My Father Taught Me to Cook. Who Will Give the Next Generation of Chefs a Chance?

The first kitchen I loved was in our apartment in the Bronx. It had a stove with one burner that seemed to have its own opinions, a drawer that refused to close, and barely enough counter space for a cutting board. My father would come home from work tired, take off his jacket, and start dinner for my brother and me. Nothing fancy: rice, beans, eggs, chicken when we had it. He could turn a few ingredients into a meal that made the whole apartment feel warmer.

My brother and I were his audience. I was the one asking too many questions. Why did he wait before turning the chicken? How did he know the rice was done without looking? My father usually answered while moving around me: “Watch, then you’ll see.” On good nights, he let me stir. On other nights, I was promoted to the very important position of staying out of his way.

I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was learning that cooking was a way to take care of people. I loved watching my father put two plates on the table before fixing his own. Later, I wanted to do that for everyone. I wanted a room full of family and friends, music playing, somebody asking for seconds, and at least one uncle claiming he could make it better. Every Latino family has one. Sometimes it’s me.

Now, in 2026, I see young chefs with that same excitement. They cook in apartments after long shifts, sell plates on weekends, bring dishes to every family gathering, and dream about the day someone will give them a real chance. Talent is everywhere. A reliable path forward is much harder to find.

There are ways into this work. Some people attend culinary school; others learn through apprenticeships or on the job. But having a way in is different from having the time, money, guidance, and connections to keep going. A young cook might be able to perfect a sauce and still have no idea where to find an affordable kitchen, how to price a catering order, or whom to call when an opportunity falls through. Those lessons matter as much as knife skills, and too many people are expected to figure them out alone.

I think about the young cook who finishes a restaurant shift and spends the bus ride home sketching out menus on a phone with a cracked screen. Maybe there’s a family recipe at the center of the idea. Maybe it’s something entirely new. Either way, the dream doesn’t come with a supplier list, a mentor, or a spare refrigerator. “Start small” sounds sensible until you realize how much a small start can cost.

The pressure reaches the people who might hire and teach them, too. Independent restaurants have been dealing with rising costs and tight margins. When an owner is trying to cover tomorrow’s payroll and keep the lights on, mentoring a new chef can slip down the list, even when they want to help. Young cooks end up working beside experienced people without always getting the time to ask why a dish works, how a menu earns its keep, or what it takes to lead a team.

And let’s talk about the strange job description young chefs seem to inherit. We’re supposed to cook beautifully, photograph it before it gets cold, post it, answer inquiries, set prices, shop, prep, serve, clean, and somehow maintain an online personality cheerful enough to convince the algorithm we slept last night. I love entertaining people. I would also love to sit down while I eat lunch.

For cooks from working families, including many of us who grew up in Latino homes, there’s another layer. Our food often carries a story, and we want room to tell it in our own way. We shouldn’t have to make a dish less familiar to earn respect, or feel limited to cooking only what people expect from us. I can love my father’s rice and beans and still be curious about every other flavor in the kitchen. Good mentorship makes space for both.

When I say young chefs need support, I mean practical things: a working chef willing to answer questions without making someone feel small; paid opportunities to learn; clear advice about costs and pricing; introductions to people who might hire, collaborate, or share space. I mean kitchens where a beginner can make a mistake, learn from it, and come back the next day better. The work is demanding enough. Humiliation doesn’t improve the food.

I still remember my father standing at that little stove after a full day of work. He wasn’t giving us a lesson in entrepreneurship. He was making sure we ate. But he gave me a reason to cook, and that reason has stayed with me: food brings people close, even when the day has been long.

The young chefs coming up now have their own versions of that kitchen and their own reasons to keep going. We don’t need someone to promise us success. We need a place to learn, people willing to share what they know, and a fair chance to put a plate on the table. Give us that, and I think you’ll be surprised by what we make.