Chef Mico Dela Cruz, 32, never dreamed of becoming a household name in Paris kitchens. Growing up in Malabon, he spent his childhood around pots of adobo, sinigang, and lugaw at his family’s small carinderia. His mother, Aling Bebang, ran the eatery with love and instinct, using recipes passed down fro generations.
Mico started out as a dishwasher, cleaning oily pans and chopping onions until his eyes burned. But he paid attention. Every sprinkle of patis, every sizzle of garlic in hot oil it fascinated him. After high school, instead of taking a corporate path like his peers, he enrolled in a local culinary school, working part-time at fast food chains to support himself.
An opportunity came when his former teacher told him about a culinary apprenticeship in Paris, sponsored by a hotel that wanted diversity in their kitchen staff. Mico, with trembling hands and a basic passport, took the leap. At 25, he landed in France, speaking little French but carrying big dreams and a recipe notebook filled with his mother’s dishes.
He started at the bottom: peeling potatoes, prepping fish, scrubbing countertops. French kitchens were intense chefs shouting, heat blasting, expectations sky-high. Mistakes were not tolerated. But Mico had something many others didn’t grit.
During one late shift, the head chef asked if anyone knew how to make something spicy and comforting for staff meal. Mico hesitated, then offered to make Bicol Express. It was a gamble using shrimp paste and coconut milk in a Parisian kitchen but he went for it. The staff devoured it.
From then on, he was given chances to experiment. He infused Filipino flavors into French cuisine: kare-kare croquettes, tinapa mouse on toast points, and even ube creme brulee. His dishes began appearing on the bistro’s weekend specials. Locals were curious, then impressed. Soon, food critics were asking, Who is this Filipino behind the flavors?
After three years, Mico was promoted to Sous Chef, and later, Head Chef of a modern fusion restaurant in Montmartre. He didn’t forget home. Every week, he called his mother, often asking about ingredients or techniques. He even flew home once a year to reconnect with street food vendors and small time cooks his heroes.
Mico also sponsored the education of his younger sister, who wanted to become a nutritionist, and funded the renovation of their humble carinderia, which his mom continued to run proudly.
But Mico’s proudest moment came when he organized a Filipino food week at his restaurant, inviting diplomats, bloggers, and French chefs to taste the richness of his heritage. He served laing-stuffed ravioli, lechon belly roulade, and calamansi tart. People raved. Some cried. One older Frenchman said, It tastes like comfort, even if I don’t know why.
Now, Mico is working on a dream: opening his own Filipino fine dining restaurant in Europe, where sinigang is served in wine glasses, and balut is presented like caviar with a story, with pride.
From the steam of a Malabon carinderia to the elegant plates of Paris, Chef Mico proved that food isn’t just nourishment it’s identity, love, and a bridge between worlds.
