Professional kitchens have always seemed like pressure cookers: hot, sweaty, stressful. The caricature of a head chef is angry, sweary, unable to keep a lid on his temper. He shouts at underlings for the most minor of infractions.
Recent events have shown how pervasive that stereotype still is. A number of ex-employees of the Kitchin Group, the set of restaurants owned by celebrity chef Tom Kitchin, have made allegations of a range of abuse, from being denied food, drink and breaks to deliberate burning and sexual harassment. Two senior members of staff have been suspended pending investigation.
But the response from the food industry has been muted. Many have simply ignored the claims; others have made excuses. Food critic William Sitwell claimed that ‘in any high-pressure environment… tensions run high and tempers can fray’. To anyone outside of this bubble, this is deranged. These allegations don’t describe sharp words, they describe systematic abuse. The problem with kitchens is cultural. In a restaurant, abuse isn’t just tolerated; it is aspirational.
Arguably, this was baked into the restaurant kitchen from the start. When French chef Auguste Escoffier introduced the ‘brigade system’ of kitchen hierarchy in the late 19th century, he explicitly modelled it on the army. This brought valuable discipline and order, but also concentrated power in the hands of chefs, untrained for leadership. And the thing is, the kitchen isn’t a warzone. This is not Waterloo — it’s lunch.
The heyday of the rockstar chef came in the 1990s with Marco Pierre White. He became a legend — at the time the youngest chef to have been awarded three Michelin stars — and the poster child for bad-boy chefs. White described his kitchen in his 2007 memoir The Devil in the Kitchen as his ‘theatre of cruelty’.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in