“I came to New York two weeks before 9/11, starry-eyed and filled with hope. I was 17 years old. In Palestine, a lot of things that meant a lot to me were destroyed, but I was finally coming to what I thought would be home—well, it is home now—but it was a difficult acceptance... I faced a lot of racism,” says Nasser Jaber, co-founder of The Migrant Kitchen, a New York-based organization that runs a pop-up restaurant, catering company and relief kitchens around the world by hiring and providing livable wages and support to immigrants. During the last six months, they’ve delivered over 1 million meals to New Yorkers in need and fed refugees in Beirut after the explosion. Next, they’ll feed voters at the polls. “What keeps me going is that for a long time, I only was the server. I always felt beneath people... But food and cooking gave me a trade that made me very proud, that made me feel accepted. I said, ‘You know what, if I’m going to be a waiter, I’m going to be the best waiter. If I’m going to make fries, I’m going to make the best fries... Accepting that allowed me to change other people’s lives. Now, with all the success that’s happened, I can’t forget where I came from. So, how can I lift up and empower other people?” Nasser Jaber, The Migrant Kitchen, New York, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo courtesy of Charlie Balsam)
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“There are a lot of vegans that don’t eat vegetables because there’s so much premade crap on the market. But if you’re just coming into this and ate the standard American diet, I’m not going to judge you, and I’m not going to give you something that's so hard core that you run for the hills. I never tell people to stop eating meat. First, it’s your choice, and second, if you’re making a life change, if it’s a gradual transition, that will be better for your life,” says Gabrielle Darvassy, owner of B’Gabs Vegan Kitchen in Chicago. Her struggles with her weight—and how it was perceived at other vegan eateries—prompted her to open her own place. “When I was at my worst health state, I gained weight in a short time. I would go in these vegan health places and there was always judgment around weight. I was like, ‘Wow, that’s completely backward from what needs to happen.’ ... When I opened, I didn’t want anyone to feel that ever.” That sentiment, rather than a detailed plan, informed her choices for the menu, which is filled with transition foods like a Nashville-style chicken sandwich made from mushrooms, and juice combinations that come to her “like a download from God.” — Gabrielle Darvassy, B’Gabs Vegan Kitchen, Chicago, Illinois as told to Albert Stumm ... less

“On the Camino, the world comes to us. We have people from the U.S., Germany, Korea, Sweden, Latin America, everywhere. But right now it feels empty. There used to be 2,000 pilgrims passing through each day, and now there are less than 200,” says Ernesto Pereira, a third-generation pulpeiro, or octopus fisher, and owner of Pulpería a Garnacha, a traditional Galician octopus restaurant located along the Camino de Santiago in Melide, Spain. “The whole world is afraid right now, but I believe that once we have a vaccine, pilgrims will return. We’re already getting reservations for 2021,” he says. Though the future of his pulpería is uncertain, Pereira’s faith in the Camino is steadfast. “I’ve lived in Melide for 17 years, and every year there are more people [on the Camino]. And every year, I like the pilgrims more and more. They are not tourists; they are a part of our culture. They bring money, but also languages and stories. [COVID] might change the Camino, but it won’t destroy it. That’s the beautiful thing about the Camino—in the long term, it will not collapse just because people aren’t spending money.” — Ernesto Pereira, Pulpería a Garnacha, Melide, Spain as told to Carmin Sherlock. ... less

“When farming was more a part of our culture, people were investing in land as something they could pass on to their kids to farm. But people don’t inherit farmland anymore,” says Heather Marold Thomason, founder of the Philadelphia-based, woman-owned butchery Primal Supply Meats, which sources sustainable, whole-animal meat from local farms. “Now, new farmers have to pay mortgages with incredibly high land prices. And the consolidation of the meat industry into this massive, industrial network has left small farmers without a lot of resources. But somehow it isn’t stopping—we’re still seeing the growth of small farms,” she says. “There’s an influx of people asking questions about where things come from, or why the old system is breaking. And for those of us within the local supply chain, because it’s very direct and relationship-driven, we were able to be nimble throughout the seismic shift and disruption [of COVID]. Slowly, we’re taking a larger piece of the market share.” — Heather Marold Thomason, Primal Supply Meats, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as told to Carmin Sherlock (Photo by Jillian Guyette)
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“My mom has this stainless steel tea kettle and every single morning when I was a child, I would hear it clank shut downstairs in the kitchen and that’s when I knew it was time to get up,” says Pooja Bavishi, owner of Brooklyn-based ice cream company Malai, talking about the inspiration for her Masala Chai flavor. “Each family has its own recipe for chai, whether it’s the proportion of spices or when you add the milk or the tea—it’s very personal. Ours is very ginger heavy. So the first time I made the flavor, it was as if I was making my morning cup of chai, which I still do every single morning,” says Bavishi, whose parents immigrated from India and raised her in North Carolina. “Every flavor has some sort of connection to my childhood.” The best part was discovering she’s not alone. Her first summer in business, a woman bought a scoop of Orange Fennel, inspired by the fennel seed palate cleansers common in Bavishi’s home. “This reminds me of these cookies my Italian grandmother used to make and I haven’t had that flavor since she’s passed,” Bavishi recalled the woman saying. “Thank you for bringing this flavor to me.” Pooja Bavishi, Malai Ice Cream, Brooklyn, New York, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo: Morgan Ione Yeager) ... less

“There’s a moral obligation to protect workers. It doesn’t matter what job you have—you’re working with dignity to feed your kids, pay your rent, support your family,” says Geoconda Argüello-Kline, secretary-treasurer for the Culinary Workers Union Local 226, which represents 60,000 workers in Las Vegas and Reno, Nevada. The union’s Adolfo Fernandez Bill—named after a member who passed away from COVID-19—was signed into law in August, and ensures that hospitality workers in Las Vegas and Reno get free COVID testing, paid time off for testing and quarantining, and whistleblower protection. “The most difficult part is family members passing away. This bill will protect over 280,000 workers, but if you include their families, it will protect maybe 800,000 people,” says Argüello-Kline, who notes that hospitalizations among union workers and family members have increased 1,380 percent since restaurants and casinos opened on June 4. “We’re the largest immigrant organization in Nevada. We represent 182 countries and 40 different languages, and the majority of our members are Latina women. By creating legislation, we’re protecting immigrants, Las Vegas, Nevada, and the nation. Nothing is ever about just one person—it’s all of us together.” — Geoconda Argüello-Kline, Culinary Workers Union Local 226, Las Vegas, Nevada, as told to Carmen Sherlock (Photo by the Culinary Union) ... less

“If we are going to move in telling the human side of this industry, it’s reliant on the people who have (social media) followings to help push the narrative. If you love food and you love going out, then prove it a little bit. If you have a phenomenal dish, it takes two seconds to ask the server, ‘Who made this? I’d love to tag them in what I’m about to post,’” says Tyler Da Silva, chef and co-owner of neighborhood hangout spot Thr33’s Company Snack Bar in Ottawa, Ontario. “And then maybe you get that cook coming out and saying, ‘I’ve been working on this dish for so long. Chef just trusted me with this. It’s my special tonight.’ Then you get a story out of it. Especially if you have some type of clout, why wouldn’t you want that story?” More importantly, it’s giving credit where credit is due, and a needed moral booster. “There’s a duty, I think, right now to help build restaurants back up and to help build up the people behind them.” — Tyler Da Silva, Thr33’s Company Snack Bar, Ottawa, Ontario, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo by Tyler Da Silva) ... less

“When the Northern Communist Party was coming through Laos and they were genociding Hmong people ... the majority of the Hmong people from the hills of Laos trekked and crossed the Mekong River to get to Thailand, to refugee camps,” says chef Yia Vang, who was born in one of the camps in Thailand. “My mom would say to me that these refugee camps were a symbol of hope for them. They just started walking west ... literally living on this hope.” Today, he lives in Minneapolis and in spring will open his first brick-and-mortar restaurant, Vinai, which he calls a love letter to his parents and is named after the camp where he was born. Like that camp, Vinai has become a symbol of hope during this difficult time. “In the design we’ve kept this big 10-top table. One of the suggestions was that we take that table out and put two tables there for social distance… And I said, ‘No. One day we’re going to gather back. One day we’re going to sit back at that table, everyone’s going to sit together. We’re going to eat together and community will keep going.’” Yia Vang, Union Hmong Kitchen and forthcoming Vinai, Minneapolis, Minnesota, @unionhmongkitchen @vinaimn as told to @alison_spiegel (Photo: Lauren Cutshall) ... less

“It's really difficult for one family to continue the same tradition because the kids are always interested in doing what their parents didn't. But we must have it in our genes because we keep doing the same thing. And besides, oddly, we like it," says Maria Masclans, the sixth-generation owner of her family’s salt cod stand, Masclans Orígens, which has been in Barcelona’s Sant Antoni market since it opened in 1882. In the decades before, her ancestors began trading with English and Dutch merchants who preserved the cold-water fish in salt, and the business went mostly unchanged for the next hundred years. Masclans remembers playing in the market as a child, running between stands for snacks and drawing at a small desk set up in the aisle. Her mother is the one who began to innovate, adapting to busier lives by offering presoaked cod (the fish, called bacalao, is cured in salt and must be soaked for hours before cooking). Masclans has since expanded to prepared meals. Her secret to success? Paying attention to how her customers cook. “There are some classics we can't take off the menu, but people come in and tell you what they tried at home, so it gives you ideas. But you have to know how to listen.”— Maria Masclans, Masclans Orígens, Barcelona, Spain, as told to Albert Stumm. ... less

“I love this profession. I’ve learned a lot other than cooking. Cooperation, assistance, and you can be an artist. Sometimes when I make food, I feel like a painter, like I’m drawing but using vegetables and ingredients. And through it, you can learn how to deal with your anger,” says Ahmad Khalaf, a Syrian who recently became sous chef at the Farmington Hotel in Monrovia, Liberia. Khalaf was studying banking science when he fled the civil war, first landing in Lebanon, which didn’t allow work permits for refugees. Eventually, he got a job doing prep work in one restaurant, learned to cook and bounced to a few other kitchens before Lebanon’s economy collapsed. A friend helped him get his current job earlier this year, but he hasn’t forgotten what he left behind. “When you're working, food reminds you of family. While I’m cooking, I’m thinking about them, and I think, there’s no need to be angry.”— Ahmad Khalaf, The Farmington Hotel, as told to Albert Stumm (Photo by @daniel_hollis_af) ... less

“It was rough at first. A lot of people told us, ‘No, that’s not how things are done,’” says Amy Yeung, a clothing designer and part of Dził Asdzáán (“Mountain Woman”) Command Center, a grassroots group of Diné, or Navajo, women who came together in March to help feed Navajo Nation children and families facing food insecurity due to COVID-19 school closures. “But I said, ‘Look—these are our children. They are the future of our tribe, and we have to find a way. We can’t wait for the government.’ We managed to give every single kid on Navajo Nation a box.” The groups so far has raised over $500,000—through crowdfunding, art auctions, benefit concerts and private donors—and distributed almost 1 million meals. “We came together as concerned mothers. But now we’re finding that all these women are connected to so many different local grassroots organizations, or major nonprofits, or philanthropic entities, or congressional leaders in our community. It’s this incredible circle of policy-makers, health advocates, decision-makers, legal minds, and creative minds. It’s a gentle fierceness—the motherly way of being a warrior,” says fellow organizer Chenoa Bah. “Every connection to another matriarch, another mom, another female essential worker connects us to more of the community’s needs. We really listen to the leadership of women.” — Chenoa Bah and Amy Yeung, Dził Asdzáán Command Center, Albuquerque, New Mexico, as told to Carmin Sherlock (Photo by Edible New Mexico). ... less

“On days when I’m really really tired and just exhausted, I will still make it from my heart. There are certain times when my son calls me after hours and says, ‘Mom, we’re out of hummus.’ My heart doesn’t let me just sit home and relax and say let them wait until next week. So I get up and make a new batch,” say Muntaha Dari, the cook behind Mama Mary’s Hummus. Seven years ago, Dari started selling homemade hummus at the deli inside her son’s gas station in Olmstead Falls, Ohio. “I started making 20 eight ounce containers a week. Twenty progressed to 30 and 40 and 50… We didn’t advertise and we still don’t. It’s just one person to another. I have this one customer that lives an hour away and she drives once a week just to get the hummus. ... I’m thankful that it’s a deli inside a gas station, so we weren’t one of the ones that had to shut down,” she says. They also gave away sandwiches to anyone who came in with a student ID. “The most common comments I receive are, ‘You guys are like family. I love your boys. They’re so friendly and respectful. You guys are like family to us more than just a corner grocery store gas station.’” — Muntaha Dari, Mama Mary’s Hummus, Olmstead Falls, Ohio, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo courtesy of Mama Mary's Hummus)
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“At first people were a little timid, and they would buy some things, but then they saw the quality was great and the prices were basically the same as the supermarket,” says René Becker, owner of Hi-Rise Bread Company in Cambridge, Massachusetts. When the pandemic hit, the bakery’s foot traffic disappeared, so he transformed it into the Hi-Rise Larder, a specialty store with delivery and curbside pickup only for top-quality grocery items—Tuscan kale, Texas watermelon, Maine oysters on the weekends, etc. “It was the ease of the whole transaction and quality that really made it appealing to people, and the fact that they’re supporting a business they love. They want to see us survive.” A former restaurant critic who was inspired to quit after a trip to Italy, Becker says this transformative period will force people “to make some real decisions about what it is they want to do with their lives. Do you love cooking and love feeding people? Or do you love the idea of being a chef and restaurateur? Those are two different things. If you love cooking you’ll find a way of doing it. I think that’s true of me with Hi-Rise. I love to make bread but I also love to make soups and putting together sandwiches. But I love buying produce too. It’s a crazy, crazy world.” — René Becker, Hi-Rise Bread Company, Cambridge, Massachusetts, as told to Albert Stumm (Photo by Cynthia Becker) ... less

“We don’t have ‘no’ in us,” says chef Wayne Johnson, vice president of culinary operations for Seattle-based non-profit FareStart, which trains people with barriers to employment for a career in the culinary field. “In the beginning, it was super rough. Learning about the inequalities and the disparities across the nation as well as here with us. Along with being quarantined. Along with the protests. It took a toll on the staff as a whole. Folks in leadership like myself, being a person of color as well, had to get over it faster than everybody else because they need somebody to go to, they need someone to talk to.” When they had to suspend in-person training and shut down their cafe and restaurant, which help fund their program, Johnson scaled up an emergency meal response so big—1 million meals since March—FareStart was able to hire former students who were losing jobs as restaurants closed. “Right now we’re working out ways we can get creative from a kitchen standpoint. How many sandwiches can you make without getting bored of it?” he says. “We’re working right now on doing some culturally specific meals—East African or North African meals, more Halal. That’s what’s keeping us going right now.”— Wayne Johnson, FareStart, Seattle, Washington, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo courtesy of FareStart) ... less

“The big harm is seeing too much uniformity in the other group, whatever that means to you, versus your own. We’re more conditioned to see nuance in people that we know… that’s part of our natural biological conditioning, but we have not created social structures to fight that,” says Jenny Dorsey, a former pop-up chef and food stylist turned writer and event producer. Dorsey is the founder of Los Angeles-based non-profit and think tank Studio ATAO, which produces public events—now digital salons—including the identity-probing, traveling dinner and exhibit “Asian in America.” Since public programming halted, she’s been focusing on educational resources like a recent toolkit on tokenization in food media. “Oftentimes people will be like, ‘Oh you shouldn’t go be the token,’ but often that’s an important opportunity for them. Then it puts them in a lose-lose situation. There’s even less representation than if they did take the position. But if they do take the position, not only are they being utilized by the dominant group to further their own interests, but also they have this totally undue pressure to represent every single person that connects with their identity. That’s the problem with lack of diversity.” Jenny Dorsey, Studio ATAO, Los Angeles, California, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo credit: Levy Bergman) ... less

“Living in Portland, my sense of self-worth was very scarce. … Even though we had just won food cart of the year, I was not busy. It was the worst week in sales. That reinforced this idea in my mind that maybe this city doesn’t need me,” says Richard Le, who with his wife Sophia in 2018 founded the Portland, Oregon-based Vietnamese food cart Matta, which won Eater PDX’s 2019 Food Cart of the Year. “Then the pandemic hit, and we were all deemed essential workers, and I thought, ‘Am I really that essential?’ Based on my own experiences here, Vietnamese food wasn’t an essential thing. ... It’s predominantly white here. You can get tokenized very easily, or you can get shunned because you are expressing too much of your culture.” Things turned in March, when Le began donating thousands of family-style meals to health care and food industry workers, as well as families from Portland’s Boys and Girls Club, using both his own funds and over $6,000 he fundraised locally. “I realized that people wanted a sense of normalcy, and the fact that we can provide comfort and nostalgia through our food—that’s a big responsibility. That’s why we're essential. We put so much of our time and effort into feeding people in need, and now people are coming and supporting us. It’s a beautiful exchange.”—Richard Le, Matta, Portland, Oregon, as told to Carmen Sherlock (Photo by Francois Achan) ... less

“I try to use only indigenous purveyors and POC, Black or immigrant farmers for my fresh produce. I work with specific companies around what is now known as the U.S. to not just highlight their products, but to tell people the story of the food of indigenous people,” says Hillel Echo-Hawk, chef and owner of Seattle-based pre-colonial catering company Birch Basket. She’s also developing a menu for an upcoming café with the Chief Seattle Club, a Native-led nonprofit that provides culturally relevant support and services to indigenous people. “I’m trying to incorporate a variety of traditional foods. I’m a member of the Pawnee Nation of Oklahoma, but it’s not just going to be Pawnee food. I grew up in Alaska. It’s not just going to be Athabaskan food,” she says, explaining they plan to grow all the food on their own farm. “It’s just a beautiful, beautiful thing and every time I think about it, it makes me smile. It makes my heart happy.”—Hillel Echo-Hawk, Birch Basket, Seattle, Washington, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo courtesy of Hillel Echo-Hawk) ... less

“Even if we're just praying with them, talking to them and listening to their problems, just 5 or 10 minutes, it means a lot to a person,” says Maria Doleman, president of Martha’s Kitchen, a nonprofit affiliated with the Damascus Road Community Baptist Church in Cockeysville, Maryland. Martha's Kitchen, named after Doleman's mother, provides support and food to the homeless and community members in need. “I love helping my community and anybody that needs it. I feel like if I have and I’m able to give you, then I’m going to give you,” says vice president Erica Lawson. After COVID-19 hit their community, Doleman and Lawson started monthly boxed food distributions, where they’ll serve 200 to 500 people at a time, up from the 50 to 100 prior to the pandemic. After one event, Doleman took some remaining food to a family her son said needed help. “The mom was crying. She was thanking us because she didn’t know how she was going to feed her kids that day... So it really touched me to know we could give them the sense that things are going to get better,” Doleman says. —Maria Doleman and Erica Lawson, Martha's Kitchen, Cockeysville, Maryland, as told to Alison Spiegel (Photo courtesy of Martha's Kitchen) ... less

Every meal arrives with a piece of artwork from a child on the island—a picture, or a poem,” says Barrett Gray, coordinator and cook for Healthy Island Project’s Lunch Box program, which has provided weekly meals and check-in phone calls for 100 seniors in Deer Isle, Maine, since the pandemic shutdowns began in March. “The pictures are maybe actually more of a highlight than the meals themselves.” Volunteers cook and deliver meals—cooked from mostly donated ingredients, often including crab, scallops and lobster—as well as pick up prescriptions and library books for the seniors, many of whom live alone. “We’re already isolated on this island, so I just knew how isolated these seniors were going to feel when the pandemic hit.” Donations of $5 are accepted, but the meals are free. “Many elders can’t cook for themselves anymore,” says Gray. “It was important that they have a healthy and beautiful meal that is not a frozen dinner.”— Barrett Gray, Healthy Island Project, Deer Isle, Maine, as told to Carmen Sherlock (Photo by Rene Colson-Hudson) ... less

“I have no respect for most ‘fusion’ food,” says Isaiah Martinez, a third-generation American living in Eugene, Oregon, and owner of Yardy Eugene, a pop-up restaurant that serves farm-to-table West Indian food. “There is fusion by nature—that I love. A good example of that is Hawaii: you have Puerto Rican, Portuguese, Japanese influences from immigrants all together in one small place. But fusion by misunderstanding and confusion? I don’t like that fusion.” The 28-year-old, whose family is from Grenada and Puerto Rico, trained at Michelin-starred restaurants in San Francisco and visits the Caribbean regularly to study his culinary and cultural heritage. “Many Caribbean people were brought from West Africa to the Caribbean, and then to the American South. ... People love Southern cooking, but it would not be what it is without European settlers and Caribbean people,” he explains. “And if you think about how Caribbean people learn how to cook, I think that a lot of it is influenced by European technique.” Histories of enslavement and immigration inform Martinez’ take on authenticity. “Authenticity is nearly impossible to execute unless you’re in the environment in which it was created. My cooking uses West Indian influences and flavors, but also local, sustainable Northwest ingredients. Yardy is a representation of my heritage and where I live now.”— Isaiah Martinez, Yardy Eugene, Eugene, Oregon, as told to Carmen Sherlock (Photo by Gracie M. Schatz) ... less