09 mei 2017

When I was young boy I would visit the kitchen my father ran. Little did I know that the machines, commis, sous chefs and pot washers would be surrogate babysitters after school before soccer practice. I remember being sat in his office in my training uniform playing Gameboy and when I would get bored, I would explore the kitchens, click clacking down the halls in my football boots. I knew my way to one place: the staff canteen. I would borrow without returning ice creams and whatever else was not tied to the bench. Eventually I would get caught and never punished because my dad was the Executive Chef. Score!


Fast forward I'm now around 11, maybe 12 years old, and for my birthday I receive a child's cookbook filled with recipes for easy-to-make cakes, biscuits, slices and so on. I have no idea why, but I managed to make every recipe several times often unassisted, occasionally assisted - and by assisted I mean my father coming into the kitchen and making fun of how dirty I am working. I remember each time completing a recipe and having absolute joy. I would never eat them, I still am not the biggest fan of eating my own food (not to say it isn't delish) but I would love sharing them with my family and whoever would come by that day.


I can't pin point the exact moment I decided to be a chef, (I actually wanted to be the lead guitarist of a heavy metal band), but this is a feeling and I'm sure many chefs get it when sharing their food.

Photo credit:  Sam Chan.

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