wilo benet, her mom, and i (hoc)
some chefs, and some places, are hard to think about seperately. it’s the puerto rican version of sitting down at a restaurant in napa and having t. keller pull up a chair and spend a half hour shooting the shit. meet wilo benet. big chef, little island. benet’s restaurant pikayo has long been considered one of the best, and his status as chef has overflowed like the many other name brand chefs in the states to cookbooks, kitchenware lines, sister restaurants, and in ‘oh nine, his own brand of wine grown in the delicious and storied rioja d.o.c.
he made eye contact with her mom, and walked over to the table. only a chef who built his career from so little to so much over two decade’s in the business could string together the stories and lessons he shared over the next twenty minutes without even meaning to be educational. he shared stories from the beginning, as he was taking verbal lashings from french masters, and earning his stripes in some of manhattan’s finest digs (read: le bernadin). he spoke of failed concepts, and his ninety five/five rule (a modification on the customers always right rule--where his gut instincts are given credit for that last five percent).
for a guy like me—a young farmer, a budding entrepreneur, a future hotelier and restaurateur—well, I’m a sponge these days. my task is to learn, and my approach is to absorb through osmosis. everyone is a teacher. some are masters. benet is a master.
in the course of our conversation he mentioned small bits, or glanced over minor specks, that in the scheme of his story, or in the course of a normal conversation, would most likely fall on glazed eyes and unfocused ear drums. but remember--a sponge.
it’s moments like these that will shape the course of my life. these little experiences of meeting the masters, being in the right place at the right time, or even the wrong place at the right time, will form the foundation from which I will build a future.
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