It went down in San Francisco. Not the postcard city or the tech-bro fantasy. But in the backstreets, where looks don’t count and hunger is boss. There, between rusty food trucks that couldn’t care less about ‘storytelling,’ I found the truth. A grandma stirring birria in a cauldron like a holy rite, while her grandson slammed fermented kimchi into the mix.
OLD SCHOOL AND VIOLENT METROPOLIS IN A SINGLE BITE.
Milan was missing this stuff. It was missing the kind of simplicity that slaps you in the face. I came back and didn’t write a business plan. I went looking for a used truck.
SCORCHING GRIDDLE AND BLASTING RAP.
When we fired up the truck’s engine, we had no guarantees. All we had was a scorching griddle and rap blasting from the speakers. We wanted to see if Milan was ready to get its hands dirty.
The answer came from the streets. People tracked us down, showed up, ate a taco, and went silent. That silence—lasting three seconds after the first bite—was worth more than a thousand reviews. In that moment, I realized we weren’t serving Mexican food, or Milanese. We were creating a new vibe. A meeting ground where the only rule was showing up.
EXCEL KEEPS YOU ALIVE, THE PEOPLE GIVE YOU THE REASON.
Let’s not kid ourselves: if the numbers don’t add up, you shut down. Numbers are the law. Excel is essential to keep from going belly up and to keep the lights on. But a spreadsheet is cold. It tells you if you’re surviving, but it doesn’t give you the guts to keep going when everything goes sideways.
And the dark times came. Nights with the shutters down, the truck falling apart, and profit margins laughing in your face. In those moments, if you only stare at the cost columns, you want to quit. Then it happens. That one customer walks up and says: ‘Yesterday I ate here alone. Today I brought the whole family.’
That’s it. Smart management lets you open the next morning, but those words give you the strength to actually do it. Revenue is oxygen, but the people coming back are the reason you breathe.
NOLO: BEYOND THE SHOWCASE.
I opened when this place was just a zip code—rough and silent. Today, NoLo is a showcase. The Milanese have this bad habit: they dust off some run-down spots, invent a cool name for a city block, and suddenly think they’re in New York.
The result? Places with designer bathrooms, perfect lighting, magazine-ready stools… and food that leaves you feeling absolutely nothing. It’s the dictatorship of packaging over substance. We stuck around to cook for the people who actually live in the neighborhood, not for those who use it as a backdrop for a selfie.
WE DON’T SELL TACOS, WE SELL BELONGING.
Milan is full of taco joints. Some respect tradition, others respect the stereotype. We don’t give a damn about either.
El Galactico isn’t an ethnic restaurant; it’s a pagan temple of gathering. I brought the energy from San Francisco, not just the recipes. Here, people eat standing up, elbow to elbow with strangers. You come here to feel part of something, not to ‘try’ the latest flavor of the week.
IF WALLS COULD TALK.
When Francesco Bianconi from Baustelle told me this place inspired an album, I had my ultimate confirmation. El Galactico isn’t just about food. It’s an image, an atmosphere. If an artist walks in and feels the space speaking, it means you’ve built something that resonates. You don’t need to explain the concept; you just have to breathe it in.
AGAINST GLOSSY MEDIOCRITY.
The cancer of today’s food scene? The obsession with appearances. Designing places to be photographed, not to be lived in. Everything perfect, everything fake.
True mediocrity is chasing aesthetic perfection while forgetting the blood running through a place’s veins. A real place has to leave a mark on you: a scent, a memory, a feeling. El Galactico was born for this. To stick to you—like the smell of the griddle—long after you’ve left.
