When I was still a student, I used to draw my future restaurant during lectures instead of taking notes. Valet parking underground. A hostess greeting guests at the door. Me, the chef-owner, gliding between tables while guests swooned over my food. At the end of the night, I’d count the empty plates and the good reviews, bid my happy staff goodbye, and do it all again tomorrow.
I kept that drawing for years.
Nobody told me that the restaurant in my head was a lie that costs about two million pesos to find out.
The delusion started early. My dad had a good eye for produce and a natural palate. Every Sunday he’d go to Aranque, and vendors would see him coming and groan—“Andiyan na ung barat.” He’d hunt for the most beautiful produce he could get for cheap, then come home and cook Sunday lunches that could’ve been served in “expensive” restaurants. We rarely ate out. I grew up thinking mas masarap pa sa bahay, and I was right.
But that truth became poison. Because I believed that good food was enough. That if the cooking was honest and the ingredients were fresh, the business would somehow take care of itself. This is the same delusion that kills most Filipino restaurant owners before they even buy their first pan. They think “mas masarap pag ako ang nagluto,”and they think that’s a business plan.
— opening pages