When the Chef Evolves, the Food Follows

I was just a kid in Pennsylvania when I first stepped into the kitchen. Back then, it was pure joy—no rules, no pressure, just me playing around with flavors and finding confidence in the process. That joy stuck with me, but the real shift happened in my twenties, when I met a mentor who didn’t just teach me how to cook, but why we cook. He showed me that food isn’t just about technique. It’s about spirit, culture, and connection. That changed everything. It grounded me. Gave me purpose.

Funny enough, I never set out to be a chef. I wanted to be a teacher. Then a journalist. But life had other plans. I worked in kitchens to pay the rent and to have enough money to keep my lights on. The “pull” of the industry took hold of me, and I’ve never looked back. And in a way, I still became both. I teach every day in my kitchen. I leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs so the younger generation can find their way without making the same mistakes I did. And I also became a kind of “journalist” when I wrote my first cookbook, HOMAGE, which got nominated for a James Beard Award. Life has a funny way of bringing it full circle.

I took some formal classes, mostly in bread and pastry, but the school moved too slowly for me. The real education happened in kitchens with 30-second deadlines every 30 seconds. My first professional kitchen gig was around 1988. It was like watching a dance. I was hooked. But it wasn’t easy. Back then, you didn’t see Black folks working the line in Philly. We were in prep, or washing pots. So I did my prep shift by day, and when the clock ran out, I stayed, working for free on the hot line. I wanted to learn what the white boys knew. And I needed to prove to them, mostly myself, that I had what it takes to be one of the best.

The challenges were constant, but so was the inspiration. It came from everywhere—conversations, weather, even my own moods. I learned to push through it all. I remember doing this event at a museum back in the 90s, still early in my career, taking my lumps. At the end of the night, the chef looked me in the eye and said, “Good job.” That was the first time anyone had said that to me in a kitchen. That moment lit a fire. I started to believe in what I could do.

My philosophy is simple: feed people with love. That’s it. That’s the core of everything I do. Every dish, service, and conversation is all about love. That philosophy got even clearer when I got sober, eleven years ago. In that early stretch, I searched for who I was, not just as a man, but as a cook. And when I started to know and love myself, my food transformed. It still is. It keeps getting better because I keep growing.

I’ve had some big wins—cooked at the James Beard House a dozen times, wrote that cookbook, opened restaurants, did some TV. But what I’m most proud of isn’t any of that. It’s the legacy. The way I’ve shown up for the next generation. The honest conversations, the time spent making sure they’re good, that they feel seen, that they know their worth. That’s what matters. That’s what lasts.

What I love the most about this industry is the guests. I love sitting down with them, learning their stories, and making them feel something through food. What do I want to see change? The competition. The whole narrative around food media—this obsession with who’s best. That’s not what this is about, it never was. It’s about coming together, sharing knowledge, feeding people, and building community.