Why I Still Chef.

Almost a year ago, I stepped out of an imposing industrial brick building, blinking into the bright London sun after the sombre interior of the kitchen, with a job offer for a chef role at one of the UK’s best restaurants to my name. The head chef’s voice was lingering in my head, confirming the position and letting me know that I was free to start anytime. I slowly made my way back to the overground station, brimming with excitement and taking in the buzz of my surroundings, feeling acutely aware of the hum of the city I was to start my new chapter in. Coming home that day, I wrote a love letter to cheffing in anticipation of what this new position would have in store for me.

Following a drab remote internship relating to my master’s degree, I found myself lost for purpose, in desperate need to find something that made me feel like I was working, contributing, and growing. At that point, I could not see how a 9-5 office job could provide me with that. I was craving the suffocating heat of a mid-service kitchen instead of being stuck at an air-conditioned desk all day. I longed for the shower after a day’s work, washing off sweat and grease, and feeling my tense muscles relax after several hours of being on my feet, running around, carrying pans and produce-heavy containers, instead of simply closing my laptop at the end of a working day. I missed going to bed physically and mentally tired, with the satisfying sense of achievement, drifting off to sleep with pleasant exhaustion within mere minutes.

One year onwards, many of these joys have returned and intensified: I take pleasure in seeing my skills improve, gaining deeper insights into techniques and cuisines, and learning what I am capable of under pressure. I allow myself an impressed and proud nod when I serve a dish in all its perfection, having achieved the ideal level of crispiness, a glossy sheen, a flawless split in the sauce, a silky-smooth emulsion, or an immaculate dome, pleased if not almost jealous of the person receiving this ideal plate of food.

I enjoy looking down at my hands (although they are still more pristine than some of my colleagues’), seeing the esteemed bit of hard skin on the side of my right index finger where it rests against the steel of my knives, the scattered burns on my right hand and arm, and the occasional cuts on my left (usually the doing of a grater or peeler – the chef’s natural predators).

I take joy in the interconnectedness of the restaurant scene in London and beyond, to feel so close to the pulse of the culinary zeitgeist, appreciating everyone’s efforts in creating a vibrant and diverse industry. There is a never-ending flow of new acquaintances and restaurant experiences as you build a network across a variety of venues, learning the who’s who, chatting with a chef here and a manager from there, and soon enough you get sent the occasional complimentary dessert or find that the second round of drinks you ordered didn’t make it onto the bill.

I appreciate the level of understanding and closeness I have reached with the kitchen team. Being able to tell exactly what mood they’re in the moment I step into the kitchen. Understanding their movements and non-verbal communication, knowing which chefs are best during a deep clean, which chefs always add more salt, which ones are the fastest preppers, who can smash the pass, and who cuts the best onions.

Cheffing gives me a type of fulfilment which I have yet to experience elsewhere. Having been lucky to grow up as an academically inclined person, I never felt like I had to put in too much work for school or university to get through it. As such, I always felt as though I was somehow cheating my way through life, getting opportunities with limited efforts, carried onwards via my social and academic privilege.

When it comes to cheffing, there is no option to cheat. Privilege may get you into a kitchen, but privilege and talent will only get you so far. You can’t get anywhere without learning and mastering the necessary techniques, and you won’t make it as a chef if you aren’t prepared to put in the time and energy to be in that kitchen from morning to night. No one can cheat their way through a Saturday night service. No one can cheat themselves out of a clean down. No one can cheat their way through prep (we may try, but you can only escape it so long before you find yourself staring at an empty container looking for your much-needed mise, with checks still lining up the pass rail). You owe your efforts to the restaurant, to the team, and to yourself. As Anthony Bourdain said, the restaurant kitchen may well be the last true meritocracy, “where what we do is all that matters”. You gain, keep, and deserve your place only if you do the work and prove your worth.

As I have said before, I may well hang up my apron one day (in truth, I don’t think my knees and back will allow me to chef forever), but for now, I appreciate all the fulfilment and joy the job provides me. It makes me feel like I am truly living life.

And so for now, I chef.