projects.
“I Could Have Been Somebody”
There’s a scene in “On the Waterfront” where Marlon Brando looks up, eyes wild and wounded, and says, “I coulda been somebody.” It’s not a plea. It’s not even regret. It’s the sound of a man realizing that somewhere between the dream and the damage, he lost control of his own story.
That line’s been stuck in my head for years, like a song that never stops playing. Not because I think I missed my shot, but because I know exactly what that moment feels like. The punchline of a life built on hard lessons, quick exits, and more bad decisions than I can count.
I wasn’t born in Greenwich Village, but I’ve stood in enough alleys behind enough kitchens to recognize that look in his eyes. It’s the look of a man who wanted more, reached for it, and got burned.
I’ve never been the Pope of anything. I’m no saint, sinner more than sanctified, for sure. But I’ve carried that same ache, that mix of pride and loss that comes when you realize every move you made, every fight, every firing, every midnight drive, led you here. Not by accident, not by fate. By choice.
When I think back, it’s like flipping through an old reel of kitchens and chaos. The Clairemont days, sleeping in my car, hustling just to get a shot at the line. The nights at La Valencia, where I thought I’d finally arrived, until I realized I’d only made it to another level of the same game. The kitchens all blur together, the stainless steel, the fluorescent lights, the smell of onions and desperation.
But it’s not the jobs that stick with me. It’s the moves. The decisions that pushed me from one place to the next. Sometimes I ran toward opportunity, sometimes I ran from myself.
There’s a pattern to it, the high of creation, the crash of consequence, the silent drive down some highway with everything you own packed in a duffel bag and a chef coat that still smells like fire.
Kitchen Confession
The Truth Is Hotter Than The Flames
about.
I am not a celebrity chef. I am not a brand built by focus groups or marketing teams. I am a working chef who came up the hard way, learned the trade with burned hands and bruised ego, and stayed because this life gets under your skin and never lets go.
I lived in my car. I worked the worst shifts. I cooked when I was exhausted, broke, scared, and stubborn enough to keep going anyway. Kitchens raised me. They taught me discipline, accountability, humility, and how fast things fall apart when you cut corners. They also taught me loyalty, dark humor, and how food can hold people together when nothing else does.
I have run high-volume kitchens, led teams under real pressure, and held standards when it would have been easier to let things slide. I believe in systems, preparation, and showing up for your people. I believe a chef’s job is not to be the loudest voice in the room but the one who makes everyone better, sharper, and proud of the work they put out.
Behind the Burn and Kitchen Confession are not romantic stories about food. They are about what happens when the ticket machine won’t stop, when your body is wrecked but service still has to happen, when the kitchen becomes family because you have all bled together in one way or another. These stories are about leadership, failure, addiction to the grind, survival, and the quiet moments that keep you coming back.
I write the way I cook. Direct. Honest. No bullshit. I am not interested in trends, filters, or pretending this industry is something it is not. The kitchen is brutal. It is beautiful. It can break you or save you depending on how you walk through it.
I am always approachable. Always willing to talk, listen, and share what I have learned. The best chefs I ever knew never acted above anyone else. They remembered where they came from and treated people like family. That matters to me more than titles ever will.
This site is not a highlight reel. It is the work, the scars, the stories, and the truth. If you have stood on a line, lived on caffeine and adrenaline, or ever wondered why anyone would choose this life, you are in the right place.
MY PASSION
So, Say I
This is my knife.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My knife is my best friend.
It is my birth into the kitchen.
It is my culinary beginning.
I must master it, as I must master myself.
Without me, my knife is useless.
Without my knife, I am helpless.
I must keep my knife sharp, clean, and always at my side.
I must cut straight and true.
I will.
My knife and I know what counts in this kitchen.
We know it is not the noise, the rush, or the chaos.
It is the cuts that count.
We will cut.
My knife is human, even as I am human, because it is my life.
Thus, I will learn it as a brother.
I will learn its weaknesses and its strengths.
Its balance, its temper, its edge, and its scars.
I will keep my knife clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.
We will become part of each other.
We will.
Before God, I swear this creed.
My knife and I are the defenders of the line.
We are the masters of our prep.
We are the saviors of service.
So be it, until every cut is made, every protein is broken down, every garnish is perfect, and there is no enemy left on the cutting board but exhaustion.
Amen.
