The most successful chefs understand to never take comments — good or bad — too personally.
Chefs have something of a reputation when it comes to ego. The stereotype of the volatile chef is so ingrained in our culture that it’s almost expected to come with the territory. But where does that reputation come from, and why does it persist?
When asked about their line of work, most chefs don’t say, “I work as a chef;” they say, “I am a chef.” For many of us, what we do for work isn’t separate from the self — it can define who we are. It’s more of an identity than an occupation. When you give people food you’ve created, you’re not just providing sustenance; you’re bearing your soul, offering a piece of yourself up for judgment. Unlike many professions, everyone feels entitled to an opinion about our work because everyone eats. If your food receives criticism, it can feel like a direct attack on your worth. It can be hard not to take it personally.
One of the most powerful things you can do as a yacht chef is to learn to let go.
Throughout my years as a sous chef, I’ve broadly worked with two types of head chef — those whose mood depended entirely on the reception of their food and those with an unshakable sense of self who simply didn’t take any of it too much to heart. It’s easy to work with the chef whose mood is a steady ship in a storm, and far trickier when a negative comment can quickly send the chef spiraling.
In restaurants, there’s a natural degree of separation between cook and diner. Feedback does trickle through, but usually only if it’s really good or really bad. Yachts provide much more back and forth, even the finickiest of details are passed along from guest to chef. I’ve seen entire days derailed by the most seemingly inconsequential criticism. One guest took real umbrage from a slick of extra virgin olive oil on her poached egg — repeatedly stating the two should never be seen on a plate together and bringing it up multiple times over the rest of the trip. Another guest was unhappy with the mechanics of the spread of their smashed avocado — it hadn’t been spread close enough to the edges of the toast. These weren’t personal slights or say anything about the chef’s skill, but I saw them chip away at their confidence, until their frustration inevitably spilled over onto the crew. That’s the danger of ego in such a confined environment. Your response to criticism has an effect on everyone else around you, too.
One of the most powerful things you can do as a yacht chef is to learn to let go. I was talking with a land-based head chef and restaurateur recently, and he couldn’t think of anything worse than cooking entirely to the whims of guests. His idea of heaven is to cook food he’s proud of, on his terms, for guests at his restaurant. Which I understand completely. Yachting isn’t the right environment for every chef. It got me thinking that to become a successful yacht chef, you have to let go of any ego and essentially mold yourself to become the chef each guest needs you to be in that moment. You might have trained for years and have a niche specialty, a forte, a signature dish or flair. But if the guest wants a toastie or a bowl of plain pasta at midnight, you just have to meet the brief.
Owners often prefer to eat simply on board. They might want to reserve being wowed for when they dine in restaurants, where the experience is a huge part of the appeal. So the chef’s job is to serve up comfort, familiarity and ease. But what if they can’t help themselves? Guests may well be perfectly happy with hummus and crudités; they don’t need a molecular amuse-bouche every night. Knowing when not to flex your skills is just as important as having them.
The most successful chefs are the ones who understand this just isn’t about them. It’s about delivering what the guests want, when they want it and not taking any of it too personally, which is often easier said than done.