Last week, I wrote about the first forty-eight hours after announcing República’s closure. This is the aftermath.
The meetings. The phone calls. Conversations with landlords; not just the landlord, but all of them. Everyone asking the same question: are we going to get paid if this goes under?
What most people don’t realize is that when we entered this chapter, we were already carrying weight. Debt accumulates quickly—especially when hard months start piling up. That’s on us. The cost of ambition. Of thinking big while bootstrapping everything. Building without an investor at the beginning, the middle, or the end.
We started in a good place. Then it grew. Bigger rooms. Bigger ambitions. Bigger risks. All of it stacking.
There were real moments when we could have paused. When República could have continued in a different space, at a different scale. We didn’t. That’s another story.
What most people don’t know is that it would have been easier to keep going than to stop.
But right now, I want to talk about something else.
Returning to service. Coming back and doing all the things that earned our reputation. Being back in the room. República—the place Olivia and I, alongside so many others, built with intention, sacrifice, and belief.
A place that still matters. A place that deserves care in its final chapter.
That’s exactly what I intend to give it.
Six months ago, I was staring at the growing pile of production work for TODOS, thinking: if only I could focus on this—and not have to worry about everything else.
At the same time, we were transitioning from one restaurant concept to another—essentially merging two—while the business had dropped more than thirty percent for three months straight. I tried stepping back in, but with everything happening at once, something became clear: this wasn’t the same República I had launched.
The people were different. The space was different. The moment in their lives—and in mine—was different.
Maybe I was getting old. Maybe my República, the one I launched with my best friends, no longer existed the way I remembered it. Maybe we were meant to be something more familiar now. More relaxed. Something that didn’t require heavy storytelling or strict alignment between story and dish. Just big, beautiful Mexican food; our version of it.
So I stepped back.
Coming back now has been a challenge. Because when you put a deadline on something—when you’re nearing the end—one question refuses to go away: how do we want to go out? How do we want to be remembered?
The easiest thing would be to do what people expect. Make everyone comfortable. Soften the edges. Coast. I see that instinct in some of the staff. This isn’t about calling anyone out. It’s acknowledging that this isn’t how I imagined the ending.
But it’s early.
If anyone knows me, they know I’ve empowered people in these positions before. Some came back grateful. Others took what they learned and walked away without recognition. That used to hurt. I understand it differently now. I’m okay with it. I’m sure, one day, they will be too.
With the chefs here now, I gave them space to figure it out. To me, that was growth. That was trust.
But to understand where we’re headed, you have to understand how República was built.
When the late Lauro Romero and I worked together, it worked because we covered each other’s insecurities. We both grew up surrounded by this food; him in Hidalgo, me between Guadalajara and Tijuana—but from two very different versions of it.
His was pure, joyful, deeply rooted in family. Big gatherings. Slaughtering animals. Cultivating corn. Beautiful.
Mine was simpler. The version of a chubby kid who loved to eat everything. Tacos al vapor. Tacos al pastor. Tacos de guisado. Tacos dorados. If there was a tortilla, I was all in.
I was obsessed with the cuisine, but like him, I had never cooked it professionally. He was a chef, trained in Japanese and French kitchens. I was a home cook with a passion for the history.
So when we came together, our relationship became constant exchange. Me reading. Me researching. Him doing the same. Me asking—what about this? What if we try that? What if we tell stories between courses? What if we teach people the history of what they’re eating? Him translating all that madness into food.
From the beginning, República was meant to tell a long story through courses. To take you somewhere. To begin at the beginning.
That idea remains. And even though it felt like it was slipping away, I’m bringing it back.
When dinner begins, we start with the etymology of the cuisine; how it started, the earliest components. The snacks are rooted in those original elements: simple, foundational, respectful.
There was balance. Because when Lauro and I complemented each other, you could feel it. The love. The trust. The friendship.
To this day, it remains the best working relationship I’ve ever had.
As I look at República right now, the parts that truly work remind me of when I started De Noche with Chef Dani. There was hand-holding then, and it was intentional. She isn’t a maximalist like Chef Juan. Not everyone has that gift. Not everyone needs it.
With Dani, it was about big flavors. Restraint. Doing more with less. Familiarity. I respected that philosophy deeply. I still do.
But I also believe you can always get better. That’s where I’m different.
I’ve always said I’m not a chef; not out of false humility, but so people don’t feel misled. I used to joke I was just a humble dishwasher. Over time, that line blurred.
There are insecurities that come with entering this world as a high school dropout. I was never a barista. Never a roaster. Never an entrepreneur. Never a writer. Never a filmmaker. And yet I’ve done all of those things; and not only excelled at them but continue to be recognized for them.
With food, though, I’ve always been more timid about claiming my own skill.
That’s why I chose to step back. Out of respect; not just for the cuisine, but for the people I empowered.
Right now, it’s different.
Coming back into the kitchen, trying to salvage what I feel we’ve been missing—and I want to be clear, I’m not just talking about food—this isn’t about disrespect. It’s about visibility. About giving shape to something that lost definition.
It didn’t get worse. It got comfortable.
And for someone like me—a curator, an admirer of beautiful things, physical and visual—that comfort is hard to accept. Especially when I’m surrounded by so much talent. Because we saw what needed to be done, and we did just enough to get there, without asking the harder question:
What happens if we push beyond it?
Over the last few days, I’ve been back in the restaurant. For the record, I never stopped coming in; just not with the same intention.
There were moments when I’d look around and think, it’s different now. They’ll figure it out. Sometimes I was encouraged by the potential. Other times discouraged by how many small things we were letting slide.
But now it’s different.
Now there’s a deadline. And deadlines change everything.
When we made the announcement, I said plainly: we need to change a lot. Normally, you approach something like this incrementally—two percent better every day. It doesn’t sound like much, but over time it adds up.
I don’t have that luxury.
Right now, improvement has to look like twenty percent a day. The truth is, we’re sitting at about sixty percent of where we need to be. Sixty. That means there’s still forty percent left—and we’re already doing the heavy lifting. So we can’t afford slow gains. We’re making five, seven percent improvements—but we have to make them fast.
Yesterday was good. Sixty-eight covers. Forty-two tasting menus. The rest à la carte.
And to be honest, the à la carte felt like a distraction.
Beautiful plates. Big flavors. Familiar territory. Things we can do with our eyes closed. We do that better than almost anyone in this town. República, Lilia, any of us—we’ve proven that already.
But that’s not the challenge.
The challenge is the next level.
People who know me know I’ve been called a lot of things. Dreamer, motivator, leader. Depending on who you ask, maybe the opposite too. That’s a small group, and I try not to spend my energy there.
My focus is on the team in front of me.
How do I get them to believe? How do I get them to understand why the little things matter?
Why saying hello when they arrive matters. Why saying thank you matters. Why saying goodbye when they leave matters. Why eye contact matters.
Why everyone in that kitchen is called chef. Not by first name. Not by seniority. Chef.
Right now, the question is: how far can we take this? How hard can I push this young team—and how do I keep them believing?
Because when I say we need to be better, it’s not punishment. It’s belief. It’s me saying: not under my watch.
That intensity—that let’s fucking go—is how I want to end my restaurant.
Not quietly. Not comfortably. Not politely.
I know that will upset some people. I know it will invite interpretation. So let me be clear: this is not about verbal abuse. It’s not about demanding more than people can give, physically or emotionally.
It’s about demanding pride.
It’s about asking this team to imagine República, in its final form, as the greatest tasting menu this city has ever seen.
And I’m not asking them to do it alone.
I’ll do forty percent of the work myself if I have to.
You need me to take your dirty plates to the dish pit? I’ve got it. You need me to run food? Done. How can I save you steps? How can I save you breath?
Because I want you sharp. I want you present. I want you ready.
I want you reading and studying the things I’ve spent hours writing for you. These stories—these gifts—were passed down generationally. And we have the privilege, the responsibility, to tell them to people who walk through our doors excited to be here.
That matters.
Maybe this is just another ramble when something’s bothering me. Maybe nobody wants to hear this. Maybe you do. Either way, this feels like the right moment to be transparent—so nothing about what comes next feels like a surprise.
You should know how important it is to me to finish this the right way.
I’m going to do what’s best for the business. And what’s best for the business is what’s best for the experience. That means acting with grace and strength—compassion paired with clarity.
It also means thinking carefully about how I take care of my people. How I find balance. How we celebrate this together. I want that. I do. But I know it won’t be simple.
There will be moments when I pull people aside and say, honestly and directly: I need to see more from you. Some will rise to it. Some won’t.
And I have to be ready for the other conversation—the one where I say, just as clearly: this isn’t the place for you.
That moment may never come. But I have to be prepared for it to come tomorrow.
People need to understand what greatness means to me. That it isn’t personal. That it doesn’t erase anyone’s value. Maybe some mailed it in. Maybe comfort crept in because we’re already closing. I get it.
I also know how this will be interpreted.
I know some will call my demand for attention, care, and effort toxic workplace bullshit. I’ve spent five years hearing about my tone, my energy, my playlists—even the color of my shirt. Someone always took offense.
And every time, I wished I had pushed sooner.
That’s real talk.
Not everyone is built for this. And that’s okay.
But the ones who see this moment as the best stretch in República’s history—the ones who lean in—will go on to do great things. Because I’ll keep pushing them.
This isn’t about yelling. It isn’t abuse. It’s about pride.
It takes pride to want to be great.
People who don’t have it won’t understand that sentence. And that’s fine.
To the younger staff—if you read this, or if someone tells you what a terrible person I am for writing it—here’s what I’ll say: stay. Leave it all on the line. Give me the room to work with you. Give it everything, even if it’s only for a few more weeks.
And if it doesn’t work out, sure, you can tell people you worked with me at the end. That I was kind of an asshole. Always on your ass about scanning the room, saying please and thank you, asking what you learned, making you listen to my shitty music...
I’ve heard it. It won’t do anything for your career. Focus on you.
What I care about are the people who chase greatness—and take pride in chasing it.
And especially now, at the very end, I want them to say: those last few weeks at República—that was the greatest stretch of my career so far.
If that’s how República ends, then it ends standing.