About Me

I was just five years old when I first visited a massive hotel in a small town in São Paulo, Brazil. My uncle, the Executive Chef, had invited my father to come and see the place he worked so hard to keep running smoothly, and my dad brought me along, thinking I might learn something new. As we stepped through the bustling corridors of the kitchen, a world unlike anything I had ever seen unfolded before my eyes.

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The air was thick with the aromas of exotic spices and simmering sauces, each scent as rich and layered as the dishes they promised. I watched in awe as chefs in crisp white uniforms dashed about, their voices brisk but somehow musical, like a symphony of urgency and expertise. My uncle guided us patiently through each section of the kitchen, naming each station with a gentle pride, “This is where we prepare the salads. Over there, the sauces. Here, the stewards make sure every dish is spotless and shining.” To a small child, it was all magic—the feverish energy, the seriousness, the transformation of raw ingredients into something extraordinary. I felt like Remy in Ratatouille, discovering a hidden world full of wonder, beauty, and meaning.

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Then, my uncle did something I would never forget. He pointed to the door leading to the dining room and said, “Go on, Val. See the restaurant for yourself.” Little did I know, I was about to step into a place that would forever change me. As I walked through the transition area between the kitchen and the dining room—where servers prepared napkins, polished glasses, and gathered their tools—it felt almost like crossing into another world, a kind of sacred passage from the bustling backstage to the elegant theater of service.

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The moment I opened that second door, I was met by a sight that would stay with me for the rest of my life. There, high above, hung a chandelier of breathtaking beauty, with crystals shimmering and refracting light in a way that seemed otherworldly. It was like gazing at the heavens themselves, and I felt, with a clarity rare in childhood, that something truly special was happening in that space. I stood there, transfixed, as the room around me began to come into focus. The tables were draped in crisp white linens, each topped with a soft yellow cloth that seemed to warm the entire room. There were perfectly arranged plates, carefully placed silverware, and three gleaming glasses at each setting. Every table was a masterpiece, replicated across the room in perfect detail.

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My eyes swept over the room, and I noticed people at those tables, chatting, laughing, and sharing in the same warmth that filled me as I stood there. The servers moved smoothly between them, and the joy on everyone’s faces created an atmosphere that felt like pure magic. I didn’t have words for it then, but I knew I was witnessing something powerful: the beauty of hospitality, of creating a place where people could find joy, connection, and warmth.

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In that moment, I felt a calling—a sense that I wanted to be a part of creating that same feeling for others. This wasn't just about food or fine linens; it was about the way a place could make people feel welcomed, cared for, and uplifted. Even today, in my work, I carry that same dream forward. My mission is not simply to meet goals or complete projects; it’s to bring that same joy, awe, and sense of belonging to my clients. Only when they feel that spark—when they experience something bigger than themselves—do I feel that my work is truly complete.