The Culture Within

I was born in Penonomé, Coclé, a small town in Panamá where tradition runs deep and love is often served in bowls. My mother is a pragmatic doctor and always pressed for time, but she’d cook for us on weekends. Her sopa de costilla is one of my most treasured memories. I learned by watching her, and one day, when I was going to add dried oregano, she leaned over and said, gently: “Add this at the end, when the heat is off, so it infuses smoothly.” She wasn’t always soft-spoken. But that day, in the kitchen, her tenderness shaped me more than she probably realized.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d become a chef. I wanted to be a historian or an anthropologist. But the university in my town didn’t offer those programs. Cooking was just a teenage thought. Still, the idea of food as a short, technical study stuck. I packed my things and left to study in Lima, Perú. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Perú taught me that gastronomy is a mirror of a country’s soul. They had rediscovered and celebrated their culinary identity, and in that process, I began to understand what ours could become. Studying at San Ignacio de Loyola gave me techniques, reverence for the stories behind ingredients, and the discipline to build a future around them. Having mentors with professional training made me sincerely appreciate attending an academic institution to professionalize my career and my art. Cooking has been a profession that anyone with enough discipline and dedication can pursue. But voluntarily dedicating yourself to studying your work—the whys and the hows—means that cooking and chefs are beginning to receive the professional recognition they deserve.

The first professional kitchen I worked in offered a glimpse of what this profession would be like in my country: a bittersweet reality. I experienced unpaid hours, biweekly payments often three days late, and the challenge of working alongside people who exhibited little professional ethics. The procedures for ensuring food safety were poorly managed, and I dealt with extremely rude and corrupt bosses. That restaurant is closed now, and honestly, I’m glad. Although I have had better experiences since then, I will never forget this as the introduction to the real world that my professors and more experienced colleagues had spoken of so often.

My biggest challenge was realizing I didn’t love the restaurant model as it existed. The sacrifice of your private life, the creative stagnation, and the hierarchy that silenced reason were all too much. I couldn’t pretend it was okay, so I left. I cried, sat in silence, and reimagined what this career could be for me. I turned my grief into a path of my own.

I’ve found inspiration in unexpected places: in nature, fermentation, and remembering that discomfort sparks growth. My country inspires me. Our ingredients, our culture, our people—they fuel my work. That’s how @fermentnation.88 was born. I started a personal brand by researching food preservation techniques, fermentation, and food’s role in our lives.

One moment that changed me forever happened during my internship in the Basque Country at a 3-Michelin-star restaurant. It was intense—the pressure, the speed, the perfection expected at every turn. Over time, I cultivated a closer relationship with my chef de partie to the point where I knew he needed a shot of whiskey when he placed a small flan container on the plate. It was a secret code between us. One day, when we were sharing the plating process, he looked at me for a minute at one point of the shift with vivacious but tired eyes and said, “Anger is a problem, isn’t it, Claudia?” And I replied, “Anger is a cancer, PD.” In that moment, I learned that while I aspired for excellence, I wouldn’t lose myself fighting for someone else’s recognition.

But in that tough kitchen experience, I also found a connection like the young intern from Madrid, Pablo, who came into the team when I was already carrying more responsibility. I taught him, and he respected that. He listened. We helped each other, which made those grueling months not just bearable but memorable. He’s visited me in Panamá twice. We became family.

My kitchen philosophy is simple: if you believe something is possible, prove it, do it, and teach it. Don’t lead with ego—lead with proof and integrity.

I’m proud of many things—finishing my degree, surviving that Michelin internship, staying curious, and building @Fermentnation.88. But I’m most proud of not letting the industry swallow me whole. 

Restaurant culture has its magic—teamwork, camaraderie, that indescribable rhythm. But it also has its poisons. I’ve seen too much pride disguised as tradition. I’ve learned to value what truly matters: people, respect, and empathy. If my coworker needs help, I will show up. If someone is struggling, I listen. It’s not about who yells the loudest. It’s about who shows up with both hands and a full heart.

I dream of an industry that honors its people as much as its plates, where producers are paid fairly, mental health is part of the conversation, and where regional cuisines are celebrated, not erased. I embody that daily through my work, values, and story.

For a long time, I thought none of my interests connected. But now I know better. There are infinite ways to practice gastronomy. I’ve just found mine.