19/05/2026
Nobody tells you what being a chef actually
feels like.
People see the food.
They see the photos.
The plated steak.
The perfect pasta pull.
The busy restaurant.
The open kitchen.
The chef jacket.
What they donât see is the version behind it.
The version that wakes up exhausted.
The version that sits in their car for 10 minutes
before a shift trying to mentally prepare.
The version that skips meals while feeding
hundreds of other people.
Being a chef means your body becomes a
machine.
Burns on your arms become normal.
Cuts on your fingers stop bothering you.
You stop reacting to pain because service
doesnât stop for anyone.
You learn how to function while tired.
Then eventually you learn how to function while
completely destroyed.
You walk into the kitchen and instantly feel the
heat.
The humming fridges.
The ticket machine.
The smell of stock, oil and bleach all mixed
together.
The pressure.
And somehow every day starts the same way:
âTonight shouldnât be too bad.â
Then 7:03pm hits.
Printers explode.
Someone calls in sick.
FOH forgets to fire a table.
A customer sends back a medium rare steak
because itâs âtoo pink.â
Uber orders start stacking.
The fryer starts acting weird.
Someone breaks a plate.
Chef is yelling.
KP disappears for 20 minutes.
Everyoneâs stressed.
Everyoneâs moving fast.
Everyoneâs pretending theyâre not panicking.
But somehowâŠ
you push through.
You move like a team.
You stop speaking in full sentences.
âBehind.â
âHot.â
âCorner.â
âWalking.â
âHeard.â
And weirdlyâŠ
those are the moments chefs feel most alive.
Because nobody outside the industry
understands the feeling of surviving a brutal
service together.
The jokes after close.
The sitting on buckets at 1am eating leftover
staff meal.
The silence after the last ticket prints.
The feeling of finally taking your apron off after
14 hours.
That feeling is addictive.
Being a chef means missing birthdays.
Missing weekends.
Missing normal life.
It means your friends say:
âYou work too muc