Aged Like Fine Wine
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the chefs who make me want to keep chasing. The ones who remind me that cooking isn’t about plating flowers or going viral
Date: 21/10/2025
Location: Cancún, Mexico
‘‘My best memories as a kid involved food. Eating a sloppy diner cheeseburger in the car on the way home from fishing with my uncle. Trying my first tuna melt in Scotland on a cold day. Eating at my favorite burger joint in my hometown with my friends. Trying Sonic in New York for the first time and seeing the rollerblading waiters in the drive-through. These memories and many more make up my childhood, and it’s the best I could’ve wished for.’’
When I was a kid, my dad took us to Scotland for summer vacation. It rained almost every day, we lived in a trailer that smelled like wet socks and instant coffee, and he beat me at Scrabble like it was a full-contact sport. But I remember the day he decided to teach me how to fish.
We stood on a gray coastline that looked like the world's edge. The wind cut straight through my jacket, and the water slapped against the rocks like it was laughing at us. Just me, him, and two fishing poles. The plan was simple: catch dinner, impress my mom.
Fishing demanded something I’ve never been good at: patience. You cast the line, wait, reel it in, throw it again. For a while, nothing happened. Then, finally, that tiny electric pull on the line, that first hit of adrenaline. Two hours later, our bucket was full of mackerel, still flicking their tails like they didn’t know they’d lost. We fried them in oil that night, sitting in the cramped trailer with the smell of salt and smoke in the air. The fish itself? Fine. But it was the act, the ritual of catching and cooking, that stuck with me. It was the first time I understood the satisfaction of making something real with my hands.
I think about that a lot now. How that small moment, just a kid catching fish with his dad, planted something in me. Cooking’s not so different. You wait. You mess up. You learn. You burn your fingers, cut yourself a few times, and try again until it tastes like something worth serving.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the chefs who make me want to keep chasing that feeling. The ones who remind me that cooking isn’t about plating flowers or going viral — it’s about fire, patience, and a bit of insanity. For me, that’s Niklas Ekstedt, Francis Mallmann, and Calum Franklin.
Ekstedt and Mallmann are both wild and romantic men, artists with soot on their hands. They cook with real fire. No fancy equipment, no gas stoves, just wood, smoke, and time. You watch them and realize that cooking started with a flame, and maybe it should’ve stayed that way. It’s primal, unpredictable, and brutally honest. Fire doesn’t lie to you; it either gives or it burns.
Then there’s Calum Franklin. Different animal entirely. He took the most mocked cuisine in Europe, British food, and made it something to respect again. I ate at The Holborn Dining Room in London with my dad almost seven years ago, and it hit me harder than I expected. Every dish looked like art. You could taste the care, the time, the repetition. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about pride.
That dinner made me realize something. Food can be more than comfort or necessity. It can be a story, a rebellion, a way to say, I was here, and this is what I made.
These three chefs, Ekstedt, Mallmann, and Franklin, they’re the reason I’m chasing the kitchen now. They cook the way I want to live: with patience, with fire, and with just enough chaos to keep things interesting.
Burnt
Everyone goes through life their own way, makes their own mistakes, and celebrates their own triumphs. Every journey starts with an origin story, this is mine.
Date: 11/10/2025
Location: Cancún, Mexico
‘‘One of my all-time culinary heroes and inspirations is Francis Mallmann. When I watched him cook and heard him speak about food, it awakened something in me, a curiosity unlike anything I had felt before, to learn how to cook on an open fire. I resonated with his romantic view of the world and food, the freedom he lives by, and his methods in the kitchen.”
I’ve never been good at making plans. Let me rephrase: I’ve never been good at sticking to plans. I love the idea of anticipating what’s ahead, sketching it all out. But right before it’s time to set the plan in motion, I throw it straight out the window.
What did Leonard Snart say in The Flash? “Make the plan, execute the plan, expect the plan to go off the rails, throw out the plan.” That’s the kind of planning I’m good at. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a flex. I’m sleeping in the bed I made by following that exact method.
So, here’s the breakdown.
I’ve been a nomad for almost five years now, bartending my way through cities to make ends meet and keep the journey alive. I rarely stay anywhere longer than six months. I act on impulse, regardless of the chaos waiting behind it. It’s funny, really. I’m an overthinker; my brain can spiral over what to eat for dinner, but when it comes to life-altering decisions? I don’t blink. Get a massive back tattoo? Done. Move to a new city? Easy. Fly to Mexico to volunteer? Obviously.
You see the dynamic here, right? Anyway…
Let’s talk about the situation at hand. The metaphorical bed I made, and the sheets I’m now lying in.
About two months ago, after nearly a year in Amsterdam (a personal record, honestly), the universe threw me a curveball. I took a risk, accepted a better job right as I lost my sublet, only to not pass the trial period. My plans crumbled overnight. What was supposed to be a long stay until spring turned into an abrupt exit.
So, I did what I do best: I wandered. Paris. Amsterdam. Albania. I drifted, trying to piece together my next move.
Money ran low. Job applications piled up. And then, finally, a single confirmation: volunteering at a hostel in Cancún. I said yes immediately (impulse, remember?). I booked a flight with money I didn’t have, borrowed more to survive, and jumped into it headfirst.
To say the last few weeks have been a shitshow is an understatement. Applying for an American passport, searching for seasonal work, leaning on friends, and refreshing job boards until my eyes hurt, that’s been my daily routine.
But if there’s one thing the past five years have taught me, it’s that I’m resilient. Cockroach-in-Chernobyl resilient. Burnt, maybe, but still here.
I don’t know what happens next. I just know I’m not done yet.
Shaken, Stirred, Cooked
My brain has never been a pillar of stability, or focus, for that matter. Ideas overflow like tapping a bad beer, motivation comes and goes like Dutch weather, and I’m in the eye of the storm. But this feels like a heading, a way forward.
Date: 06/10/2025
Location: Cancún, Mexico
‘‘My brain has never been a pillar of stability, or focus, for that matter. Ideas overflow like tapping a bad beer, motivation comes and goes like Dutch weather, and I’m in the eye of the storm. But this feels like a heading, a way forward.’’
Food has been in my DNA since I was a kid. Watching food shows with my family before bed, helping my parents cook dinner, I loved it. Fast forward to now, and food shapes nearly every corner of my life. It’s more than something I eat; it’s a way of communicating, a comfort, and often the compass guiding where I go next.
I’ve been a bartender for almost five years. I love it, the high energy, meeting new people every day, working alongside friends I’m honored to call family. But hospitality is grueling work. Long hours, nonstop focus, sleep schedules that vanish, dealing with ungrateful customers… It’s not for the faint of heart. Yet part of me thrives in that chaos; part of me belongs there.
Even so, the pull of food has grown stronger every day. My social media feed, filled with chefs and beautiful plates, doesn’t help. I can’t help but feel inspired to cook like that, to create flavors and moments that linger long after the last bite.
Food writing became my first outlet. Exploring meals, cultures, and personal experiences on the page gave me a way to connect with food more deeply. But writing about food is different from making it, and I can feel the itch growing stronger: I want to cook. Properly.
So here I am, entering the second half of my 20s without a clear heading. I like too many things, have too many ideas. But there’s one constant I keep returning to: food. And the thought keeps coming back, why not take a break from bartending and move into the kitchen? Why not finally learn to cook?
It’s exciting, yes, but also a bit scary. My résumé is stacked with bartending experience but thin on kitchen credentials. Starting over means starting at the bottom. My bartending skills won’t help me much here. And yet, that’s exactly what makes it thrilling—the chance to learn something completely new, from scratch.
Before I even start looking for jobs, I figured I need to answer these three questions first:
Why do I want to become a cook?
Cooking is a way of communicating, a way to show love to the people I care about. Experiencing new flavors, eating incredible dishes—it’s pure joy. I want to create that same feeling for others. I want to learn how to improvise, create, and tell stories with food.
What kind of kitchen would I like to work in?
Kitchens are intense, chaotic places. For me, at least to start, something smaller feels right, a hole-in-the-wall spot with a meaningful menu. Busy nights that are challenging but manageable, where I can grow my skills without being completely overwhelmed. I love dishes meant to be shared, food that brings people together over a table, where you keep ordering until your stomach says enough.
What are my goals as a chef?
I don’t have a concrete endgame yet. Opening my own restaurant isn’t on the horizon, at least, not yet. For now, I want to learn to cook properly, to tell stories with my dishes, and use my time in kitchens as inspiration for my writing. I want to meet people in the industry, observe, absorb, and grow.
Answering these questions has clarified one thing: this is a path I want to take. The details will come, but the desire is already here, guiding me forward.