From Tech to Taste

I grew up north of Boston, where food was always tied to family and storytelling. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting at the kitchen island next to my mom while she cooked, watching how something as simple as garlic hitting olive oil could fill the house with warmth. My dad worked a lot, so dinner was the time when we all came together. That table was where I learned that food could hold space for connection.

 

Every summer, we planted a garden in the backyard. Tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, and mint. We would spend weekends picking ingredients straight from the soil for dinner. I did not realize it then, but those moments were teaching me that food is medicine. It taught me to respect what we grew and to cook with what the earth offered that season.

 

Before I ever stepped into a kitchen professionally, I worked in tech. I spent years at Apple, then launched companies focused on understanding human behavior. I was helping brands tell stories that moved people, but eventually I realized I wanted to create those stories myself, in real life, through food and community. That chapter taught me systems, structure, and emotional connection. It shaped how I build every experience now with @cheftrevpresents, from the first message a guest receives to the final bite of dessert. Every detail is designed with intention.

 

I never went to culinary school. My learning happened in markets, on the road, and in conversations. Beijing taught me about flavor as culture. Mexico City reminded me that the market is a classroom. Southeast Asia showed me that cooking can be both medicine and art. I approach food more as an artist than a technician, driven by intuition, curiosity, and the pursuit of meaning in every dish.

Being self-taught has also shaped how I lead my team. I encourage experimentation, conversation, and trust over hierarchy. We learn together, and that shared discovery shows up in the food we create.

The first time I stepped behind the line during service, I felt something familiar. The rhythm of pans, the sound of orders, the quiet coordination of a team felt like coming home to a language I already knew how to speak. That experience taught me presence. It was not just about cooking well but about how I moved, listened, and handled pressure. The kitchen became a mirror for life itself.

 

Early on, I struggled with balance. I came from a world of ideas and storytelling, where creativity led everything. The kitchen taught me humility and respect for structure. Timing and repetition became my teachers. I also questioned whether I belonged because my path had not been traditional. But with time, I realized that being different gave me perspective. It helped me see food not just as a craft, but as a connection.

 

There was one night during a dinner when I looked around and saw my team completely in sync. The fire was going, the room alive, and I watched Ren and Adam move with quiet purpose, calm in the chaos. I felt a deep wave of gratitude. It hit me that this was no longer about me. It was about creating a space where others could live fully in their purpose. Watching them thrive reminded me of why I do this to build something that allows people to shine.

 

To me, the kitchen is a living ecosystem. Every person and every action affects the energy of the room. My job is to hold that energy, to create a space where creativity, respect, and flow can coexist. Food carries energy. You can taste when a dish was made with care, and you can feel when a team is connected. Leadership is not about control; it is about alignment. When everyone is in rhythm, the kitchen becomes sacred.

 

There was a period in my life when I was grieving, questioning direction, and trying to find myself again. Cooking was the one thing that stayed constant. It grounded me when nothing else did. The kitchen became both my refuge and my prayer. It carried me through silence, through loss, and back into life.

 

What I am most proud of is not an award or a single event. It is the community that continues to grow around Chef Trev Presents and the Bamboo Oasis. What began as dinners with friends has become a gathering place where strangers connect through food, story, and shared energy. The nights where people linger long after dessert are the ones that mean the most. That is when I know we did something real.

 

What I love most about restaurant culture is the sense of family that forms when things are done right. When the kitchen is healthy, it feels like music. Everyone moves with intention. What frustrates me is how often that harmony is lost to burnout and ego. Too many people have been broken by a system that forgets they are human. I will never forget when a teammate once told me, “In this kitchen, I don’t feel worthless.” That sentence stays with me. It reminds me why I do this work.

 

My hope for the future of this industry is that we value people as much as we do products. I want to see a shift toward sustainability in every form, human, creative, and environmental. At Chef Trev Presents, we are exploring what that could look like: smaller, more intentional dinners that prioritize connection over volume, collaboration over competition. We create spaces where chefs, artists, and guests all feel part of the same experience.

 

I believe the future of food lies in transparency, wellness, and storytelling. My role is to keep proving that you can build something soulful and scalable at the same time.

 

For me, cooking has always been a language of care. Every event, every menu, every fire is a reflection of that belief. Food has the power to heal, to bridge, to remind us that we belong. What matters most is not the spotlight or the scale, but the impact. Seeing a guest’s eyes light up with the first bite, or hearing a teammate say they feel witnessed, that is the story I want to keep writing.

 

Photos by @joseph.nicolas.duarte & @alishajucevic