The Chef Cult

Fear and intimidation isn't leadership.

People are often surprised that I chose the industry I did because I don’t seem like the type who would mesh well with it. And they’re not wrong. It’s no secret that I have a problem with the way chefs are glorified for being tough, intimidating, tyrannical—or, in other words, intense AF. There’s also an air of arrogance and elitism woven into it, painfully obvious to anyone who’s ever sat through an interview or a social media post from one of these people.

Back when I wrote Sugar Burn, I got a fair share of feedback from industry folks that essentially boiled down to, you’re a whiny little bitch. Meanwhile, I sat there scratching my head, wondering when it became a crime to call out a toxic industry and the people who insist on keeping it that way. Several years later, The Bear came out and gave the public a front-row seat to the ride-or-die, “this is so important it could kill you” mentality that dominates professional kitchens. And for whatever reason, that show hit differently. Maybe it was the changing cultural tide. Maybe it was something else. All I could say was, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

I have far too many cookbooks. I didn’t realize just how many until I packed up my bookcase to move across the country and found that I could only fit a few in a box before it became too heavy to carry—because cookbooks are thicker, bigger, and heavier than other books. The other day, I flipped through one and landed on an anecdote about staging for a well-known chef. The writer described the intense intimidation he felt in that chef’s kitchen, the way his every move was scrutinized under the weight of someone else’s “greatness.” He later turned down a job offer, and in response, that same chef sent him a 22-word email calling him a loser bitch. Which, honestly, doesn’t surprise me.

I’ve never met that chef personally, but I know who he is. More importantly, I’ve met plenty like him—each with their own variation of I’m better than you energy, dipped in GOAT sauce and dripping with self-importance. And, because the industry rewards that kind of arrogance, they don’t bother hiding it. It’s not even exclusive to male chefs (though it certainly caters to the male ego). The whole industry runs on a cult of suffering.

I saw a meme the other day that showed the scale of Earth compared to the universe, with an arrow pointing at our little speck of existence. The caption read: This is where you are, you insignificant piece of shit. And I think about that a lot whenever I encounter a chef with a god complex. A lot of people who are good at what they do, like to remind people that they’re good at what they do. However, there is a great strength in remaining humble. There is a fine line between being confident and arrogant; the latter is very cringey.

Now, none of this is to say that I don’t take the job seriously. I do. Caring about your work and maintaining professionalism is important. But no job—not a single one—should grind you down to the point of clinical depression, anxiety, burnout, or addiction. And yet, all of those things are rampant in restaurant culture, because the system tells you that if you’re not suffering, you’re not working hard enough.

The yes, chef hierarchy might look exciting or interesting on TV, but in real life? It’s just a thinly veiled system of exploitation.

I once worked under a chef who later did an interview explaining her “break them to make them” philosophy. She admitted it didn’t always work, but because that’s how she was taught, that’s how she taught others. The cycle continues. And sure, some people thrive under that kind of pressure, or at the very least, become good at absorbing and deflecting it. But should they have to? Where’s the limit?

The irony of training in that kind of intensity is that it does yield results. Pressure like that pushes past limitations, forcing something raw into something remarkable—like coal into a diamond, but accelerated, unnatural, and with far more collateral damage. It’s the kind of transformation you see in the movie Whiplash, where brilliance is born not from passion alone, but from a brutal, near-ritualistic breaking of the self.

The reality is, that style of leadership is outdated, abusive, and, quite frankly, stupid. Efficiency doesn’t require fear. Innovation doesn’t require cruelty. And yet, time and time again, we see talented chefs leading kitchens like dictators, all in the name of some artistic vision that, well—could still be executed without traumatizing their staff. The trick is finding a way to get the results you want, without being tyrannical. However, having said that, I have known people in my life who actually liked the intense stress that came with that kind of teaching, but I am certainly not one of them.

I’ve been railing against this bullshit since my first stage. Egomaniacs often run kitchens, and with the rise of competitive cooking shows romanticizing the grind, we’ve put chefs on pedestals and everyone else under their boot. At the end of the day, restaurants are businesses. Yes, there’s a sense of urgency, but there’s also ego, money, and accolades propping up this broken system. And those accolades (even if they’re well deserved) are used to excuse everything.

Personally, I don’t care how many Michelin stars you’ve earned, how many James Beard nominations you’ve racked up, how many restaurants you’ve opened, or how many magazine-ready dishes you’ve plated—if you’re a prick, you’re a prick. And I’m not going to look up to you for that, no matter what you know how to cook, or how good it tastes, or even how good it looks. But that’s just me and my crazy talk!

Weakness is a word that gets thrown around a lot. If you can’t take it, get out of the kitchen, that kind of thing. And I’m sure some people do thrive in those environments. But I’d be willing to bet that a majority of people hate it. The industry needs leaders, not tyrants. You don’t need to break people to build a successful kitchen. And if you think otherwise? Maybe the problem isn’t your staff—it’s you.

The food world has enough jerks. Maybe it’s time to stop worshiping them. Their so-called genius doesn’t excuse their contribution to the industry’s toxicity. Innovate all you want, but if you’re leading with fear and ego instead of respect, you’re part of the problem. We’re all here just trying to survive, why would you go about life making it a point to torture others and make someone else’s world darker? We’re all only human. The best kitchens aren’t just efficient—they’re places where creativity thrives, talent is nurtured, and respect is the standard. People smile in those places, and not out of being uncomfortable.

Great food doesn’t require great suffering. It never did.