What No One Tells You About Being a Chef

The long hours, the aching feet, the obsession, the sacrifices, the loneliness, and the people who make it all worthwhile.

There are plenty of things people will tell you about being a chef.

They'll tell you about the pressure, the long hours, the hot kitchens, the shouting, the burns, the cuts and the occasional customer who sends their food back because it's not quite what they imagined.

They'll tell you about the adrenaline of a busy Saturday night, the satisfaction of a perfectly executed service and the pride that comes with putting something on a plate that makes someone genuinely happy.

And they're not wrong.

But there are sides to being a chef that we don't talk about enough.

Not the glamorous bits you see on television. Not the perfectly dressed plates on Instagram. Not the chef in a pristine white jacket smiling for a photograph.

I'm talking about the bits that happen behind the kitchen doors.

The bits that stay with you long after you've hung up your whites.

And the bits that, if we're honest, sometimes make you question why the fuck you do it.

1. Saturday night at 8:30pm is a love-hate relationship.

There's nothing quite like it.

The tickets are coming in. The printer hasn't stopped. Someone's calling for a pickup, someone else is asking where their garnish is, and you've got three tables that all seem to want their food at precisely the same moment.

You're sweating. Your feet hurt. Your back's reminding you that you're not 20 anymore.

And yet, somewhere in the chaos, something happens.

The team clicks.

Everyone knows their position. Communication becomes instinctive. You're moving without thinking, anticipating problems before they happen, and somehow the whole thing starts to feel less like chaos and more like choreography.

It's addictive.

You can hate every second of it and still love being right there in the middle of it.

That's one of the hardest things to explain to someone who hasn't worked a busy service. It's not necessarily that you enjoy the pressure. It's that you enjoy what happens when you and your team rise to meet it.

You finish service exhausted, probably smelling like a combination of fryer oil, sweat and whatever's been cooking on the pass all night.

But there's a buzz.

And sometimes, that's enough to make you come back and do it all again tomorrow.

The problem is that adrenaline can make you feel invincible when your body is anything but.

2. Your body keeps the receipts.

At 20, you can finish an 18 hour shift, go out afterwards, sleep for a few hours and somehow turn up the next day ready to do it all again. We used to drive into Chinatown after a shift, for food and stay until 3am, get back home for 4am, up again at 7am for an 8am Sunday shift.

At 45, your knees - or back, might have a different opinion. Really different.

Years of standing for hours, lifting heavy stockpots, working on hard floors, bending over low fridges and repeating the same movements take their toll.

The aches that you once laughed off become familiar. Your back becomes a weather forecast. Getting out of bed can occasionally feel like a full team briefing.

Recovery is different.

And yet, our industry has traditionally treated physical exhaustion as a badge of honour.

How many hours did you do? How busy was service? How little sleep did you get?

Somehow, the more broken you were at the end of the week, the more committed you were supposed to look.

But pain isn't proof of passion.

And being permanently exhausted doesn't make you a better chef.

It makes you an exhausted chef.

We need to get better at recognising that this is a physically demanding profession, and that looking after yourself isn't weakness.

It's maintenance.

You wouldn't expect a kitchen full of equipment to run indefinitely without cleaning, servicing or replacing parts.

Why do we expect our bodies to be any different?

3. Painkillers and Red Bull are not breakfast.

Let's have an honest conversation.

There are kitchens where breakfast is whatever you can grab between jobs. Lunch is a handful of chips, a staff meal eaten standing up, or something you've been picking at since 11am.

Water gets forgotten. Coffee becomes a food group. Energy drinks become a substitute for sleep.

And when something hurts, you crack on.

Headache? Take something.

Backache? Take something.

Exhausted? Crack open another can.

It's not every kitchen, and it's not every chef. But enough of us will recognise the pattern.

We spend our working lives understanding ingredients, nutrition, balance and the importance of quality produce.

We can explain exactly why a dish needs acidity, why a sauce needs reducing and why a menu needs balance.

But when it comes to our own bodies, sometimes we behave as though the rules don't apply.

Nutrition really, really fucking matters.

Not because every chef needs to become a fitness influencer or start weighing out their porridge.

Because food is fuel, and our bodies need it.

Regular meals, enough protein, carbohydrates to support physical work, fruit and vegetables, hydration and decent sleep aren't luxuries reserved for people with office jobs.

They're part of keeping yourself functioning.

And if you're relying on stimulants to get through the day or regularly using painkillers to push through work, that's worth taking seriously rather than treating it as part of the uniform.

Say goodbye to your kidneys at 45, take it from me.

We look after the food.

We look after the guests.

We look after the business.

We need to start looking after the person doing all the bloody work.

4. Being a chef isn't always a job. Sometimes, it's an obsession.

There's a difference between being a cook and being obsessed with being a chef.

Both have their place. Both deserve respect.

But if you know, you know.

You're on holiday, looking at a menu and wondering why they've paired those ingredients together.

You're walking through a market when you spot something you've never worked with before, and suddenly you've got six ideas running through your head.

You buy another knife because the handle feels different, the balance is better, or you've convinced yourself that this particular Japanese steel is going to change your life.

There is always ANOTHER knife brand.

Always another technique to learn.

Another restaurant to visit. Another chef whose work you admire. Another dish you want to understand.

You don't just eat food. You analyse it.

You don't just go out for dinner. You're looking at the operation, the menu, the service, the kitchen layout and whether the pass is organised properly.

My kids forever laugh at me, eating out, for lifting plates up and seeing who produced them!

You can try to switch off, but the industry has a habit of following you home.

And that's the beauty of it.

Assessing the lighting, flooring, plates, uniform, hygiene/jewwelery, and even that wobberly table ffs - we see it.

But - it's also the danger.

When your profession becomes part of your identity, switching off can feel like you're giving something up.

You start measuring yourself by your output, your standards, your position, your reputation and how much you can take on.

You stop asking whether you're enjoying it and start asking whether you're doing enough.

Passion can drive you to extraordinary places.

But obsession without boundaries can take you somewhere much darker.

The challenge is learning to love what you do without allowing it to consume everything else you are.

5. You will miss things that matter.

Birthdays.

Weddings.

Family gatherings.

Christmas dinners.

Your mate's big celebration that everyone has been talking about for months.

You'll say you can't make it because you're working.

Sometimes you'll genuinely have no choice. Sometimes you'll have agreed to a shift before realising what the date means to someone else.

And sometimes, if we're honest, you'll miss something because you simply can't face the thought of letting your team down.

Then comes the guilt.

You know your family understands. Your friends know what hospitality is like. Your partner knows that weekends don't always mean time off.

But understanding doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

You can love your job and still hate missing the important moments.

You can be proud of your work and still wish you were sitting at that wedding table instead of standing at the pass.

And when you finally get a day off, you might be too tired to do anything with it.

That's a difficult part of this profession to explain.

It's not always the hours themselves. It's what those hours take you away from.

The people who love you don't necessarily want you to stop being a chef.

They just want to see you, too.

And you deserve to be present in your own life, not just in the kitchen.

6. The secret handshakes aren't always innocent.

There are things that happen in hospitality that we shouldn't romanticise.

The back-of-house culture. The after-shift habits. The things people laugh about because they've always happened that way.

And the things that nobody wants to discuss when the kitchen doors close.

I've seen how easily unhealthy behaviour can become normalised in high-pressure environments.

Sometimes it's excessive drinking. Sometimes it's drugs. Sometimes it's the unspoken expectation that you need something to get through the shift, come down afterwards or feel something other than exhaustion.

Sometimes it's the quiet exchange that everyone pretends not to notice.

A secret handshake that lasts a little too long.

A culture where people know what's happening but nobody wants to be the person who says something.

But YOU fucking see it - fact.

Not every kitchen is like this. Not every chef has experienced it.

But pretending these things don't exist doesn't help anyone.

We have to ask ourselves why people working in an industry built around food, community and bringing people together can end up relying on substances to cope with the demands of the job.

Is it pressure? Exhaustion? The social culture? A way of escaping what's going on outside work? Sometimes it's a combination of things.

There isn't one simple answer.

But we cannot keep celebrating the idea of the hard-drinking, hard-living chef as though self-destruction is part of the job description.

You don't need to damage yourself to prove you're committed.

You don't need to participate to fit in.

And if you recognise yourself in any of this, asking for help doesn't make you less of a chef.

It makes you a person who deserves support.

7. The lonelier you get, the more people might think you've made it.

This is the one I think we need to talk about more.

Isolation.

Not necessarily being physically alone, but being surrounded by people and still feeling as though you're carrying everything yourself.

It can happen at every stage of a chef's career, and sometimes for completely different reasons.

When you're starting out, you're trying to find your place.

You're learning, making mistakes, trying to keep up and wondering whether you'll ever be as good as the people around you.

Then you start progressing.

You're given more responsibility. You become a senior chef. People look to you for answers.

You move from following direction to giving it.

And suddenly, some of the conversations you used to have change.

You're no longer just one of the team. You're responsible for the team.

You have to make decisions that people won't always agree with. You have to hold standards when everyone else is tired. You have to deal with problems that you can't simply pass to somebody else.

As you grow, some people grow with you.

Others resent you for it.

Sometimes relationships change. Sometimes people who were once your closest colleagues no longer see you in the same way.

Not every friendship survives a change in responsibility, and not every difficult relationship is your fault.

But leadership can be lonely.

Then you reach another level.

Executive Chef. Head of Food. Operations. Whatever the title looks like in your world.

You might be managing budgets, recruitment, performance, suppliers, senior stakeholders and the expectations of an entire business.

You could be working 18 hours a day, surrounded by people from the moment you walk through the door until the moment you leave.

And still feel isolated.

Your performance changes from operating for guests or delivery, and at leader level, your performance is for your team and the expectations they have.

Because being surrounded by people isn't the same as feeling supported by them.

You can be responsible for everyone else's wellbeing and have no idea who to turn to when you're struggling yourself.

You can be the person everyone comes to with a problem and feel as though you have nowhere to take your own.

You can spend an entire day talking and still have nobody to talk to.

And sometimes, the moment that makes it all worthwhile is hearing a room full of chefs respond together:

"YES, CHEF!"

It's not just about authority.

It's the feeling that, for a moment, everyone's pulling in the same direction.

That the team is there.

That you aren't doing it alone.

But leadership shouldn't depend on that moment being the only time you feel connected to the people around you.

We need to make it easier for chefs to talk honestly about what's happening behind the scenes, especially when they're the ones everyone else expects to have the answers.

Because the person leading the kitchen needs looking after, too.

8. Not everyone will stay with you. And it's not always personal.

You will train people who become incredible chefs.

You'll give someone their first opportunity, teach them the basics, help them find their confidence and watch them develop into someone you couldn't be prouder of.

Then they'll leave.

Sometimes for more money.

Sometimes for a better opportunity.

Sometimes because they want different hours, a different environment or a completely different life.

And sometimes they'll leave without giving you the explanation you thought you deserved.

That can hurt.

Especially when you've invested time, energy and belief in someone.

But people aren't possessions, and a kitchen isn't the whole world.

You can be an excellent chef, a supportive leader and a brilliant mentor without being the right person for someone to work for forever.

Your job isn't to make people dependent on you.

It's to help them become good enough to make their own decisions.

If they leave because they've grown, learned and found something that suits them better, perhaps you've done something right.

Of course, there will be people who let you down. There will be people who take opportunities and give very little back.

That's life.

But don't let a few bad experiences turn you into someone who stops investing in others.

The best chefs I've known haven't just produced brilliant food.

They've helped produce brilliant chefs.

And sometimes, the greatest compliment is watching someone you trained go on to do something you never could have imagined for them.

9. The people who care are worth more than you realise.

Hospitality moves quickly.

People come and go. Restaurants open and close. Businesses change hands. Teams break up and reform.

You meet hundreds of people throughout your career, but only a handful will make a lasting difference.

They're the ones who answer the phone when you've had a terrible day.

The ones who tell you the truth when everyone else is telling you what you want to hear.

The ones who challenge you without humiliating you.

The ones who remember you're a person, not just a job title.

And the ones who are patient with you when you're still trying to work things out.

Because let's be honest, chefs aren't always the easiest people to deal with.

We're passionate. We're stubborn. We can be obsessive about details that other people wouldn't even notice.

We can get wrapped up in our own standards and forget that the rest of the world doesn't necessarily see things the way we do.

Sometimes we need someone to tell us to calm down.

Sometimes we need someone to tell us to push harder.

And sometimes we just need someone who understands without needing the whole story.

People who genuinely care about you will show an immeasurable amount of patience. Keep them close.

Not because you owe them something.

Because those relationships are worth more than another job title, another award or another kitchen you can put on your CV.

When the whites come off, the service is over and the adrenaline disappears, those are the people who matter.

Make time for them.

Be that person for someone else, too. Pay it forward.

10. You can love the industry and still want it to change.

I still believe hospitality is one of the greatest industries to work in.

Where else can you start at the bottom, learn a trade, develop your skills, travel, work with incredible ingredients, meet extraordinary people and build a career that takes you in directions you never expected?

It's an industry that can give people purpose, opportunity, community and a sense of belonging.

I've seen the good it can do.

I've seen teams come together under pressure and achieve things they never thought possible.

I've seen chefs develop from nervous newcomers into confident leaders.

I've seen food bring people together in ways that go far beyond what's on the plate.

But loving an industry doesn't mean pretending it gets everything right.

We can love the pressure and still challenge the expectation to work ourselves into the ground.

We can love the standards and still recognise that people need rest.

We can be proud of our resilience without making suffering a requirement for success.

We can demand excellence without humiliating people.

Fun fact - you dont need to be a dick, and pour gravy over someone's head to demonstrate timing isnt great - We can actually just talk to them post shift, offer a timer, build communicationa and be with them on service rather than hurl abuse

And we can respect the old-school chefs who taught us everything while accepting that some traditions are worth leaving behind.

Hospitality doesn't need to lose its character to become healthier.

It needs to protect the people who give it that character.

Because the industry isn't built from menus, machinery, kitchens or dining rooms.

It's built from people.

And those people deserve better than being told that exhaustion is normal, isolation comes with promotion and missing half your life is simply the price of being a chef.

We can do better than that.

And we should.

... And what's your signature dish? Eye roll emoji.

Every chef knows this question.

You're at a networking event, meeting someone new, or just trying to enjoy a normal conversation, and it comes.

"So, you're a chef? What's your signature dish?"

Eye roll.

Where do you even start?

Unless you are THE guy who created the chocolate lava cake, can you really answer this?

Is it the dish you've spent years perfecting? The one you cooked in that restaurant ten years ago? The one that got you noticed? Or the one you knocked up on a Tuesday afternoon when the fridge was nearly empty?

Here's the thing: most chefs don't have just one signature dish.

We're constantly learning, experimenting, changing, adapting and stealing inspiration from everywhere we go. Our cooking evolves with the seasons, the ingredients, the places we've worked and the people we've met.

Ask me what my favourite dish is, and you might get an answer.

Ask me what my signature dish is, and you might get a very long conversation about produce, technique, seasonality and why the question is far more complicated than it sounds.

Because being a chef isn't about spending your entire career perfecting one plate.

It's about the thousands of plates that came before it, the mistakes that taught you something, the ingredients that challenged you and the people who helped you become the chef you are.

And sometimes, it's about making something brilliant out of whatever's left in the walk-in at the end of the week.

So, the next time you meet a chef, by all means, ask about their food.

Ask what they're excited about cooking. Ask what ingredient they're obsessed with right now. Ask what they've learned recently.

Just don't be surprised if "What's your signature dish?" gets you an eye roll before you get an answer. 🙄

So, what does it really mean to be a chef?

It means learning a trade that can become part of who you are.

It means creating something that people remember, often without ever knowing your name.

It means finding satisfaction in the details, pride in the pressure and connection in a team that works together.

It also means accepting that your body has limits, your relationships need attention and your identity is bigger than your job.

It means understanding that not everyone will stay, not every opportunity will work out and not every service will be a success.

It means knowing when to push, when to learn, when to lead and when to ask for help.

And it means recognising that the best chefs aren't necessarily the ones who work the longest hours, shout the loudest or sacrifice the most.

They're the ones who keep learning.

The ones who bring others with them.

The ones who understand that a great service is about far more than getting food out of the kitchen.

And the ones who, after all those years, can still find a reason to love what they do.

Because beneath the burns, the bruises, the missed birthdays, the questionable breakfasts and the late-night conversations, there's something worth holding on to.

The craft.

The people.

The feeling when it all comes together.

But you don't have to lose yourself to prove that you belong.

You can be a brilliant chef without sacrificing your health, your relationships or your life outside the kitchen.

And if you're a chef reading this, whether you're just starting out, running your first kitchen or carrying the weight of an entire operation, I hope you remember one thing.

You're allowed to be a chef.

You're allowed to be ambitious.

You're allowed to love the job.

But you're allowed to be a person, too.

And you don't have to wait until you're broken to start looking after yourself.

A question for the industry

What's the one thing you wish someone had told you before you became a chef?

Not how to make a perfect sauce. Not how to sharpen a knife. Not how to get through a busy Saturday night.

Something real.

Something you learned the hard way.

Something you think the next generation of chefs deserves to know.

I'd genuinely like to hear it.

Because if we're serious about supporting the people who make hospitality what it is, perhaps it's time we started having more of these conversations.

You dont have to destroy yourself, to prove you love your career, or job.

Tony

The chef Hub