Baking Through the Breakdown

I wasn’t born in the U.S. I’m from Mexico City. The noise, the street food, the chaos—it all shaped me. I wasn’t good at school, but I was always drawn to the kitchen. I’d worked summer jobs in restaurants when I was a kid and got hooked early—not just on the food, but on the energy. That tension. That urgency. The feeling that everything’s about to collapse—but somehow doesn’t.

It felt like stepping into battle every day. And if you made it out the other side, there were cigarettes, beers, music—pirates, really. A crew of misfits who showed up every day and somehow made it work. The cooks I met knew things—tricks, secrets, shortcuts that weren’t about cheating but about surviving. I was drawn to all of it.

I applied to the Culinary Institute of America from Mexico, but they didn’t accept me. So I enrolled at the Art Institute of Fort Lauderdale. That first year, something clicked. Cooking came easy. I was good at it. I’d always loved food, sure—but more than that, I loved the people who made it. From street vendors in Mexico to chefs in Paris, I paid attention to how they moved, how they carried stories in their hands.

Eventually, I reapplied to the CIA and got in. I spent two years there. I did well. I learned a lot. I also traveled, ate everything, asked too many questions, and soaked in as much as I could.

At 23, I opened a restaurant in Mexico City with my mom. I had no business doing it—but that’s youth. No fear. No doubt. Just conviction. I hadn’t designed a kitchen. I hadn’t run a team. But I thought I could take on the world with my fists. And for a while, I did.

I had great mentors—bartenders, captains, cooks—who taught me things I didn’t know I didn’t know. That restaurant lasted nearly three years. It was my first real-world education.

But eventually, things got dangerous. People assumed we had money. I started getting followed home. I sold everything and moved to Miami.

That’s where I bought Oasis Café—a quiet, iconic Cuban spot that had been open nearly 50 years. At one point, I ran five coffee shops. But I’m not a coffee guy. I’m a creative. I sold them all, kept Oasis, and started dreaming of something else—something slower, more intentional. A bakery.

I didn’t know how to make bread, so Renata taught me. Day by day, we built it from scratch. Flour & Weirdoughs was never meant to be normal. We mill our own grains. We cure brisket for 14 days and fold it into croissants. We bake chicharrón loaves that flake like memory. The flavors are ours—bold, strange, and deeply rooted.

We opened in February 2020. Five weeks later, the world shut down. No money. A walk-in full of product. Nowhere for it to go. But we’d already committed—so we said, screw it. I showed up at 5 a.m., sold all day, did dishes, helped with the bread, locked up, and did it again the next morning. Brutal. But it was ours.

That space already had stories. One night, Oasis caught fire. I got the call at 2 a.m.—everything was gone. I thought it was a prank. It wasn’t. We rebuilt everything. The plan was to reopen Oasis on one side and the bakery on the other. Then COVID hit. Both sides shut down.

We scraped together PPP money and kept the bakery alive. Coffee sales dried up. The neighborhood shifted. We had to choose what to bet on. We bet on bread.

Later, we opened up for pizza and natural wine in the evenings. We hung lights, painted the walls. It was cozy. I ran the wine bar until 11:30 p.m., then started baking again at 5:30 a.m. I told myself I could handle it. I couldn’t. We shut the bar and focused on breakfast.

In the beginning, the culture was messy. I’m not proud of that part. We’d bake bread while drinking wine. Smoke weed in the back. Then head back to the line. It was fun—until it wasn’t.

Alcohol and drugs were stitched into the rhythm of our days. First it was celebration—“We crushed it, let’s drink.” Then it was comfort—“Rough day? Let’s drink.” Eventually, it didn’t matter what kind of day it was. I kept showing up, thinking I was in control. I could pour a $140 bottle of wine and drink it with you if you didn’t like it. That was the vibe. That was the mask.

But eventually, it flipped. I stopped doing what I loved. Burned through my money. Burned through the business’s money. My health collapsed. I thought I was building something. But I was unraveling.

Then came the wall. A long weekend bender—Friday to Monday. No sleep. Just fumes and lies. I walked into the bakery Monday morning, wrecked. I knew something had to change. I went to a 12-step meeting. Then 90 in 90 days.

I stepped away from the wine bar. Could I handle it now? Maybe. But back then? I would’ve drowned. I chose mornings. I chose peace. I chose to stay alive.

The bakery held on. The business didn’t crash, but it limped. Bills had to be paid. Payroll had to land. Events had already been booked—and in this industry, you show up. No matter what.

Now? Now I love being at work. There’s calm. The team shows up because they want to. They stay. That means everything.

On weekends, I’m back on the floor—taking orders, wiping counters, bussing tables. It keeps me honest. Keeps me close to the fire in the best way.

I’ve been clean for over a year. I’m not perfect. But I’m present. And I’m still here. Baking. Growing. Learning how to live again.

The ship’s still sailing. We’ve lost a few along the way. Patched holes. Changed course more than once. But somehow, against all odds, it stays afloat. And I’m still on deck