mother, who cooked for a house run by Spanish priests, served as my role model in the kitchen. She honed her culinary skills through experience and would create banquets with just a few simple ingredients. My favorite dish of hers was the potato tortilla, a Spanish classic that became a regular at our dinner table because it was both easy to make and inexpensive.
My culinary journey began when I won a scholarship to study cooking in Águas de São Pedro, also in São Paulo. While there, I started working in a cafeteria as a dishwasher and kitchen assistant, serving around 300 employees and preparing almost 600 kilos of food each day. With a limited budget, I was under pressure to come up with new dishes there, which made me work and increase my creativity in that environment.
Following that, I gained experience working in hotels, resorts, and restaurants. Today, I am setting up a rotisserie named @zlita__ in honor of my mother, who has always inspired me in the kitchen. In this rotisserie, I will recreate dishes that I love and evoke fond memories. I believe that gastronomy is a vital tool for social and cultural inclusion.
Cooking Was Survival. Then It Became Freedom
Humans Of The Kitchen
How food became a chef’s passport to the world.
Ariel Millaman
Tokyo, Japan
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.
Rising Above the Brigade
Humans Of The Kitchen
Kneading a New Culinary Path
Nana Araba Wilmot
Cherry Hill NJ
I grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, floating between odd jobs and searching for my purpose. I had dropped out of school and moved back home, feeling directionless. One day, a pop-up ad for culinary school appeared on my laptop, and I challenged myself to cook something new every day for a week. By the end of those seven dishes, I knew. My parents knew. This was it.
My first restaurant job was at TIME in Center City, Philadelphia. I started as an intern, working long shifts and learning the ropes, eventually landing a full-time role. That was 14 years ago, and I haven’t looked back.
But the path hasn’t been easy. In 2019, I left a kitchen in NYC, where I had spent three years. It was a white male-dominated environment, and as a Black female cook, I often felt tolerated rather than valued. That experience took a toll on me. I moved on to a chic French café in Soho while moonlighting as a very green bartender. When I left the café, I bartended full-time while waiting for a work visa in France. Four months later, the pandemic hit, and everything stopped.
I moved back home to figure things out, and that’s when everything changed. I started honoring and amplifying African cuisine and foodways, creating the @lovethatiknead supper club. It’s been lit ever since. The pandemic also shifted how diners think about food, moving toward smaller, meaningful experiences. My pop-ups and dinner series in Philly, NYC, and Accra, Ghana, were a perfect fit. Restaurants had always demanded so much of my time, making me miss life’s moments with family and friends. With pop-ups, I reclaimed control of my time and craft.
I imagine opening my spot someday, but my vision has evolved. “Love That I Knead” will become a bakery with space for my dinners. The kitchen has taught me so much: planning is like mise en place, patience comes from low-and-slow cooking, and consistency is built by showing up every day.
Still, the industry needs change. Kitchen culture often relies on hazing and the idea that you must “earn” your place through suffering. These environments limit growth and opportunities. We need to create more chefs, not just cooks.
Story in collaboration with @nyc8it & @familymealonly
Photos by @smoke_sweats @jonathancooper
The Arepa That Became My Compass
Humans Of The Kitchen
Finding Clarity and Purpose Through the Kitchen
Adriana Rivera
Cooking keeps me in the present. No yesterday, no tomorrow, just now. But I didn’t plan on this life. I studied literature and thought I’d be a teacher. I liked books, words, and stories.
The kitchen wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan. But life doesn’t care about plans. I moved to Spain when I was 14, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I swallowed the change and adjusted it until the day I ate a fried egg. In Venezuela, eggs are fried in corn oil. In Spain, it was olive oil. One bite, and I lost it. I wasn’t crying over an egg. I was mourning everything that had changed. It was my first lesson in how food isn’t just food.
Years later, I ended up in Switzerland after a breakup in Madrid. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I needed something. My aunt had a small business selling frozen Venezuelan pasapalos. I started helping her. Eventually, I bought the project, and it is now @santaarepastreetfood
I was drinking too much, partying too much, drifting. Santa Arepa forced me to focus. It gave me structure. It gave me a way to connect to Venezuela again, a culture I’d been pulled away from too soon. The arepa wasn’t just a meal but a bridge to something I thought I’d lost.
I’ve been doing this for ten years now. I’m not the same person I was when I started. The kitchen changed me. I was never responsible or disciplined. Teachers told me I lacked consistency. Turns out they were wrong. You don’t last a decade in this industry without showing up and doing the work.
I worked without bosses or a toxic culture for most of those years. I never wanted the abuse often found in kitchens. The most important part of a kitchen is the people, not the ego at the top. This industry needs to change. Kitchens need to be places where people grow, not break. Diners should reconsider their treatment of restaurants. Online reviews can be harmful when critics lack understanding. It’s not just a plate of food. Customers pay for the overall experience, labor, risk, and time.
I spent nearly a decade running Santa Arepa as a street food business. And now, suddenly, a restaurant. I don’t know what’s next. I know I’ll keep cooking. One arepa at a time.
