My first indication that the restaurant industry was fueled by more than grit and determination was prior to culinary school. At 22 years old, eager to jump into my newfound career path, I reached out to a family friend who knew a chef. I didn’t know any chefs. Hungry for information, I drove over an hour to get advice from a guy name Frank.
Clueless about kitchen dress code, I wore an a-line skirt, my best blazer, and high-heels. I looked ready to interview for a top job as a software engineer, marketing manager, administrative assistant – anything but a line cook.
Chef Frank was a large, imposing fellow, who took great, big strides when he walked. So, he bounded across the dining room to greet me and shook my hand very, very firmly. We sat at a high-top to chat about the industry and possibly working in his kitchen to gain some experience before heading to culinary school. First, he was going to share some advice. Here was the advice…The kitchen wasn’t for everyone and it was a tough industry with a difficult lifestyle. The hours were long and grueling, and this would make it challenging to balance a family.
Immediately, I knew I’d worn the wrong outfit.
I’ve never been a 22-year-old boy, but I don’t imagine they receive unsolicited advice about work-life balance from potential employers. I wish I had been offended, but it didn’t even occur to me. Instead, I kicked myself for not looking more resilient. Instead of recognizing chauvinism guised as helpfulness, I noted that my success in the kitchen would be based on sacrifice (and never wearing high heels to meet a chef again).
Later in my career, the theme of sacrifice perpetuated over late night beers and war stories. We bragged about sixteen-hour shifts and tallied the number of consecutive days without time off. The conversation was never a complaint, but our burns, brutal employers and late nights were validations that we could iron onto our sashes like Girl Scout badges. We took pride in our dedication to a craft that offered nightly adrenaline rushes, camaraderie and the satisfaction of creating delicious, beautiful things. Offering our bodies and souls as a tribute was the least that we could do.
Anthony Bourdain’s writing beautifully captures this lifestyle. His tales of the the pirate-like chef have become scripture in the culinary world. Insiders recognize his stories in their own experiences, while outsiders catch a glimpse of the shocking thrills that the industry can provide. In Kitchen Confidential, he writes, “I want to tell you about the dark recesses of the restaurant underbelly — a subculture whose centuries-old militaristic hierarchy and ethos of ‘rum, buggery and the lash’ make for a mix of unwavering order and nerve-shattering chaos – because I find it all quite comfortable, like a nice warm bath.”
We are expected to accept, and even enjoy, the glorified sacrifices of chef-life. It would be misleading if I said I didn’t feel electrified by the memories of my kitchen days. I worked the hours, endured the harassment, played with the line-cooks, expedited the tickets, and fell deeply, head-over-heals in love. The kitchen is like the guy you would never bring home to your parents. He’s got lots of emotional issues, he swears a lot, and he definitely has a full body of tattoos. Even though the love is unrequited, and you know you parents would hate him, you’d hold that boombox outside of his window and do anything in your power to please him because nothing has ever been so exciting.
But do you know what? I think Frank was wrong. And, I dare to challenge the narrative of Anthony, as well. A love for something should not bring you to your knees. Camaraderie can happen without experiencing mutual trauma, dedication can happen without exhaustion, and adrenaline highs are possible outside of survival mode. Kitchens are changing. More and more often, younger cooks are not willing to tolerate mistreatment and unreasonable hours. They are setting clear boundaries for what is acceptable behavior in a way that is both simple and infuriating (because I didn’t think do it). A part of me feels like a fraternity brother angered by freshmen not willing to do the hazing, but ultimately, I am glad to see the shift.
I have hope for kitchens that thrive on growth and collaboration without sacrifice. A relationship takes hard work, but it should’t be an abandonment of all the other parts of our lives. Leaving an unhealthy kitchen is not the sign of a cook’s lack of dedication. It is a testament her confidence and standards.
Fuck off Chef Frank. We have plans for the future that you can’t even imagine.
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