Community as the Main Course

There wasn’t a dramatic epiphany where I knew I wanted to be a cook when I was a child, but I was surrounded by food that felt like magic. My great-grandma lived a few doors down and made the kind of bread—slathered in butter, sprinkled with salt, baked till golden—that you never forget. She’d hand-roll tortillas until her hands couldn’t anymore, and the whole family treated a dozen like treasure. I’d watch Molto Mario in the mornings Iron Chef Japan at night with my uncle, not knowing anything about food, just that I liked it. Mac and cheese from the Blue Box and Jiffy Cornbread were my comfort zone. And honestly, they still are.

 

In high school, I worked at the mall to save up enough money for gas and to party on the weekends. But somewhere in the middle of flipping channels one lazy afternoon, I noticed that all I ever stopped to watch were cooking shows. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I think part of me did.

 

When it came time to figure out college, I told my parents I wasn’t going. I’d take classes at the local community college, sure, but I wasn’t interested in school. That conversation didn’t go well. I did a couple of classes and then enrolled in the lottery system for the junior college’s culinary program. I was the last ticket drawn, but that wasn’t the last time I’d be pulling something improbable off.

 

The program was a whirlwind, truncated to a year. The day I graduated, I just kept thinking: What’s next? Who is the best or most exciting restaurant in the area? I’d find them. Work for them. I told every chef the same thing: “I’m here to steal everything you’ve got—even the salt shakers.” They didn’t have salt shakers, but they understood I was hungry to learn and grow.

 

I moved around a lot early in my career, typically staying at each place for about two years. I believed that if I couldn’t learn everything within that timeframe, it meant either I had failed them or they had failed me. Eventually, I left one kitchen because the chef was using recipes from someone else’s cookbook. The next place I applied to was run by the chef from that book, motivated by the desire to prove to the previous chef that his belief I could never work for him was only in his mind, not mine. This experience made me realize that I can and should constantly strive to grow and improve.

 

The first real kitchen job I got wasn’t glamorous. I was making nachos and mini hot dogs, as well as shucking oysters. But the chef took a chance on me. Told me if I showed up six hours early every day, he’d teach me how to break down fish, make sauces, cook dishes—really run a kitchen. I did it every day. I stayed. I listened. Eventually, I became his sous chef. That guy taught me more than just food. He told me: “Big shield, big back. Protect your team. Build an army wherever you go because the people you invest in now will be the ones who come back and save your ass later.” I carry that with me everywhere.

 

I didn’t speak much Spanish when I started. My great-grandmother tried to teach me as a kid, but it never stuck. In my first kitchen, that language barrier kept me isolated. One day, I asked my station partner to speak to me only in Spanish. Word got around, and suddenly, everyone started teaching me. Now, I speak it every chance I get in the kitchen, sometimes to surprise people who don’t know and other times as a more effective way to make a point. 

 

I didn’t know how to manage my emotions at first. I was a twenty-one-year-old Sous Chef trying to command cooks much older and more experienced than I was and had to learn quickly that respect and trust are earned. Those are only the beginnings of being a great leader or chef, though. I still knew I was quick to get frustrated and often led with aggressive behavior towards younger cooks, who I felt didn’t care as much as I did. Slowly, I began to adopt a “rhyme with reason” approach to leadership. Stop and examine the entire scenario, then adjust your emotions to fit the situation and coach with the “why” in mind, ensuring you explain your reasoning. I’m calmer now, and it’s helpful when I’m in kitchens where I may be a Chef de Partie but often have to do the job of a Sous or even an Executive Chef at times and still get passed over for promotions or opportunities. My purpose of being there isn’t to earn a title; it’s to teach and grow those around me whenever possible.

 

I lead by teaching. I’ve always said, this industry has been my paid education, so the least I can do is pass that on. I taste everything. I make my team taste everything. Build flavor memory. That’s what makes food good, not fancy terms or expensive ingredients. It’s the repetition. The intuition.

 

I’m inspired by those I’ve worked beside or helped mentor in any way. Seeing people who couldn’t appropriately dress and plate a salad become recognized by Michelin, or seeing those who couldn’t fry an egg become strong leaders for hotel groups, or even seeing guys who were just prep cooks when I knew them end up being successful chefs and restaurant owners. I am team food. Whenever I see someone carving their own path in this crowded space and succeeding, I applaud them, which makes me hopeful and motivates me to keep working harder. 

 

I don’t cook to show off. I cook to feel. To remember. I love to create playful food that makes people smile—something that reminds them of a cheap take-out dish or a weird dish they loved as a kid. But behind the playfulness is technique. Layers. Depth. I want the flavor to hit hard and the story to linger.

 

The kitchen has pulled me through some dark shit. I’ve crashed on coworkers’ couches during breakups. I’ve leaned on old chefs when I was burned out or second-guessing myself. There’s a particular kind of comfort only back-of-house people understand. We don’t always talk about it, but it’s there.

 

There have been moments that meant everything. Like cooking at Rustic Canyon with Jeremy Fox. Cooking for Thomas Keller without knowing he was at the table. But nothing beats the night my parents came to eat at the restaurant. I was running the pass. Sent out extra snacks. Watched them smile from the kitchen. Took photos with them at the table after. That feeling? I’ll never forget it.

 

There’s a lot I love about this industry—the chaos, the camaraderie, the adrenaline. I love that moment after a packed service when the staff goes out for drinks, decompresses, and laughs until their faces hurt. But I worry too. I see new cooks relying on YouTube and skipping the more challenging aspects. And sure, you can learn a lot online—but you miss the soul of it. The part where someone shows you how to fix a sauce by feel, or teaches you a crust that should sound a certain way when it’s right.

 

I hope we don’t lose the mom-and-pop spots. I hope food stays accessible. I hope we stop chasing awards and start building communities. That we support each other—by reposting a friend’s dinner, buying someone’s merch, and hyping their pop-up. I try to live that way. I only serve Transparentsea Farm shrimp, and I connect my dinners to local people doing good work. I invite anyone to collaborate. I want people to feel seen.

 

At the end of the day, I want to share good food in a backyard with people who leave feeling a little lighter. If I can help someone get their foot in the door or feel like they belong, that’s a win. The fire, the flavor, the company—that’s what it’s always been about.

 

To everyone who’s ever had my back—thank you. I’m still learning. I have a place for all of you, and I promise I will pay it forward.