Mateo never imagined he’d be a dog person.
As a Bronx-born chef working double shifts in a busy Harlem kitchen, his life was filled with the clatter of pans, the heat of the line, and the comfort of his abuela’s old recipes. He barely had time to sleep, let alone care for a pet.
But one late night after closing, Mateo stepped outside the back door for some air—and found a dog huddled behind the dumpster. Skinny, shaking, and missing patches of fur, the tan mutt looked up at him with quiet desperation. No growl. No bark. Just a look that said, “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
Without a second thought, Mateo tossed his apron aside, wrapped the dog in a kitchen towel, and brought him home.
He named him Rico—a nod to the “perrico” his grandmother used to call him as a kid. And just like that, two loners became a pair.
At first, Rico didn’t know what to do with love. He was scared of footsteps, loud noises, even Mateo’s guitar. But with time—and leftover pernil—he began to trust. Now, he greets Mateo at the door with a tail wag so fierce it knocks over the umbrella stand. He sits calmly during morning cafecito. He’s even learned to sit by the stove, eyes locked on the chef, waiting for his unofficial taste test.
“Rico reminds me what it means to care for something outside yourself,” Mateo says. “He made me slow down. He made me feel.”
These days, Rico is part of Mateo’s daily rhythm—walking to the bodega, sitting outside the kitchen on break, and curling up on his feet when the day is done. Two souls who weren’t looking for anything… and found exactly what they needed.