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.
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.