The Table Was Always Ours: A conversation with chef, author, and restaurateur Nicole Ponseca.

This story is part of our special focus for Filipino Food Month, celebrating the people, flavors, and cultural legacies that continue to feed our community across generations.

🎧 You can listen to my full conversation with Nicole Ponseca on the Modern Minorities podcast right here on Spotify.

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Ever meet someone and instantly feel like you’ve known them forever?

That’s how it was with Nicole Ponseca. And now, five years later, I still feel that way. She’s the kind of friend you don’t have to explain yourself to. She already gets it.

Nicole Ponseca didn’t just open restaurants. She opened a portal. With Maharlika and Jeepney, she didn’t just feed people; she gave Filipino Americans a place to see themselves reflected. Her cookbook, I Am a Filipino and This Is How We Cook, isn’t just a New York Times bestseller—it’s a textbook for Filipinos living in the diaspora. The New Yorker said it best: she almost single-handedly brought Filipino food into the mainstream.

This month on the Modern Minorities podcast, we discussed everything: advertising, ancestors, club nights, colonialism, and why opening a Filipino restaurant is always more than just opening a restaurant. Nicole’s story is equal parts family, fight, and flex. It’s a masterclass in building community on your own terms.

The first lesson in being Filipino? Don’t just order for yourself.

“My dad picked me up from cheer practice. I asked if we could get McDonald’s. He parked. Let us all go in. I came back with food—for myself.”

Later that night, her dad sat her down.

“When you’re Filipino, you don’t only ask for yourself. You ask for others.”

No yelling. No lecture. Just a calm, clear reminder of who she was.

“It was my first lesson of making sure to think of others and food and being Filipino. That’s my dad. Such a cool guy. Such a cool guy.”

Ilocano Grit, Caviteño Grace

Nicole’s family roots span two distinct parts of the Philippines. Her mother, from the north, was Ilocano. Her father, from Cavite, came from a region just outside Manila. The contrast between the two, in both personality and upbringing, shaped Nicole in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

Her mom was all grit and control. “My mother’s very hardworking. One could argue the workaholism is borderline coping mechanism,” Nicole said, half-laughing. She describes her mother as kuripot—frugal and fiercely practical. The house was always spotless. Even in their quiet little California town, she kept Town & Country and W Magazine on the kitchen table, like windows into a world she fully intended her daughter to enter.

Her father brought a completely different energy. He was quiet, artistic, and thoughtful. His sense of style came naturally—probably inherited from his father, who was a tailor. Nicole described him as someone who noticed the details. “He knew where a break would go on a pant. Very detailed when it came to pleats or his belt or shoes or his watches.” He had a beautiful watch collection, but he never made people feel small for not knowing labels.

It wasn’t until his 70th birthday that Nicole truly saw him in full. That night, they danced together for the first time. And it wasn’t just any dance. It was choreography without words.

“I looked like I was an amazing dancer and I looked like I knew what I was doing because at every moment during this song, he knew when to pull my wrist, tap my shoulder back. It informed me intuitively what my next move was, where my arm was going to go, where my foot was going to go.”

For a moment, she wasn’t just his daughter—she was his partner. And everything clicked.

“There were women that would come around and random women who would be brushing my hair at age five and asking me about my dad. And I was like, what is going on here? But now I know they were all admirers.”

And then she added, without flinching, “Now I know why you had an affair.”

It wasn’t judgment. It was recognition. The full picture of a man she deeply loved. Flawed, yes—but also magnetic, generous, and unforgettable.

From ad agencies to after-parties to opening night

Nicole and I came up in the same world. She was at Saatchi. I was at Y&R. And for a long time, we were the only Filipinas in the room.

But community had a way of showing up. Not in the conference room, but after hours. Tribe. Sweet & Vicious. Butter. The bars were packed with Oscar winners, DJs, artists, downtown It Girls, and ad nerds who had just wrapped edits at 1 a.m.

“There wasn't a class divide. We were just together,” Nicole said.

You could walk into Blue Ribbon and see Dave Chappelle stepping out for a cigarette between bites while Kimora Lee Simmons laughed over sushi two tables over. Leo would be at Butter with his posse and a crew of models. No one cared. No one bothered anyone. Everyone belonged.

And yes, she dated Diddy. This was pre-Diddy-party chaos.

“It wasn't like that then. It hadn't manifested like that yet. That happened maybe like three years, four years later. I started hearing things. But it wasn't at my time.”

That sense of belonging, access without pretense, community without gatekeeping, followed her into the restaurant world.

Twelve years of doing the work

Nicole didn’t open a restaurant on a whim. She spent twelve years learning every corner of the industry.

“From everything from dishwashing to hosting, and I loved my French and Italian background, specifically French. I know how to run a room analog. I could run a reservation book on paper and I could do it probably one month out how to manage my reservations. I can do a floor plan by hand. I don't have to have a computer to do it.”

Having never worked in restaurants, I needed a little more of a primer.

“OpenTable, for instance, allows you to digitally map out a room. But it makes a world of difference when you can do it by knowing who your customers are. At any given time, a Filipino family of 20 might walk in and then really look at you with seriousness and say, why can't you take us? We had to train not only on the finesse of seating, but also how to talk with them and ensure that we're not going to overlook you. That you matter to us.”

Every inch of Maharlika and Jeepney was designed with Filipino pride and purpose.

“If success meant it needed to be other-verified, I had failed.”

Filipino confidence, no (con)census required

One thing Nicole noticed early on is how often Filipino business owners question whether there’s a big enough Filipino population to support what they’re building. You rarely hear that kind of hesitation from other communities. Mexican restaurant owners don’t wonder if there are enough Mexicans in the neighborhood. Thai chefs don’t open a spot and then ask if the market is too saturated. They just open. They trust the food will speak for itself.

“We have Little Tokyo in the East Village. We have Ukrainian Village in the East Village,” Nicole said. “You think any of those guys that open up their bakeries or sushi shops said, well, we got to do a census and see how many Japanese are here, how many go to NYU? No.”

That kind of confidence—creating for your own community first and letting everyone else catch up—is something Nicole has modeled since day one. For her, it’s not about appealing to the masses. It’s about setting a standard and trusting that others will recognize its value.

Final thoughts

Nicole Ponseca is a marketer. A chef. A strategist. A daughter. An author. And one of the most unapologetic visionaries I know.

She didn’t wait for a seat at the table. She built it. And she made sure there was room for all of us.

🎧 Listen to the full Modern Minorities episode with Nicole Ponseca
📖 Buy her New York Times best-selling cookbook, I am Filipino and This is How We Cook

💜 Nicole’s favorite Dear Flor gummy? Calamansi. Tangy, vibrant, and 100% Filipino. Get yours.