Your flavor, your table, your taste in a bottle.

These are from my private collection

Every sauce I've made started as something for my own table.

Fifty-plus formulations, developed over years, none of them designed by committee or focus-grouped into the middle. I made them because I wanted them — and then people tasted them and wanted them too. That's the whole business. When I hand someone a bottle at an event and say these are from my private collection, I mean it literally.

A commission is the other side of that sentence. You've tasted mine. This is yours.

What you're commissioning

One sauce. Built for your food, your palate, and the thing you're trying to do with it.

Not a variation on something I already make — a formulation that exists because you asked for it and wouldn't exist otherwise.

And then the part that makes this different from hiring a supplier: I teach you to make it. The complete method for producing that sauce, transferred to you under NDA, so you're not dependent on me to keep it on your table.

$30,000. That's one sauce and the method to make that one sauce. Anything larger — a line, a range of heats, ongoing supply — is a different conversation and a different scope.

Who this is for

Not a category. A standard.

I've eaten in dining rooms that didn't deserve their tablecloths, and I've eaten out of trailers doing work that belonged in a magazine. The food trailer deserves the same quality as the five-star restaurant, and some of them already hold that line better than the restaurant does.

So: whoever's holding the line. A dining room. A trailer. A private kitchen where someone cooks like it matters. If you're the person who reads the label before you buy the bottle, you already know whether this is for you.

We don't kiss and tell

Your sauce is yours. Whether anyone knows I made it is your call, not mine.

I don't publish client lists, I don't name the kitchens I've worked with, and I don't use anyone's business as a case study without being asked to. If you'd rather the world believe your signature came out of your own kitchen — that's not a lie I'm telling, that's a detail I'm not sharing.

If you want to be named, that's yours to grant, and I'd be glad of it.

Why me

Fifty-two years of cooking, and a Food Manager's Certification.

More than fifty sauces developed, every one of them held to the same test: it goes on my breakfast taco, and it either stands out or it goes back to the bench. Not overpowering, not disappearing. Standing out.

I've built a one-off sauce for a panini trailer from a short conversation about their food and their customers. At events, roughly four out of five people who taste what I make walk away with a bottle. That's my own count, not a promise, but it's the number I'd want to know if I were you.

And everything I make is real food. Ingredients you can read out loud, nothing hiding behind “natural flavors,” a label that reads like a shopping list instead of a lab report. Whatever we build together will meet that standard, because I don't know how to build the other kind.

If It's Not Real Food Then What Is It?^™