This morning I was scrolling through the news on my phone when Nathan walked in.

Nathan has worked in several Michelin-starred restaurants. He’s an idealistic chef and now the head chef of a restaurant.

“Did you read what’s being written about René Redzepi?” I asked.

He smiled.

“What people are saying is horrible,” I said. “And this is supposed to be the best restaurant in the world.”

He took a sip of his coffee and answered calmly.

“You’re not naive enough to think this only happens at Noma, are you?”

“I’ve been in kitchens since I was a kid,” he said. “I’ve worked with many famous chefs. I’ve never seen it any other way.”

“But at least people are talking about it now,” I said. “At least it’s finally being discussed that this isn’t normal.”

Nathan just shrugged and kept drinking his coffee.

So why are we all so surprised?

Have you never heard that kitchen workers stand on their feet for 70–80 hours a week? That many of them barely take their annual leave? That Christmas, birthdays and holidays are usually spent working instead of being with family?

That discrimination, humiliation and exhaustion are part of the job for many people in this industry?

Have you really never heard about this?

Or were you simply more interested in the plates, the ones where flower petals are placed with tweezers, foams carefully piped on top, everything looking technical, precise and perfect?

For years, the world of fine dining has been telling the same story: perfection.

The perfect plate.
The perfect presentation.
The perfect experience.

But the system behind that perfection is built on something much older.

The military hierarchy that Auguste Escoffier introduced to professional kitchens.

Modern kitchen ‘brigades’ were designed like military structures: a chain of command, strict discipline, absolute authority. In that environment, shouting, humiliation and pressure were often considered normal.

Sometimes even necessary.

Over time, the creators of this system were turned into legends. Chefs became almost sacred figures, and restaurants slowly transformed from places to eat into carefully staged experiences.

But the reality for the people working behind the scenes was very different.

People who said, “I did an internship but had to pay money to work there,” were called spoiled members of Generation Z.

Those who said, “They mocked my accent, they insulted me,” were told: “You were accepted into a place like this , and now you want to get paid too?”

The restaurants people admired so much , the ones they spent fortunes to visit were rarely questioned.

And perhaps the most disturbing part is this: the people who grew up in this culture often continued it.

“I was trained this way. Kitchens are supposed to be tough.”

And so the cycle repeated itself.

The role of the Michelin Guide in all this is also interesting.

Michelin stars measure technical perfection. They evaluate product quality, skill, presentation and consistency.

But they do not evaluate the people working inside those kitchens.

Working conditions, hierarchy, the way staff are treated , none of these are part of the criteria.

As long as the plate is perfect, the restaurant can still be rewarded.

And this creates a strange double reality in gastronomy.

On the plate: aesthetic perfection.

Inside the kitchen: a culture that often remains invisible.

But something has started to change.

Since the pandemic, many talented chefs have begun questioning this system. Some are leaving professional kitchens entirely. Others are trying to build a different kind of kitchen culture.

Because not everyone wants to be part of those “perfect” plates placed carefully with tweezers anymore.

People are speaking louder now.

And they are asking for the respect they deserve.

I know that perfect plates are not easy to create. Kitchens require discipline, repetition and hard work.

But when we chase perfection on the plate while ignoring the culture behind it, we move further away from what a real kitchen should be.

Maybe gastronomy doesn’t need new heroes anymore.

Maybe what we need is something much simpler.

Not genius chefs.

Just honest kitchens.

But the question remains:
How do we build them again?