My First Stove — And My First Loss

The moment I put on my chef’s jacket, it became heavy — weighed down by responsibility, pressure, and grief. The man who was supposed to teach me the craft, my mentor, died of alcohol poisoning during my apprenticeship. Suddenly, there was no guidance — only knives, recipes, and unanswered questions I had to decipher alone.

And it got worse. My senior colleague, who had provided a rough but steady presence, fell seriously ill with cancer and left the restaurant. Another pillar gone. My head chef? He developed Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome — a condition that didn’t just erase his memory, it erased him. Burnout was the final blow. At just 18 years old, I stood alone in a kitchen built for five.

Learning to Burn Without Burning Out

I worked split shifts. Early mornings for prep, long nights for service — with only midday to either sleep or struggle through. I was exhausted. Inexperienced. Lost. And still — I got up every day.

That kitchen didn’t just teach me how to perfectly sear meat or reduce a jus to velvet. It taught me what it means to carry responsibility when no one is watching. To make decisions when no one else is there to guide you. To not give up.

Departure: Cooking as a Journey

After finishing my apprenticeship, I didn’t look for comfort — I looked for depth. I traveled whenever I could, chasing the spirit of kitchens around the world. I stood at street stalls in Vietnam, stirred curries in the smoky kitchens of India, discovered spices in Morocco’s bustling souks, and grilled meat over open flames in the deserts of North Africa.

I learned that cooking needs no language. That respect for ingredients, fire, and humanity has the same face everywhere.

Asian cuisine taught me balance. Africa showed me what it means to cook from the soul. Europe refined my technique. And somewhere in the mix of heat, hunger, and hands — I found myself.

Back Home — And Forward

Today, I’m not just a chef. I’m someone who understands that every dish carries a story. Every recipe is a piece of identity. Every ingredient has the power to connect people.

I’ve worked in fine dining, planned events, designed buffets, cooked on open fire, hosted live-cooking shows — but most of all, I’ve found meaning in feeding people with more than just food.

Merlin’s Plate — My Legacy on Paper

Merlin’s Plate is my first cookbook — a collection of recipes that are not just instructions. They are memories. Places. People. Failures and comebacks. They represent what cooking means to me: not just skill, but emotion.

This book is my invitation to anyone who wants to rediscover the joy of cooking — or maybe even themselves. Because even when life throws you into the frying pan, you can still create something that nourishes — yourself and others.

What I’ve Learned

• Respect the craft.
• Respect yourself.
• Never underestimate the power of a simple dish at the right time.

The kitchen shaped me. It burned me. But it also rebuilt me. And when I lift the lid from a pot today, it’s not just steam that rises — it’s history.