Law Follows Order. Food Embraces Imperfection.

Sunday afternoons were sacred in my house. After mass, my mom and aunties would gather around the dining table with neon-colored bowls, chopping vegetables for lumpia and pancit. The smell of garlic frying filled the air, layered with the sound of gossip that flowed as easily as the oil in the pan. That’s where it started for me, food as a connection and love.

For a long time, though, I wasn’t supposed to be a chef. My family wanted me to be a lawyer. A safe path, a stable life. And for a while, I was on track for it. But when I eventually stepped into a kitchen, something clicked. Cooking itself came naturally to me, but all those years of studying, negotiating, and writing contracts turned out to be the real training. The food might be the passion, but running a kitchen means you need both the craft and the business. That “previous life” gave me the tools to survive beyond the stove.

My first kitchen job came when I was 18 or 19, working as a server while in university. I’d already been cooking basic meals for myself at home, but one day the kitchen needed extra help and I started peeling potatoes, picking herbs, and washing lettuce. The owner asked me, “When are you going to cook in the kitchen? You seem to know what you’re doing.” I told him I never had. He replied, “It’s like cooking at home, except you do the same thing 200 times a night and you can’t mess up.” That was it. I was in.

I initially taught myself to cook, inspired by shows like “Mind of a Chef” that explored the thought processes behind chefs’ actions. This sparked my natural curiosity about the nuances of food and cooking. There’s value in seeing things differently, acknowledging that nature isn’t perfect. 

Being the youngest in the kitchen had its challenges. Most of my coworkers were in their 30s, seasoned veterans who had been at it for years. I tried to learn from everyone, but eventually I focused on the head chef. It wasn’t about dismissing the others; it was about finding the source of truth that aligned with where I wanted to go. That lesson, filtering information, cherry-picking guidance, and shaping it into my own, has carried me through my entire career.

Today, what keeps me going is my team. They are talented, diverse, and unafraid to challenge me. As a chef, it’s easy to get stuck in your own head and vision, but they remind me to stay open, to listen, and to keep improving. Some of my proudest moments have been rooted in empathy, like when my sous chef felt overwhelmed and unappreciated. Instead of being defensive, I listened. We worked through it together, and our relationship grew stronger. Those lessons, patience, listening, and humility have shaped me just as much as the food itself.

SoloDiner, our pop-up group, is another milestone that fills me with pride. In our first year alone, we hosted 34 pop-ups across New York City. It was nonstop, sometimes grueling, but when we celebrated our first anniversary collaborating with EHK Wines and Petrossian caviar, I finally felt the weight of what we had built. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about community, creativity, and resilience.

In the kitchen, my philosophy is simple: understand the “why” and embrace imperfection. Mother Nature isn’t perfect, neither are we. The produce might not look the way we want it to, the marinade might sit longer than intended, and sometimes those deviations make the dish even better. For me, cooking is about curiosity, flexibility, and remembering the purpose behind what we do.

As a Filipino-American, I’ve often felt caught between being “too American” or “not Filipino enough.” Our food, like our identity, is layered with Spanish, Japanese, and American influences. And with SoloDiner, we’re not trying to “bridge the gap” outright, but we’re definitely playing in that space, introducing Filipino food in a way that’s respectful of tradition while also current, fun, and accessible.

What I love most about this industry is its selflessness. We’re tuned in to the needs of others to such a degree that it becomes second nature. But what frustrates me is how little of that care gets extended inward to the very people making it all possible. Too many kitchens still run on intimidation, yelling, or fear. I’m working to change that. My approach is softer: embrace the failures, own them, and learn from them, but do it in a way that builds people up instead of tearing them down.

At the end of the day, we know how to take care of guests; that much is certain. My hope is that the industry learns to take care of its people with the same devotion. That’s the kind of culture I want to pass forward.