I took an ex-con straight out of Rikers, put a knife in his hand, and taught him how to chop chicken. Jammed in that hot kitchen, armed with knives, neither of us knew who the other person really was or what destiny held for us at Hamilton’s in Harlem. I had no idea Salva was fresh out of prison for murder. He didn’t know I was not, at all, a chef – even though I owned the cafe. And I certainly wasn't aware he was carrying a pet lizard in his pocket named Spike.

I was in a panic - a freshly divorced surgeon’s wife/artist/mom who had just moved to Harlem from well-heeled Bel Air, California. Talk about fish out of water; I was gulping for air. Here in Harlem, I was forced to open this huge café after my chef (and, I thought, friend) disappeared on me (after sinking my entire nest egg in the place and signing a 10-year lease) or face bankruptcy. 

Frantically, I opened Hamilton’s with zero restaurant experience. I hired rappers, gang members, an ever-stoned dishwasher, a sex addict barista, a crack dealer, a lonely Dominican girl, and a hilarious bi-polar cook with a penchant for crystal meth. I also employed Salva, a tattooed local boy with a sweet smile as a prep cook. What I didn’t know that day, chopping away as the orders were flooding in, was that he’d wisely teach me how to survive a stabbing and the many life-threatening and unbelievable hurdles that lay in wait for me, and that I, in turn, would watch Salva become a cook, a hero, and a lover.

No one knew when Salva and the 18 other hired hands showed up, that we would all be transformed into a wild, dysfunctional family of sorts – unpredictable, loving, explosive and exhausted - somehow running the hottest, sexiest, busiest cafe in Harlem.

Welcome to Hamilton’s. Come for the food. Stay for life.