The Galley Ghost

Luis Rafael Hurtado on October 5, 2025

By Chef Raffie. #25/1097.

Disclaimer: This post is inspired by random nonsense I saw floating around on social media. Any resemblance to real-life situations, actual yachts, or Cleopatra-wannabe chefs is purely accidental… and totally coincidental… and also absolutely happening in real life.

Ahoy, family—let’s talk about “fine dining at sea.”

When you sign up for a small boat gig, you expect a bit of chaos. What you don’t expect is a chef who doesn’t cook.

I’m currently working on a 20-meter floating soap opera where the captain and the chef are a couple. Sounds romantic, right?

Wrong.

Because this particular chef… doesn’t cook.

At all.

Not when there are guests, not when there aren’t guests, not while we’re navigating, not while we’re parked in the marina, not on Mondays, not on Sundays, not with a fox, not in a box… Dr. Seuss would be proud.

She simply. does. not. cook.

The only time I’ve had something resembling a decent meal since joining this floating sitcom was when the owner came aboard. He decreed, like Poseidon himself:

“We shall all dine together.”

And lo and behold, she materialized in the galley—pots clanging, apron on, fulfilling her long-forgotten role as “chef.”

The second the boss stepped off? Puff! Gone. Like Cinderella at midnight—back to the pumpkin.

Meanwhile, the crew survives on scraps, half-hearted snacks, and the spiritual nourishment of despair.

I tried raising it with the captain (who, in case you missed it, happens to be her partner). But love, as they say, is blind—apparently also deaf, mute, and tastebudless.

He won’t lift a finger.

Why This Matters

You might be laughing—and you should, because the absurdity writes itself—but here’s the truth: this isn’t just a funny crew tale. It’s a red flag for crew welfare and, eventually, for the owner himself.

A yacht with a chef who refuses to cook is like a Ferrari with no engine: pretty on the outside, useless on the inside.

Crew morale tanks.

Health suffers.

Service crumbles.

And sooner or later, even the most patient owner will realize something’s rotten—not in Denmark, but right in his own galley.

So no, this isn’t mockery. It’s awareness.

Because food on board isn’t just calories—it’s culture, morale, and sanity.

And a boat without it? That’s not yachting, my friends.

That’s slow torture on the high seas.

The Queen of Not-Cooking

There she is—sitting on her throne like Cleopatra of the Caribbean, admiring her manicure while the captain worships her as if she just invented bread… and the crew starves quietly on the floor.

Because really, what’s the point of having a chef on board?

Cooking is so overrated. Better to have pretty nails and a boyfriend who covers up the chaos.

Meanwhile, the poor deckhands are chewing on fenders like they’re artisanal baguettes.

Bon appétit, mes amis.

Final Thought

This isn’t about mocking individuals—it’s about calling out a real issue.

A boat without food is a boat without soul.

Crew depends on the chef just as much as on the captain, and when that role collapses, the entire operation starts to rot from within.

Sooner or later, even the owner will taste it.

The Great Mediterranean Circus of Yachting

Luis Rafael Hurtado on September 5, 2025

By Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/1086.

Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, welcome to the Mediterranean — the greatest circus afloat.

Not the Cirque du Soleil, mind you, but a clown show where the ringmasters are captains with PTSD, the brokers are snake-oil salesmen, and the audience is an owner who thought buying a 50-meter yacht was the same as adding a pool to the backyard.

Let’s start with the brokers, shall we? These magicians in polo shirts and fake tans sell yachts like used cars, conveniently forgetting to mention that owning a yacht is not like buying a condo in Monaco.

Surprise. It’s a floating business — with engines, hydraulics, and twenty exhausted humans that require food, sleep, and a salary that doesn’t resemble an insult. But no, they whisper sweet nothings to the owner:

“You’ll host glamorous parties, eat Michelin-star dinners, and sail into sunsets.”

They forget to add:

“…on the back of an unpaid, underfed, underslept crew who will eventually plot your murder with a butter knife.”

Then come the owners. Some lovely. Some absolutely clueless.

Owning a yacht does not mean you know how to run one.

You wouldn’t buy a hospital and then try to perform open-heart surgery, but somehow, you think running a vessel with international regulations, visas, and safety codes is easier than programming a microwave.

And when things go wrong (and they always do), the first people blamed are not the brokers who lied, but the poor crew trying to MacGyver miracles out of duct tape, prayer, and broken promises.

Crew rest? Please.

Rest is treated like a mythical creature — something you read about in books but never see in real life.

God forbid a crew member takes a nap.

The owner might think they’re lazy, when in reality, they’ve been awake for twenty hours making your foie gras foam while also unclogging your toilet.

Now let’s talk salaries and day rates.

Somewhere along the line, the industry decided to normalize peasant wages for highly skilled professionals.

Chefs are expected to plate like Alain Ducasse on a Taco Bell budget.

Engineers are supposed to rebuild engines overnight with chewing gum and zip ties.

Stews have to smile through abuse while folding your underwear into origami swans.

And the cherry on top? Exposure.

Exposure doesn’t pay rent, Karen.

So yes, the Med has become the ultimate floating disaster.

Harassment, burnout, contracts treated like confetti, crew stranded in random ports with no pay, captains imploding, owners exploding.

The whole circus is alive and well.

But here’s the plot twist: it doesn’t have to be this way.

This industry can be extraordinary when people respect it.

When brokers tell owners the truth.

When owners understand that running a yacht is not a hobby, but a responsibility.

When management companies prioritize human beings over invoices.

When crew are given rest, proper food, and the dignity they deserve.

Because beneath the sarcasm, there’s still love for the sea, for the adventure, for the camaraderie that keeps us here despite the madness.

If we start holding people accountable, demanding better standards, and treating each other like professionals — not circus clowns — then maybe, just maybe, we’ll stop juggling chaos and start sailing into the future we all deserve.

Until then, keep your helmets, life jackets, and sense of humor close at hand.

A Burnt Out Memoir

Luis Rafael Hurtado on August 2, 2025

Yachting Culture #25/1062.

“So Let Me Get This Straight…”

A Burnt-End Memoir in Real Time by Yours Truly Chef Raffie

So let me get this straight…

I just landed in Nice—a land known for rosé, regrets, and rejected provisioning invoices—when my WhatsApp lit up like a fryer fire:

“No money.”

“Guests arriving tomorrow.”

“No groceries.”

“Apartment cooking too?”

“Also we need lunch in 2 hours. Can you do gluten-free sushi? But also vegan. But also caviar.”

I am tired. I am hungry. I am already mildly regretting all my life choices.

How did I go from “chef” to underpaid culinary therapist with a side hustle in miracles?

I haven’t even seen the galley yet and I’m already expected to prep lunch, dinner, and somehow manifest a five-course welcome dinner—with no provisions, no budget, and no time.

Oh, and for the record? The last two chefs apparently escaped into the sunset, burned out, used up, and (if there’s any justice in this world) now running a taco stand in Bali.

When I finally step into the galley, it hits me.

I’m not entering a kitchen.

I’m entering a crime scene.

The place is wrecked.

The onions are half-chopped and crying harder than I am.

There’s a smell that can only be described as culinary PTSD.

There’s no petty cash. No provisioning card. No plan. No clue.

But somehow I’m the one expected to whip out soufflés, sushi rolls, and foie gras foam like I’m auditioning for Hell’s Kitchen: Yacht Edition.

And the cherry on top?

“Can you smile more?”

“Hospitality is the heart of yachting.”

Excuse me—what?

Hospitality? You mean pretending everything’s fine while crafting fine dining from an empty fridge, a wet sponge, and a stewardess asking if I’ve ‘started plating yet’?

And God forbid I ask for one day to prep.

One. Freaking. Day.

A single moment to breathe.

To clean up the galley battlefield.

To locate something that isn’t expired or suspiciously green.

To plan a menu with actual ingredients instead of summoning lunch from the ether like a culinary necromancer.

But no.

Apparently, asking for a prep day is a diva move.

I’m not here to cook—I’m here to perform miracles.

So here I stand:

Eye twitching.

Hands trembling.

Holding a can of energy drink in one hand and an empty packet of vegan cheese in the other.

And quietly asking myself:

“Do I cry now or wait until service?”

💡 

The Moment of Clarity

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t throw a ramekin.

I didn’t set the galley on fire and fake my own death (…tempting though).

Instead, I took a deep breath, wrote this story in my head, and realized:

  • A day to prep isn’t diva behavior. It’s basic fing logistics*.
  • Communication isn’t a luxury. It’s the difference between Michelin stars and meltdown scars.
  • And most importantly: I’m a chef, not a one-man cruise ship food court.

🙌 Final Thoughts for My Fellow Galley Gladiators

You are not crazy.

You are not failing.

You are not ungrateful.

The industry is just drunk on its own delusions and expecting us to clean up the mess without even handing us a mop.

So if you’re feeling the pressure…

If you’re holding back the scream…

If someone just handed you a lemon and asked for a tasting menu—

I see you. You’re not alone.

Now go pour yourself a glass of wine. Or a triple espresso.

Or whatever keeps you from throwing the immersion blender at someone.

Because if Jesus could feed 5,000 with five loaves and two fish…

You can politely tell them you need a fing provisioning day.*

Have a wonderful, productive, and stress-free weekend.

(And if not, at least document it—there’s a book in this somewhere.)

Season‘s End

Luis Rafael Hurtado on August 2, 2025

Yachting Culture #25/1057.

Season’s End: A Message from the Galley

By Chef Raffie

I’m Tired. I’m Exhausted. I’m Still Here.

To every crew member, chef, stew, deckhand, and soul barely holding on—

Right now, I’m standing somewhere between faith and fatigue.

My body aches. My heart is heavy. My future feels uncertain.

But I still have God. I still have hope.

And I’m finally saying this out loud:

I am not okay. And that’s okay.

This industry has a way of breaking you down quietly.

You give everything—your sleep, your health, your sanity—

All for someone else’s luxury holiday, or that perfect Instagram plate.

And when you’re hurting, the response is always the same:

“Push through.”

“Tough it out.”

“Take a shot and keep going.”

I’ve done that. For years.

But now I know better:

There is no medal for dying with your clogs on.

To every chef hiding pain behind a smile,

To every stew faking energy in the laundry room,

To every deckhand swallowing exhaustion just to avoid being replaced—

You are not weak. You are human.

🛳️ To captains, owners, brokers:

If you’re going to call us “family,” then protect us like one.

That means real support—therapy, time off, grace—not just bonuses.

🙏 To everyone in this industry:

If you’re breaking, speak.

If you’re tired, rest.

If you’re drowning, ask for help.

Before it’s too late.

I’m choosing healing. Choosing honesty.

Choosing not to become another silent statistic.

And if you’re reading this?

You can, too.

God, have mercy on those who serve.

And may we all remember:

We are worthy of being served, too.

The season is almost over. Hold on.

—Chef Raffie

#YachtingMentalHealth #HospitalityBurnout #ChefLife #CrewCare #ItsOkayToNotBeOkay #FaithOverFatigue #AskForHelp #NotAnotherStatistic #HealingIsCourage

The Chief Stew Chronicles

Luis Rafael Hurtado on June 10, 2025

The Chief Stew Chronicles: Tales from the Espresso-Fueled Twilight Zone by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/1018.

Once upon a time—because every nightmare deserves a fairy tale intro—I found myself trapped aboard a floating asylum disguised as a yacht. And at the helm of chaos, ruling the roost with a steely blow-dried grip and a latte in hand, was our beloved Chief Stewardess: a walking, talking cautionary tale in yacht whites.

Now, don’t get me wrong—on paper, she was a “great stew.” Five-star service, polished cutlery, candles lit with military precision. But behind the scenes? Oh darling, she made a root canal look like a spa day.

This woman did not speak—she narrated her entire stream of consciousness aloud, like an audiobook nobody asked for. She had conversations with herself, with the vacuum, with the spoon drawer, and occasionally, she even included us lowly crew mortals—though she’d interrupt us before we could respond. Asking a question, then cutting me off halfway through my answer? Iconic.

Fueled by six shots of espresso and unresolved childhood trauma, she zipped around the boat micromanaging like it was an Olympic sport. If dinner was scheduled for 8pm, she’d be in my galley at 6:43pm, sweating bullets over a napkin fold, while I’m elbow-deep in mise en place.

“Do you need help?”

No. I need space. And maybe divine intervention.

Forget chilling—she had no off switch. She’d wake up from a nap she somehow had time for (unlike the rest of us) and immediately jump back into talking about dinner service seven hours away. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get through breakfast without burning the eggs or my will to live.

But the pièce de résistance? The after-hours “team bonding” events. You know, the ones she orchestrated like a cruise director on meth. She’d gather the crew, pour the rosé, and proceed to get delightfully smashed while drama unfolded faster than a Real Housewives reunion.

Nothing says relaxation like watching your Chief Stew weep over her third vodka soda and accuse the deckhand of stealing her soul.

And let’s not forget her poor Second Stew, who followed her around like a baby duck imprinting on a hair-straightened hurricane. You could see the life force slowly drain from that girl’s eyes by Day 3.

The Captain? Oh, he was fully aware. He even joked—half-serious, half-desperate—that life would be better if we were all male crew. (Same energy as “Men’s Mental Health Month,” but with less emotional intelligence.)

Look, it wasn’t just that she was annoying. It was that she made what could’ve been a straightforward, professional, and even enjoyable job feel like psychological warfare. Working alongside her didn’t feel like teamwork—it felt like surviving a hostage situation with high-thread-count sheets.

Compassionate Coda

In her defense—and yes, there’s always a dark little asterisk to these stories—she was a survivor of something far bigger than this industry. Years of alcoholism and drug addiction had rewired her emotional landscape, replacing calm with control and connection with chaos. Stability didn’t come easy to her; she compensated with over-functioning and manic leadership, probably afraid that if she let go for even one second, everything would collapse—including herself.

So I see her. Behind the mascara, behind the monologue, behind the micromanaging—there was a wounded woman doing her best not to drown in her own unfinished healing.

But Lord help us all…

she made sure we all got a taste of the whirlpool.

Dolores, My Agent of Chaos

Luis Rafael Hurtado on May 14, 2025

Or: How I Became the Michelin Star of Misery Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/0989.

Yachting Culture – Galley Chronicles

For over two decades, I’ve had the pleasure of being represented by a woman named Dolores—a crew agent who, if I’m being honest, has the placement instincts of a GPS with a vendetta.

Dolores and I have a special bond. I like to call it “employment trauma bonding.” While other chefs were being placed on dreamy 80-meter Feadships with walk-in coolers and a crew gym, Dolores had a gift—a supernatural ability to find me yachts where the galley was in the engine room, the freezer was in Croatia, and the owner believed “organic” meant not screaming at the staff before lunch.

And guess who she always sent to these culinary hellscapes?

Me.

Because apparently, I’m not just a chef—I’m a miracle worker with a spatula and rhinoceros skin.

Every time I got a call from Dolores, I’d brace myself. Her voice was always the same:

“Raffie, darling! I’ve got a fabulous opportunity for you. Lovely boat. Just needs a little structure, a tiny bit of love… oh and by the way, the last five chefs quit or dropped dead, one was medevaced, and the guests only eat meat but want vegan food. Can you start tomorrow?”

And off I went. Like the Saint of Sinking Programs. Fixer of Fridges and Broker of Broken Morale. I’d turn roach motels into five-star pop-ups, feeding 12 psychologically disturbed crew and 10 guests while the stewardess sobbed and the Captain mispronounced “ceviche.”

But somewhere along the foie gras and the fire alarms, I began to wonder:

Why me?

Why was Dolores always shipping me off to culinary rehab jobs while sending the young, Nordic, six-pack-sporting “chefs” with a Gordon Ramsay DVD collection and an Instagram filter to the plush gigs with decent salaries and crew who didn’t throw plates?

So one day I asked her. I said:

“Dolores, is it because I’m not 24, white, and built like a Swiss Army Knife?”

She laughed, took a sip of her triple-filtered premium vodka, and said:

“Oh Raffie, don’t be silly. It’s because you’re so good, they need you more.”

Translation:

“Yes, but I’m not going to admit it because I’m currently booking Sven on a yacht where the biggest crisis is too much caviar.”

Still, I have to hand it to Dolores.

She kept me working.

I was never unemployed.

Emotionally unstable, sure.

But never unemployed.

So here’s to Dolores—the queen of crew placement roulette, the woman who taught me that no matter how bad the job, I could survive it, elevate it, and still look fabulous doing it… with sweat, burns, and at least two unpaid invoices.

And Dolores, if you’re reading this:

Thank you.

But next time, maybe send me to a boat with a functioning oven and a crew who doesn’t worship keto like it’s a religion.

With love,

Chef Raffie

The Sultan of Salt and Survival

Veteran of Galley Warzones

Survivor of Dolores’ Job Safari

And Still Stirring with Style and Gusto!

Application for the Role of Saint Pastry Martyr – I Mean, Pastry Chef

Luis Rafael Hurtado on May 5, 2025

#25/0907.

Job Ad:

Pastry Chef – Male

MY 69m charter, Med-based

Galley team of 5

Cook for 35 guests and 35 crew

Start date: Beginning of June

$4,000 USD/month – seasonal contract with possible extension

Send CV, menu, and photos to: info@pinkevicagency.com

Subject: Application for the Role of Saint Pastry Martyr – I Mean, Pastry Chef

Dear Pinkevic Agency,

Thank you for the fascinating opportunity to sacrifice my skills, sanity, and possibly a few vital organs in the galley of a 69m charter yacht for the low, low price of $4,000/month. I must say, it’s refreshing to see an ad that so openly challenges the boundaries of what’s considered reasonable—or legal—in labor practices.

Cooking for 35 guests and 35 crew? That’s only 70 souls relying on me to produce Michelin-level desserts in a floating inferno, while smiling like I’m on a spa retreat. Add a galley team of five, and I’m guessing the rest are prepping for their own holy beatification as culinary martyrs.

Seasonal contract? Genius. You mean I get to pour my soul into laminated croissants, soufflés, and entremets for the summer and be jobless by September? Oh, joy. Will I at least get a souvenir spoon? Or maybe a therapy voucher?

Now, I’m just curious—was the $4,000 salary decided after someone threw darts at a budget board while blindfolded and laughing hysterically? A seasonal job with that level of responsibility deserves at least twice the remuneration. It’s obvious the person doing the recruiting either doesn’t have any idea what they’re looking for—or they have a very weird sense of humor.

I suppose I should be grateful. After all, this job ad has helped me rediscover my purpose in life: to remind the industry that skilled labor deserves dignified pay. You know, like plumbers. Or the guy who sells sun hats on the beach.

Thank you for this bold social experiment disguised as a job posting. I won’t be applying, but I will be lighting a candle for whoever does.

Warmest regards,

A Chef Who Still Has Self-Respect… For Now

Hub – Mediterranean Yacht Chef Salaries

Luis Rafael Hurtado on March 28, 2025

Mediterranean Yacht Chef Salaries: A Mystery Worthy of a True Crime Documentary by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/0077.

February 23, 2025 · 3 min read

Mediterranean Yacht Chef Salaries: A Mystery Worthy of a True Crime Documentary

Ah, the Mediterranean—a breathtaking paradise where the sun kisses the waves, the wine flows endlessly, and yacht chefs apparently work for Monopoly money.

So, let’s talk about this €3,000-a-month job offer for a chef on a 40-meter charter yacht. At first glance, it almost sounds like a decent gig—until you remember the back-breaking workload, soul-crushing responsibility, and endless hours required to run a galley at sea.

The Job: A Quick Reality Check

For those who aren’t familiar, being a yacht chef isn’t just about whipping up a few Michelin-star meals while casually sipping a Negroni on the aft deck. No, no, no. It’s a full-contact sport where you:

• Cook three high-end meals a day for 28 people (crew + guests).

• Handle provisioning in remote ports, where you have a 20% chance of actually finding what you need and a 100% chance of having a meltdown when they hand you unripe avocados and tell you, “Tomorrow, maybe fresh fish.”

• Maintain inventory like a Wall Street broker tracking stocks—except instead of losing money, you’re losing your mind.

• Clean. Yes, you also clean. Because clearly, a chef is also a dishwasher, janitor, and part-time therapist for the stressed-out stew.

Now, let’s get to the real kicker: €3,000 a month.

Who Can Afford to Work for That? Is always in my mind!

I’m genuinely curious—who is the intended audience for this salary? A chef on vacation? A highly skilled culinary wizard who just happens to love financial suffering? A desperate soul who lost a bet and has to work for free room and board?

Because, let’s be real, if you offered this salary on a 40m charter yacht in the U.S., you’d be laughed off the dock. Here in the States, a chef on a similar vessel would be making a MINIMUM of $8,000-$10,000 a month, and that’s before tips. Some are pulling in $13,000+ with gratuities, which—surprise—yacht chefs actually earn because they work insane hours feeding entitled guests who still think “gluten-free” means “extra bread.”

So why is the Mediterranean market stuck in 2002 wages? What’s the logic? Does the proximity to Italian cuisine magically reduce labor costs? Are we factoring in “romantic sunsets” as part of the compensation package?

The Great Mediterranean Salary Scam

It’s like a reverse magic trick—the more luxurious the boat, the lower the salary. You’d think that with the astronomical charter rates these yachts pull in, they could pay their chefs more than what a junior barista makes at a high-end coffee shop.

And let’s not even talk about the stress level of provisioning in peak summer in the Med. Picture this: you’re battling aggressive tourists in a tiny, overpriced grocery store in St. Tropez, trying to source wagyu beef, truffle oil, and non-existent fresh berries while the guests onboard are making last-minute demands for a 12-course tasting menu with an Asian-Mediterranean fusion twist.

But sure, €3,000 sounds about right for that kind of stress-induced trauma.

Dear Natalia…

Natalia, I don’t know if you wrote this job post as a joke, but if not, let me break it down for you:

• €3,000 for a 40m charter yacht chef is an insult.

• If you find someone willing to take this deal, please let us know who they are because they clearly have a financial death wish or a secret trust fund.

• If you truly believe this salary is “slightly negotiable,” I’d love to hear what you consider a fair raise—an extra €200 and a free t-shirt?

Until the Mediterranean wakes up and stops treating yacht chefs like underpaid interns, I’ll be over here making real chef wages a month, feeding 28 people, and laughing at these job postings.

And to all my fellow yacht chefs—stay strong, know your worth, and for the love of good pay, stay out of the Med unless they start offering real salaries.

Please read below the original post

Vacancy: CHEF

Salary: EUR 3000 (slightly negotiable)

Contract: April – November 2025

Min 2 years of experience as Chef with all standard training / qualifications / valid certifications

40m motor yacht / charter

location: The Mediterranean

Onboarding: Greece, also possible in Turkey, Marmaris

8 crew, max 12 guests

xxx

Hub – Private Chef Position

Luis Rafael Hurtado on March 28, 2025

Prívate Chef Position – A Reality Check by Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/0075.

February 20, 2025 · 2 min read

Prívate Chef Position – A Reality Check

Dear Captain/Hiring Manager/Chief Stew, 

I came across your Private Chef listings, and I must say, they are truly inspiring. The sheer ambition, the seamless blend of Michelin-starred precision, farm-to-table execution, personal dietary customization, high-pressure adaptability, and effortless kitchen management—all flawlessly executed by a single individual—is nothing short of magical thinking.

Let’s be real for a moment. In the world behind every Michelin-starred chef, there is a team of at least fifty highly trained professionals orchestrating each detail. The expectation that a single Private Chef will source, plan, prep, cook, plate, serve, clean, inventory, organize, shop, anticipate dietary needs, and flawlessly execute world-class cuisine daily, while maintaining a Zen-like disposition and flexibility to accommodate last-minute changes, is truly admirable—if not entirely unrealistic.

A job of this magnitude is not a one-person operation. If the goal is truly Michelin-star quality with a dynamic, ever-evolving menu incorporating dietary restrictions, severe allergies, seasonal ingredients, and global cuisines while maintaining an immaculately clean kitchen, this should be at least a two-person role, if not a small team. Expecting one chef to shoulder all of this, while also ensuring perfection in every bite, every day, is setting up both the employer and the employee for inevitable disappointment.

Of course, we chefs thrive on high expectations. We’re used to pressure, to pulling off the impossible. But impossible, in this case, is the key word—not because the work can’t be done, but because it can’t be sustained by a single person at the level you’re envisioning. Burnout is real. Turnover is real. And frankly, if I could execute all of this flawlessly on my own, I’d be running my own three-Michelin-star restaurant instead of applying for a private chef role.

I’d be happy to discuss this opportunity further if the position could be restructured to realistically accommodate the workload. A great chef isn’t just about cooking—it’s about creating an environment where excellence can actually be delivered consistently. That requires the right team, support, and structure, not just ambition on paper.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts.

Best,

Chef Raffie

Hub – Chef Raffies Birthday Party

Luis Rafael Hurtado on March 28, 2025

An epic and outrageous celebration, brimming with dark humour and politically incorrect excesses by Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/0025.

January 15, 2025 · 2 min read

My Birthday Party

An epic and outrageous celebration, brimming with dark humor and politically incorrect excesses.

At the heart of the party, a pair of dwarves dressed as royal waiters serve trays of empanadas with chimichurri, meticulously crafted by textbook-perfect gauchos. These mustachioed masters of the grill, with knives dangling from their belts, toss poetic compliments into the air:

“May love be like this roast—intense and dripping with savory fat!”

The bar, a true den of sin, is run by a pair of ladies of the night turned rogue mixologists, concocting cocktails so potent they could revive even the most despairing divorcé. In the background, a tarot reader with the dramatic flair of a Venezuelan soap opera actress declares:

“You, sir, have another marriage in your future. Spoiler: it’ll be worse than the first.”

Divorced friends embrace each other between tears and laughter, clinking glasses in bittersweet solidarity.

Meanwhile, a group of heavily intoxicated mariachis—jackets stained with tequila—belt out narcoballads and alternate with a fiery salsa brava band. Single women, captivated by the Go-Go dancers, abandon all inhibitions and shout:

“I’m not going home before 5 a.m. tonight!”

The shy and unassuming guests find solace in a dimly lit tent glowing with red lights, where Russian masseuses whisper in their ears:

“Relax, comrade, this is your moment.”

If you’re lucky, you might even walk out speaking a bit of Russian.

Outside in the courtyard, donkeys with barrels proudly roam, dispensing tequila, rum, and vodka like diplomatic emissaries of celebration. Beer lovers rejoice at the sight of a German cart with chilled beer dispensers, ensuring the golden brew flows faster than the empty promises of corrupt politicians.

Speaking of them, the grand bonfire blazes with effigies of despised leaders. Guests take turns tossing their least favorite political figures into the flames, shouting:

“This is for all the taxes that never accomplished anything!”

For dessert, a piñata shaped like a chef bursts open, spilling erotic toys and condoms onto the floor, sending guests scrambling for prizes like children at a birthday party.

Finally, Chinese jugglers—defying all laws of physics and common sense—put on a show so daring that someone preemptively calls emergency services “just in case.”

The night draws to a spectacular close with strippers dancing on tables, blowing kisses to the crowd. The last drunken souls embrace each other, singing Cielito Lindo with tequila in hand.

And as I, the birthday star and king of the party, gaze over the scene with satisfaction, I think to myself:

“Dreaming didn’t cost a thing, but damn, it was worth every second.”

Will I see you there? Are you excited?

Long live creativity, imagination, and madness!