Rising Beyond the Oven

I was seven when I baked my first batch of cookies. My mom stood over me, walking me through the steps—how to read a recipe, how to fold the dough just right, how to pull them out of the oven before they burned. That was it. I was hooked.

I read my way through every cookbook she had in the kitchen, tried hundreds of recipes, and eventually started a job at a bakery when I was 13 years old. I never had another job outside this industry.

My parents were artists. They ran an art studio, taught classes daily, and I absorbed all that. Subconsciously, that influenced my decision to become a chef. I wanted to be an artist—just with a different medium.

The French Culinary Institute in NYC came later. By the time I got there, I had years of experience, and it just facilitated the learning. So many of the recipes we made in school, I had already made a dozen times over, but the school gave me more insight into the science. I gravitated toward it: the why behind the rise of dough, the structure of laminated pastry.

Eventually, I opened a bakery. Ran it for thirteen years. Somewhere around year six, I felt like I had baked my way through every recipe I could think of. That itch to grow hit hard. So I took online cook and pastry chef jobs at the same time, sometimes holding executive chef roles while still operating the bakery. It was a lot. The constant pressure I put on myself to learn and grow has put a unique flair on the cuisine I cook today. It’s not uncommon to see some pastry influence in my dishes, even if it may be subtle.

Cooking, much like art, is endless. There will always be new ways to create and compose dishes, and thus, my approach to cooking is to continue to learn.

Starting at a young age in a bakery gave me a head start, but it came with both pros and cons. The owners primarily spoke French and were old school. Everything was made from scratch, and perfection was the standard. You had to double-check everything or you’d be dodging a loaf of bread. There was no room for ego, only precision and repetition. It wasn’t glamorous; it involved 4 a.m. shifts, calloused hands, and long hours. But I loved it, and I still do. I felt productive, I was learning, and I was getting paid.

Though I was still a kid in an adult kitchen, lifting 50-pound bags of flour, running on fumes, getting my ass kicked by prep lists. Later, it was the grind—missing holidays, pulling doubles, sacrificing any kind of normal schedule. But I kept my head down and thought about the bigger picture: where I wanted to go, who I wanted to become.

I’m 38 years old now. My body has adjusted to the “exercise” of this work. But it’s still the people who keep me here. Food can bring people together to create positivity, whether you’re cooking it or eating it.

My parents were my biggest inspirations. My father passed away last year at 99. He had this unbelievable life: fought in the Cuban Revolution, escaped to the U.S., toured Europe with a band, and opened an art studio where he met my mom. My mom is a force of her own—stern, loving, tireless. Everything I am, I owe to them.

And then there’s everyone else—the line cooks, the dishwashers, the servers, the chefs who shared their stories. I’ve battled my own depression, and it was cooking—and the people around me—that pulled me out. That’s why we started the annual Anthony Bourdain Suicide Prevention Dinner. We began small in 2018, and last year we raised over $20,000. It’s the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done.

One night I’ll never forget was at the Palace Theater in Waterbury, pre-COVID. I cooked a wine dinner for 250 people. Chef Jerry Reveron invited me. We had a quiet moment backstage where he told me to share my passion. That young chefs like me gave him hope. He didn’t know it, but I had studied his menus growing up. He passed away from COVID not long after. I hold that conversation close.

Now, in my kitchen, I try to lead by example. Mop the floors. Jump into the dish pit. Break down the science of why we do things. Create a space where people want to show up, not just because they have to, but because they belong. We as chefs are nothing without our teams, and the only way we can get to the next level is if the team works together.

This industry has always been a judgment-free zone to me—a place where anyone, from anywhere, could rebuild themselves. But we’ve also inherited toxic habits: glorifying burnout, normalizing shitty hours, living on coffee, alcohol, and whatever’s left on the plate. That has to change.

I want the industry itself to be more sustainable in the future. I’m hoping the labor force will grow, and once again we’ll have more people coming into the industry than leaving it, which unfortunately has not been the case recently. To attain this, there has to be a better work-life balance, more understanding of the pressures of the industry (as well as life), and resources to help combat them. We have to support our peers, improve communication with our teams, and motivate each other so we can all grow as individuals, which ultimately will progress and strengthen our industry.

I’m working on myself, too—physically, mentally, and supporting my team, taking inventory of my habits, checking in with others. That’s the kind of industry I want to see grow. One where we take care of people the same way we take care of the food. One where we don’t just survive the grind, but build something sustainable and worth passing on.

And if this resonates with you, join us.

This year’s Anthony Bourdain Suicide Prevention Dinner is happening Monday, October 20. Come share a meal that means something. Tickets are available at bourdaindinner2025.eventbrite.com.

Also, check out the 86 Challenge on August 6—another step toward prioritizing our mental health in this industry.

And if you can, consider donating to your local chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Every bit helps.