#005 | to the north

”The last thing a chef wants in a line cook is an innovator, somebody with ideas of his own who is going to mess around with the chef’s recipes and presentations.”

- Anthony Bourdain

1

I felt this immense pride as I stood by the pass, watching this celebrity chef literally burn his tongue off while sampling my new salsa. He and his lil’ video crew were here filming an episode of their travel show. Our restaurant, TRÈS BIEN, was selected as the “representative” of Eugene, Oregon. We’re supposed to be this suave establishment, but our chef de cuisine has Jurassic ideals and hates innovation. He wanted to show this hotshot from the idiot box our three signature dishes, but our menu sucks.

Knowing this, I saw an opportunity to change our fortunes. I quietly dropped the shrimp & crab bisque from our menu for this spicy AF salsa I’ve been working on for a long time. I call it Physical Disorientation Week. It’s more charming than it sounds. I start with a blend of the world’s hottest peppers, like Pepper X, Trinidad Moruga Scorpion, and an unnamed experimental pepper grown in the basement of an unmarked, Asbestos-friendly building in Hell’s Kitchen. Then I add in tomatoes, onions, cilantro, lime juice, and a few other ‘gredients. It’s a new addition to my rotation of salsas -a fairly risky one- as I usually prefer going sweet n’ spicy, and not all-spicy.

So it’s no surprise that the overlords at TRÈS didn’t enjoy my work. They let me go faster than that ice princess from the pictures. All that effort of going to culinary school and fighting tooth n’ nail for this fine dining gig went right out the window. My hopes of one day serving salsa to the Michelin man himself have come to a screeching halt.

2

Being fired has given me a sense of freedom I’ve never felt in my life. I feel like I’m sweating a lot less. I’ve stopped smoking before lunch. I’m even wearing open-toed shoes again! My obsession with making salsa was always going to conflict with what my line cook job would entail. Even though I was losing the fame and glory I could get from being on an all-star team, this was my chance to dial in on what I wanted to do.

Culinary is what I will die for, but chips n’ salsa is what I would slaughter a village for. It’s about time that my job reflected that attitude.

I dropped by the bookstore to find a map of Earth. I pinned that thing up on my living room wall, hoping to identify the next place I was going to. Like anybody looking for a beautiful place to move to, I thought about what I needed, versus what I wanted. For me, the first item on my list was easy.

Soil.

Rich, vibrant soil. The kind that will make fruits and vegetables more Steve McQueen-y. There’s soil everywhere, but most places have too many rocks, hungry insects, or invasive species to allow for optimal salsa-friendly vegetation growth.

Number two on my list— warmth. Seasons are wack. Winter is soulless, while spring n’ fall are knockoffs of each other. And they’re also wack.

But summer though… now that’s totes McQueen.

My third and final necessity— I need to find a chipmaster. Someone with the equivalent talent for chipmaking. A tortured artist. An ill genius. A shameless farmer’s market diver who’d spend hours finding the perfect ‘gredients for their recipes.

FOR THE UNINITIATED: A diver is an uber-passionate chef who obsesses over finding the best ingredients available to them. They aren’t afraid to cross lines, step on toes, or skrrt around boundaries.

I think my three items are pretty reasonable desires. It’s not like I’m asking for all the world’s oysters. I just want a good foundation to build a house on, y’know?

But the thing is… there’s only one place on this planet with all three of those items.

3

As I stepped out of the Danny Inoue airport, the first thing I smelled was an army of fake leis. I was famished. They served turkey & swiss with artisan pretzels on the plane, but I had to pass. The key to finding the freshest, highest quality ‘gredients at a farmer’s market is going there on an empty stomach. The starvation I feel while diving will help me concentrate on finding the best produce.

Given that it’s one of my happy places, and I was planning on going there immediately, I couldn’t risk filling up on skyplane food before going to the market. I can’t be hurling my lunch on a batch of locally sourced chilis, so I did what I could to fight the hunger. I waved a cab driver down to take me straight to The North, a farmer’s market I read about years ago in a travel magazine.

Getting to The North was the first step. To kickstart this new chapter of my life, I needed to immerse myself in Hawaiian vegetation. Once I knew what quality of produce I was working with, I could figure out everything else in my life. The cab driver drops me off at the entrance, and I step out, luggage in hand, and take a second to scan the environment. It’s early, but there’s a healthy crowd of vendors and shoppers. I’m shaking from excitement, but I got to keep my head on straight. I’m not here for vacay.

I consider myself a pretty friendly person. But I don’t have a ton of pals, guys or gals. I get pretty volatile when it comes to things I care about, and some people don’t want to be around that. I once scratched this record store employee in the face because he made fun of my little brother, Pietro, for trying to buy a Norah Jones LP. The boy’s an aspiring rapper with an ear for good music! Who the fuck are you, some dippy Neanderthal with the musical palette of a cartoon armadillo?!

GAWD… Artists get no love on this planet.

Anyway, one of the reasons why I go diving solo, is because it can get pretty scrappy at the market. You see, everyone’s civilized at the farmer’s market until the first fight breaks out over a particular fuji apple. (I’m usually the one that starts said fight.)

So it came as no surprise when I found myself disturbing tha peace today, as I got into a sparring match with this silly goose with long hair and the fighting IQ of an awkward teenager.

“Take your palms off that Roma tomato, miss!”

“I will fucking annihilate you, BOY!”

I could feel my right eye twitching. He had the same crazed look on his face. He felt challenged but wasn’t going to back down. The awkward gooseman sprints towards me, with all the intention of tackling me and retrieving this Roma out of my hand. As he leaps at me with the force of a goosy lion, I bitch slap him so hard, I think I took 4 years off of his life. Gooseman faceplants into the pavement. The market grows silent. Everyone stares at one another, till they collectively descend into chaos. This peaceful environment has become a feeding frenzy for maniacs desperate for fresh produce.

With my shopping nowhere near done, I had no choice but to promptly fill my tote bag with a bunch of other items at this booth, leave the seller a generous hundo, and drag the gooseman out of this vegetation circus we had created in this beautiful state.

4

The first drop of lime juice hits his eyelid, but trickles outward, down his temple. I don’t want to cause any further harm to him, but I need to make sure that he’s alive. The second drop gets caught on the edge of his eyebrow. I finally get a reaction on the third one.

“Gwahah! This is my trailer, you furry bitch!”

The gooseman is alive, alert, and extremely defensive all of a sudden. He takes up a karate-ish position, ready to fight for his life.

“What?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit mizzled. Raccoons always try to sneak into my truck and take my chips. They never pay.”

After escaping the bloodbath at the market, I dragged the gooseman to my new rental. The place came semi-furnished, so I was able to place his upper body on the loveseat, while his legs hung off the side. I needed room to sit too, cause I don’t like watching TV while standing. This 1-bed has that annoying echo you get when your place lacks furniture and decor. You could hear a feather drop in the bathroom.

“I saved your life back at the market. You’re welcome. You got a name, gooseman?”

“Ugh… yeah, yeah. It’s a pretty short one, and I know it’s not José Antonio, so it must be Kyle.”

Dang, it’s like I slapped the high school education out of this man’s life.

“What about your? Your name, you have one, yes? Name?”

“Cara. I just moved here today. I got fired from my line cook job, and now I’m in Hawaii to make salsa.”

“That’s cool, Carl. I make chips in my lil’ food truck in Waikiki. Hey! Chips n’ salsa are friends. We should collaborate. Collaboration… in dis nation.”

I’m a stickler for people getting other people’s names right, but, for some reason, I let this one slide. While he was getting his beauty sleep, I whipped up my latest rendition of Physical Disorientation Week. I offer Kyle a generous sample. The way his eyes lit up, I knew I was dealing with a man of culture.

“I make a sweet potato chip that’ll taste bananas with this salsa.”

“Schway.”

After physically hitting each other, it was nice to find out that we hit it off. Kyle runs a wholesale chips operation out of his rather compact food truck. I make uber-creative salsas. He aspires to sell normal portions of chips one day. I want to set up a chips n’ salsa establishment here. He loves watching cooking shows, and I’m wanted in Lane County for ruining a chef’s television career.

I think I’ve found my chipmaster.

5

I’ve been a solo artist for quite some time. Even when I was working at TRÈS, I didn’t fit into the team dynamic there. I always felt like I was on the wrong one, so it was difficult to feel like the best version of myself. I had a lot of confidence that Oahu would offer me the environment where I could find the right collaborators for this business idea. Kyle and I officially agree to start an artisan chips n’ salsa place, aiming to use Waikiki as our launching pad. Meeting a 1-of-1 character like Kyle has certainly been a blessing.

“Shit, Kyle! How do you get any work done in this pigsty?! This food truck of yours is a real clusterfuck. Half of this crap isn’t even labeled!”

“Oh there’s plenty of space, Carl. You just gotta squand and hunch your back a lot.”

“S-squand..?”

“Squat. Stand. Y’know, squand. It’s great once you get used to doing it.”

Okay, maybe he’s not the richest piece of chocolate at the chocolate store, but at least he’s extremely talented. He’s a special kind of artist that’s hard to come by.

As of this second, Kyle’s Sweet Potato and PDW are the only confirmed items on our menu. We picture our menu to be eclectic and delicious from top to bottom. We want each chip n’ salsa flavor to be special. One-of-a-kind. To do that, we need to research and experiment a ton, but that’s a bit hard to do without the physical space needed to let our ideas flow. With Kyle’s finances tired into the food truck, his storage locker filled with his remaining inventory, and me being funemployed, we need to generate a lot of cash if we’re wanting to rent a proper kitchen.

Kyle educates me on his process of chipmaking. He always starts with the freshest ‘gredients. Just like me. He makes fresh corn tortillas, chops them up, then immediately fries them in batches. It tastes better when you fry the tortillas while they’re fresh. Dried ones get all dark and fugly-looking after they’re fried. I lend him a hand with his next few batches of chips, so we can wrap up a few wholesale transactions. Turns out, this guy is responsible for producing 29% of the chips on these islands. Wiiild.

Wanting to monetize my talents as well, Kyle gives me an assist as I begin to teach cooking lessons to high-rollers, locals, and students. The money involved with teaching these people basic culinary shit is mind-blowing. Yet, I’m struggling to dumb down my artistic vision for profit. I feel conflicted, unsettled by the fact that these people are looking at me like the queen of all chefs when all I’m doing is showing them how to safely use a knife, chop onions without crying, or tenderize meat. But I smile through this pain, knowing that every second I spend on this mass-appeal, bullshit-y version of my artform is a necessary step in my culinary journey.

After a few weeks of that nonsense, Kyle and I finally have a healthy chunk of change. Counting all of this cash money made me pass TF out. I know most of this mula will go towards our rental, but part of me hopes that we have enough left over to fund a particular local celebrity endorsement.

What’s Tia Carrere up to these days?

6

The lot we started renting was once a gelato joint. The real estate agent said that they were pretty popular back in the day. A few months ago, the power grid on that block malfunctioned, and they were the only place that didn’t set up backup power. The owners were left with gallons of melted gelato juice and a bunch of dust, from where their customers used to stand in line…

But, oh well. One Tuscan immigrant family’s loss is another disgraced American chef’s treasure.

We spend the next day moving in our now-combined inventory of produce, kitchen tools, and other knick-knacks. I break out my Kishimoto knife set and find a nice corner of the kitchen to settle them in. Kishimoto’s are like the BAPE of kitchen knives: they’re iconic and trendy, rappers namedrop them all the time, and I only buy their stuff when they’re heavily discounted at random outlet malls. With that in mind, I’ve only had this particular set for 7 months, which means I sharpen them frequently and treat them like I would treat the most likable of my (hypothetical) children.

Kyle and I set up a brainstorming sesh in the kitchen. We’ve got a chalkboard to write our ideas down, sparkling water, pistachios, and some 1970s Afrobeat jams playing off a lil’ speaker. For the next 48 hours, we agree to focus solely on the menu.

“I do this blue corn chip…it’s like blue corn but I also add this other thing to it, called Quinoa, which is like this plant or whatever in the amaranth family. Y’know, it’s healthy, tastes good, and the yoga parents and bare knuckle fighters tend to love ‘em.”

Attention to detail is a vital part of being a culinary artist. You need to be observant, aware of your surroundings, and be responsive enough that you can pickup on what’s working and what’s not. That’s what I appreciate about Kyle. He isn’t suggesting this idea just because it sounds like something Trader Joe’s already makes. He’s suggesting it because he knows there’s a demographic for it. He’s an airhead on the outside, but a smart cookie on the inside.

I, on the other hand, am a bit harder to read. PDW was designed because I wanted to create the pinnacle of hot salsas, one that not just anyone could enjoy. I studied all the world’s peppers for months, hoping to find the best combination that, blended with some sweet or mild ‘gredients, could become the greatest hot salsa of all time. It’s delicious for about 0.3 seconds, then everything hits you like a spicy tsunami. My best ideas are the ones that I put this level of care and love into.

Yet, I’m also the type that would take a shower thought of mine that I’m too dumb to comprehend, unapologetically connect it to food somehow, and then try to pitch it as a “serious” thing.

“Okay, so most people only want small portions of pineapple, yeah? A lot of us like it, but it can be too much. I like pineapple juice. I can do pineapple salsa. Both good things that you don’t want too much of. So let’s half it. Let’s get our customers right where they want to be, in pineapple terms yeah? It’s a pineapple salsa, with half the normal amount of pineapple. I call it Part-time Piña Party.”

Our brainstorming sesh contained a lot of conversations like these. We finalized our menu 12 hours before our self-assigned deadline, so it was time to get the word out. We’ve spent so much time doing behind-the-scenes stuff, that we didn’t make time to set up a marketing plan. We had no infrastructure for building an online presence. It’d be cool to have a social media person, but we hardly have enough money to pay for my crippling shaken espresso addiction. Our hands are tied. With $0 available for our marketing efforts, we are forced to rely on free methods of promotion. After a frustrating back-and-forth, we agree on creating an Instagram, cause if there’s one thing internet people like, it’s food pics.

I didn’t know about Kyle’s Midas touch for digital media till he showed me our follower count the next day. With a crappy profile pic of our sample batch of chips n’ salsa and a vague bio, we’ve somehow managed to accumulate 3,000+ followers. Is that why crowds have started to form outside of our rental space? We’re still a ways away from opening, yet locals have begun to gather by the dozens, maniacally watching us beyond the glass, like groupies waiting for their favorite musicians to walk by.

Journalists and food bloggers have started reaching out to us as well. We even had some philosophical paddleboarding Vlogger request to feature us in one of her upcoming videos. Things are getting serious. It’s a huge boost to my confidence but it adds a whole new level of pressure.

Good thing I’m a diamond.

7

Kyle and I have locked into our business like two Olympic swimmers vying for gold. Our menu now has 8 chip and 8 salsa varieties. Some of these are flavors we’ve conceptualized even before meeting each other, but there are a couple of new kids on the block. Kyle just made this one called Baltic Orange, where he adds red food coloring to his OG yellow corn. When he finalized this chip around midnight, we gave a sample to some druuunk sailor who walked by our front door.

“T-too salty, bro… Salty as fuuuh… What is this, ocean flavor? Hahahaha!”

We like reactions. So that’s staying on the menu.

I spent most of Tuesday creating a user-friendly salsa that could be a smash hit. It’s a chipotle-based salsa, it’s good enough to elevate any chip you have with it, but it can work as a condiment for your omelette, steak, or whatever your people eat. I call it CHIPOTLE!NOT2BAD!

Our efforts to flesh out this menu were very successful. Since my 8 salsas are unique and require plenty of ‘gredients, we had to skew our budget to better accommodate for that. I knocked out a few more cooking lessons for the locals to help finance our inventory as well. Although I was grinding my teeth teaching more of these ridiculous classes, I found some… how do I put this… gratification… in helping people? As I watched these people cook the most basic dishes with intense satisfaction, my heart began to feel warm and fuzzy. I thought I was having a heart attack. I don’t know what that’s about, but we’ll revisit it later.

We continued to hype up our store via the Gram. Our marketing strategy of extreme close-ups and mysterious captions has continued to attract new fans, and we finally set up an Evite link for our grand opening in a few days. I felt a sense of relief, that everything was falling into place.

But then, something happened.

My stomach began to rumble.

Fuck. I’m hungry again. How does that work?

We had worked our asses off thru the late night AGAIN, and Kyle was fast asleep, so I didn’t have many options for finding food. Yes, I can cook something myself, but our kitchen was filled with sealed containers of chips n’ salsa, and our remaining ‘gredients were reserved for the business. I can’t dip my pen in company ink. Especially before opening day. I shouldn’t.

But hunger can turn us into maniacal beings sometimes.

I took out one container of my latest batch of Physical Disorientation Week. An old friend of mine from my first year of culinary school, Vincent, this skinny French-Canadian MFer with a Rolodex of exotic culinary-adjacent contacts, recently introduced me to this mythical Hawaiian man who grows a one-of-a-kind pepper that allegedly measures 2.92 million SHU. He was only able to get me a handful of peppers, but it was more than enough to update my PDW recipe.

I proceeded to devour this jar, along with a hearty portion of Kyle’s Vintage Euro Paprika Scoops, like it was a snack size portion of candy. Since I’ve been working on this recipe for years, this dangerous salsa does nothing for me, but I’m so hungry that I find myself taking out a whole tray of ‘em off the shelf, about 64 jars, with the crazed determination to mow them all down. But as I whip around with this tray in hand, I unintentionally knock down several bottles of oil onto the ground. Now, it’s been a minute since I worked in a “proper” kitchen, so my non-slips have long been replaced by a pair of slides. My left foot slips, as I watch nearly $400 worth of PDW fall into this oil puddle at what feels like 1200fps.

This ferocious, record-breaking salsa of mine was never tested for how flammable it was.

As a massive, demonic fire begins to engulf our future restaurant space, I sprint to the backroom to awaken the gooseman, saving his ass yet again.

8

“W-what happened..?”

A drowsy Kyle rubs his eyes like a toddler, as we stand outside of our new business, watching hellfire consume our precious inventory. It was heartbreaking. I felt the cool tears stream down my extremely warm face. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

It took a lifetime of experiences, high highs and low lows, to even be able to call myself a business owner. I used to flick peanut butter at the kids in school who poked fun at me for wanting to open a restaurant. All those summers I spent working odd jobs in and around the industry, all the fun times I missed out on to pursue this dream, felt futile now.

I take a seat on the grass behind me. I hear faint chatter in the background, but everything else goes quiet. I fall back, staring at the palm tree leaves dancing in the sky above, as the fire department rushes onto the scene.

The next thing I remember, we’re in Kyle’s claustrophobic chip truck. However, things look quite different from the last time I was here. There’s 40% more legroom. Things look livelier around me. Kyle tells me that the fire has been put out, and the insurance people are evaluating our case, as we speak.

But for some reason, I’m not even thinking about those details. The thought of our business, our dream, falling apart isn’t what’s upsetting me anymore. All that’s on my mind is the promise we made to this community— Opening day.

“Kyle we need to give the people what they want.”

“GTA VI?”

“No, you cultured smartass! Chips n’ salsa. We can’t let our dream die.”

Our 16-item menu for our business was a brilliant idea. It had the potential to grow into a very successful business not just in Hawaii, but beyond these shores as well. I frequently daydreamed about opening shops in Madrid, Brussels, Chicago, Sapporo, Lagos, and so on. But the universe told us that we weren’t ready for that yet, and I felt that letting this fiery setback stop us from living out this dream would be a shame. So it was time to simplify the idea. Strip it down to the bare bones, and think of why we got into this business in the first place.

It was always about passion and craft. All that other BS was just noise. So I pitched a revised plan to my business partner: we offer one item on the menu. A singular combination of chips n’ salsa. No customization options, no exceptions. A Hawaiian-influenced combo that would knock the socks off of anyone wanting to try something good.

As we go through the depleted remains of our inventory, Kyle and I realize that we have just enough ‘gredients to put up one day’s service of CnS. It’s a tough reality to face. Kyle and I both know that we have the talent to continue finding work on Oahu, but with the amount of time and money we put into our freshly disintegrated business, there wasn’t much else we could do before we had to close out this chapter. If we can keep our promise to this new home of ours and deliver a full day’s worth of high-quality nosh, we can at least go out with a bang.

9

I remember being fired from TRÈS BIEN like it was yesterday. Despite how things ended for me, I feel like I can look back on my time there fondly. All the award-winning meals we served, the rich smiles of our customers I never looked in the eye, even the immaculate ‘gredients we got to cook with there. Although it ended earlier than expected, I consider my time there to be an invaluable experience I will never take for granted.

I believe chopping these pineapples with this dull, second-hand Santoku knife, a far cry from the Kishimotos I was used to holding in my hand, is what inspired me to reach this mature reflection. The equipment Kyle is using isn’t anything to write home about either, but we are making do with what we got for our first (and last) day of service.

We got up very early this morning, mass-prepping batches of Kyle’s Lime Chips and my new Mango-Piña Party Salsa for Opening Day. We informed our Gram followers about our situation, making sure that they were aware that our menu lost a lot of weight and that our physical location had changed a bit.

With no budget for marketing, we relied a bit more on word-of-mouth as well, using my cooking lesson contacts and Kyle’s wholesale customers to boost awareness. We reshared links to the interview we did with that paddleboarding Freudian lady. I had hoped that a hypothetical commercial with Tia would take us to the stratosphere, but we know that’s out of reach now.

Pietro even recorded a little promotional jingle for his 84 followers! Sure, he’s more Shy Ronnie than A$AP Rocky, but I know he’ll record a confident track for the world to hear one day.

Opening our truck at 08:00 felt a bit early since we’re only selling one combination of chips n’ salsa while competing against other places that are selling coffee, muffins, and breakfast sandwiches. So it was really surprising to see a Disneyland-esque line build up to our window. I couldn’t believe it.

Our stripped-down menu made our ordering process very simple.

“Hi. One please.”

“Fosho. $5.”

On to the next one.

We knew that our Evite, social media presence, and in-person promotion efforts reached a lot of people, but it was breathtaking to see how many showed up. We had enough inventory to get us from 08:00 to 18:00, max. But we were selling our product lightning quick and tips were coming in faster than a cheetah running up 7 flights of stairs, so we decided to take a 2-hour lunch break to re-up on ‘gredients and extend our closing time by a few hours.

Kyle and I were working our asses off. We were changing out our bandanas every hour, alternating between who was prepping the new batch of stuff and who was running the window. We had fans who found us online, curious visitors, tourists, families, criminals, and even some diet freaks who would never touch a carb in the evening, line up to get a piece of the action.

Things were moving so fast that I hardly had time to take a breath, but I was locked in on maintaining our excellent pace and quality service. Even when we had a few morons ask about other salsa flavors or attempt to order a burrito with their chips, I was having the time of my life.

I was reminded of those days at TRÈS, where our chefs would pop their heads outside the kitchen and see how bustlin’ things were, then yell at us to keep our wits together and put out these eloquent meals faster and faster. I didn’t feel that kind of pressure at this moment. There wasn’t an overwhelmed wait staff begging us for apps. No line cooks bickering at each other. It was just Kyle and I.

As I reflected on the many adventures I had to go through over the years, I couldn’t help but smile.