On July 7, 2012, I packed my bags and left what others would call a “charmed” life in Manila. With a little experience in the food industry, I arrived in New York with big dreams of opening a food stall at “Smorgasburg”, the very popular weekend market in Brooklyn, of opening my private dining room for underground eats, of owning a food truck followed by thousands on Twitter. I had a Hot Hula fitness certification tucked under my belt and many years of executive work experience although this was relegated to the back burner to be resurrected if all else failed.
Staying focused on my dreams, I started looking for an apartment in Brooklyn, did the rounds of the weekend food markets and visited a food truck fair. I did my research on obtaining licenses to operate these food trucks taking the streets of New York by storm… a novel addition to the extremely competitive and creative food industry, especially those double deckers turned into roving restaurants. I immersed myself in an intensive culinary techniques program at the International Culinary Center, formerly known as the French Culinary Institute.
After one month of living out of a suitcase, I moved to a small one-bedroom apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a place made so popular by the hipsters, whether real or “fake” as some claim them to be. The minute I walked in, I knew it was mine. There were a lot of issues I had to address, foremost were security and privacy as it was on the street level. I could deal with doing laundry temporarily outside with the promise of a laundry room being constructed in the building. To this day however, it hasn’t been started but it’s no big deal, it’s something I can live with.
Nonetheless, it is my very own private space where I seek refuge and which squeezes my creative juices, painting wall stencils while stuck inside at the height of hurricane Sandy. It also spits me out forcing me to fight cabin fever after the passing of blizzard Elmo to enjoy the fluffy, glaring white snow that had accumulated in Prospect Park.
Most importantly, it was the dream of my private dining that got my nod. I have turned my apartment into what looks like a small restaurant as my niece described it on her visit. A menu board I crafted with a plastic covered frame coated with chalkboard paint hangs on my wall. This is where I whip dishes on special occasions or on lazy Sundays for my girls and their friends. I wish I were more diligent though on inspecting the property, as I realized just after I had signed the lease that there was no dishwasher! What?!? I just assumed that in modern America, all the units would be equipped with one. It would help to have one when entertaining but again, it’s something I can live with.
I did not have the guts though to turn it into a business venture at this point. As I was reading a book written by the owner/chef of the very popular restaurant, Prune, I asked myself, “What makes me think I could do this with my limited experience?” In the highly competitive food industry in New York, one has to earn a toque’ and slave for years in the kitchen to even get a following. This lady worked 20 years in commercial kitchens, working her way up from a dishwasher before earning recognition. How to stay extremely focused when 192 English muffin packs and 1440 eggs leave her small kitchen on a weekend is incomprehensible. More so when her eyes are already a little red and swollen and her nose running in the heat.
I had my short stint as a student in the kitchens of the International Culinary Center (ICC) where we worked in pairs and had to produce five dishes in five hours on our feet in the extreme heat. To a novice, it felt like we were competing in the Iron Chef! I’ve cut my finger in my knife skills class. Thank God I didn’t take the full course where I would have been required to cut thirty pieces of vegetables in a tourne’ in each class until it was perfect! I’ve burned my hand carelessly grabbing the handle of a pan out of the oven even if we were adequately warned. I’ve carried very heavy pots from one station to another carefully trying not to spill its contents. Apparently, these have happened a lot of times. There is this legendary tale that the final exam, pass or fail, is to make the perfect French omelet “with tiny curds so finely pored that it resembles a baby’s butt”. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration. But would I have made it if I had taken the full course? I may not have earned my toque’ but I now wear with pride my chef’s jacket with the ICC insignia and my nameplate.
Early in the year, I researched on licenses required to operate a food truck. Not only did one need two licenses, there was a long waiting list to get them. I visited a food truck fair in South Street Seaport to see its very edgy and functional designs, and food offerings. Again, it was pretty much a specialty restaurant on wheels. Yes, you could hit a gold mine with just one very popular dish but the work it entails is just as demanding. With a lot of people now turning to healthy food, it is interesting to note though that it is still the fatty ones – oozing cheeses, glistening rich sauces, monster servings that grab the eye and fill those hungry stomachs.
I went to Smorgasburg, the Union Square and the Sixth Avenue food markets to observe how the vendors operate. It just confirmed what I read in an article featuring a peek into the life of the newest vendor at Smorgasburg. Two days of food prep, one hour’s sleep before opening, renting pop up kitchens and tents, rushing from one supplier to the next and transporting all these to the market in rented Zip cars was quick to dissuade me from diving into this venture. On top of that, you are always at the mercy of the weather. Bad rains and thunderstorms send everyone scrambling for shelter leaving you with not even enough to recover your costs. Not to mention, all the exhaustion. There are very good days though. So win some, lose some. It’s up to you to take the risk.
While all these got me derailed, I put on my other hat as a Hot Hula fitness instructor and immediately hooked up with the other instructors in the East coast. This wasn’t smooth sailing either. I worked hard trying to promote this program that I have learned to love. I forced myself to come out of my shell, approaching fitness centers and organizations and bravely doing public demos and auditions. I travelled far sometimes compromising my safety. I went out of my comfort zone sleeping over with people I hardly knew to attend a training far from the city. I was rejected countless times. I felt crushed when I was told I was not going to lead a demo just a few days before a big event as I wasn’t strong enough to do it. I refused to allow it to break me though and took it as a challenge. I would be lying if I said I didn’t persevere to prove them wrong. But it was more about making me believe in myself, to prove that I can be better. When you are passionate about something, nothing can bring you down. And this I have proven with the positive feedback from the NYC Dance Week. I don’t claim to be a ROCKSTAR instructor though as how a fitness center puts it in capital letters in their standard reply to thousands of applicants. But through all these, someone saw and recognized my efforts and made me one of their Area Managers. With this little achievement, I will continue to focus on helping others attain their fitness goals through my independent classes and try to promote the program.
With all these, I have learned to choose my battles and be more accepting of my capabilities while at the same time trying not to be constricted by it. It’s tough and yet fulfilling. But I’ve always loved New York! I love its energy that just makes you go, go and go! I love the independence it brings. Friends marvel at how I’m able to commute now, name it, I’ve ridden them all… subway, buses, rail, island ferries, cabs. There are times when I just want to have a car at my disposal but just the thought of scrambling for parking space immediately clears that from my mind. I miss road trips though when I can just rent a car and drive out of the city, getting lost and finding my way back.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it especially in those times when I feel down. I miss being in the presence of Mommy and Papa, just being beside them as they battle their medical condition, my mom now in a coma. I miss just being with my sister, Booboop, our crazy conversations and her laughter. I miss my sister, Twinkie, my most generous and ardent supporter who never fails to bring the family together for gastronomic experiences and weekend vacations. I miss my twin, Vikki, my friend, adviser and mentor who always encourages me when others put me down. I miss my only son, Gino, my forever fun travel companion who I patiently wait on while shopping in the streets of Soho.
I am very lucky though to have this opportunity to be with my girls as they cheer me on with my small accomplishments. I may not see them all the time as they themselves are carving their own lives here. I am lucky to have a few friends in the city who despite their very busy schedules, make time to meet up with me. I am lucky to have met new friends who helped me get started in everything I have done here. I am lucky to have old friends who despite the distance, encourage me in all my endeavours.
Those big dreams I speak of may seem unreachable to me now. But I will not beat myself for believing that I could do all these by myself at my age. I have learned to appreciate my small accomplishments. I’m not out to prove anything to anyone, I’m just working to be a better me. So when the time comes for me to return and I could just make that perfect French omelet, continue to make my hips smile and love myself for what I have become with my New York adventure, then I can give myself a pat in the back. Then I can tell myself “Well done, Minnie! It was all worth it!”
7 July 2013
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