Stillness in the Pit

Zachary Berger

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Cooking wasn’t my first love—music was. Hardcore music, to be exact. The kind that tears through amps and speaks from the gut. For years, I lived that life—on the road, in the pit, riding adrenaline from South Africa to Central America, through Europe and back. My bandmates were out partying, and yeah, I joined them sometimes. But I really wanted to sit in a corner of a busy kitchen, talk to chefs, and eat my way through every city, and food became my second obsession.

I grew up in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by rivers, forests, and farmland. No matter how far I went, it called me home. There’s a certain raw beauty in that land—and in the people—that shaped me. 

I had worked random restaurant jobs before—busboy at a BBQ joint, gigs here and there—but nothing serious. Then, I started seeing food as fuel, a culture, a language, and a way to understand people. While my band played shows, I slipped into kitchens, watching, learning, and tasting. That changed everything.

Eventually, music took a backseat, and I dove into the kitchen full-time. However, I spent years balancing three worlds. By day, I worked with at-risk teens in Ulster County’s social work system, requiring patience, adaptability, and endurance. By night, I cooked. In between, I was on the road, touring and exploring food wherever I landed.

A pivotal chapter in my journey unfolded in Cusco, Peru, where I visited Peru to turn depression into passion.   It was my first deep immersion into another culinary tradition in many years and it cracked something open in me.  After about a year of hard work I opened my restaurant Cultura Paraiso in Cusco Peru . But when I returned to the States, I felt the jarring contrast—the ego, the yelling, the grind-for-grind’s-sake. In too many American kitchens, burnout is a badge of honor. I never understood that. Why should growth come at the cost of well-being?

So I made a change.

 I sold my restaurant and came back to do popups and make a name for myself in the US. Then the pandemic came and swept those opportunities away with my events being canceled. I saw the influx of people moving to my home and knew I had to adapt to the change that was coming if I wanted to stay in the area I love. I started offering private chef services to where it leads me as the chef I am now—work that allowed me to travel again. Along the way, I found Southeast Asia, and especially Thailand. And that changed everything.

The food, the generosity, the ease of life—it was a kind of peace I hadn’t known before. In the U.S., we’re taught to equate success with exhaustion. But in Thailand, I learned that stillness can be strength. That joy matters. That presence is its own kind of mastery. Buddhism had already resonated deeply with me—not as a religion, but as a rhythm. And while you don’t need to travel across the world to find it, being there helped me realign with what truly matters.

Today, I can find peace even in the middle of a mosh pit—or the chaos of a kitchen. Hardcore music, to me, is meditative. I might start the day in stillness and end it in the frenzy of a dinner rush or the energy of a hardcore show. I believe in balance—finding calm amidst the chaos. When you’re truly tuned in with yourself, the noise outside becomes manageable. I split my time between summers in Woodstock, New York—cooking with local farms, foraging, and feeding the community—and winters in Southeast Asia, studying food culture, reconnecting with simplicity, and cooking for private clients.