Finding your way through the chaos

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