A Woman’s Place is in the Kitchen

That headline-grabbing open letter about sexism in the industry isn’t the only thing chef Sally Abé—one of CODE Hospitality’s Women of the Year in partnership with Bibendum Wine—has written. She’s also authored a memoir, A Woman’s Place is in the Kitchen, which has just scooped a Fortnum & Mason Food and Drink Award for best debut food book and is now out in paperback. The F&M Award is well-deserved recognition for a pacy read that dives straight into some tough shifts in tough kitchens. What really comes across, however, is Abé’s determination to change the system. When Abé sees what’s going on and sees she can do something about it, she very quickly does. A restaurant’s culture can change. And, with our annual Happiest Places to Work in partnership with Planday now underway, that’s a message we can very much get behind. Here’s a taster.

My experience at the Harwood Arms proved to be an immense learning opportunity on all fronts. Despite unexpected lessons that came with my role as head chef (rodding the drains in the basement up to my ankles in human faeces, I’m looking at you) I relished the chance to be in charge. While some of the acquired experience may be better off left in the past, I can confidently regard them as valuable life skills today. I had a hard task ahead of me trying to unravel the historical, deeply ingrained, structure of the kitchen environment; it was going to be a bumpy road that not all my chefs would be willing to travel. This was the first time I’d started to think about this structure as a whole, and as something that affected the entirety of the hospitality industry. These weren’t isolated incidents in kitchens, it was the norm. I was going to have to buck a thirty-, forty-, even fifty-year trend, it wasn’t going to be easy but I knew it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t continue to perpetuate a system that I hated. I wanted – needed – change. Chefs would often lie to cover up mistakes rather than be chastised for the mistake itself.

I’d been there, and I could also see straight through it. It takes one to know one. I did quickly find how much more I could get from someone with a culture of kindness and respect. I wouldn’t let people take the piss. Everyone was still expected to toe the line and, if they didn’t, they would have to move on, but bit by bit the chefs started to blossom. The way I instigated this change in the first instance was by learning the difference between a reaction and a response. A reaction is an immediate response, often fuelled by the emotion of – in this environment – a stressful situation. For example, if a chef overcooks the beef on a big table, a reaction would be to shout at them, ‘You fucking useless prick!’ It might make you feel better for a split second but does nothing to resolve the situation, and only serves to make the other person feel bad. A response, on the other hand is a calculated, logical action: something along the lines of, ‘Okay, do you have anything else ready to go?’ Then, you can address why the mistake happened later, when the heat has been taken out of the situation. By taking a step back and discussing calmly, you’re creating a more positive learning environment and reduce immediate stress response in the kitchen. When someone has fucked up, they are well aware of it, and unless they did it intentionally, which is highly unlikely, rubbing salt in the wound certainly isn’t going to fix the problem. Even chefs who hadn’t previously showed promise flourished with a little encouragement and a positive learning environment. ‘You’ve got this,’ quickly became my new mantra. Showing everyone that I had their backs, and actually voicing that I wouldn’t let them go down or flounder during service was the way the kitchen transformed. Once the chefs knew there were stabilisers on their bikes to begin with, they became confident enough to push themselves until they were riding all on their own.

Unlearning ten years of thinking this way was like being freed from weights that had been holding me down, and as each week or month went past, I felt lighter and surer of my decision and fresh outlook. This new management style opened new lines of communication, and when the chefs were confident to ask for help they then made fewer mistakes and we were much more prepared going into service. That’s not to say everything was perfect all the time: it was still a high pressure environment at the end of the day, and food still got burned no matter how you conducted yourself as a boss, but the seeds of change had been sown and were starting to break through. Some chefs did struggle to get to grips with this new way of working; they had been conditioned into behaving a certain way and feeling afraid most of the time. I pressed on regardless; I knew it was the right way forward for me and my team. Most would come round when they realised that if they were open and honest with me that the road would be a much easier one. Unfortunately, some of them can only be described as pathological liars. One particular chef, who worked for me for around a year at the Harwood, fell into the latter category. Bob would lie, get found out, then continue the lie until it got so extravagant no one knew what the truth was any more. There was the time Bob used elderflower vinegar instead of cordial in a custard, and he argued with me about it for an entire service; he even swore on his mum’s life it wasn’t vinegar. The time he insisted to Keiran that a piece of fish was just a few minutes from being cooked, but when Keiran walked over to his section and dipped his hand into the water bath it transpired that it wasn’t even plugged into the wall. The lies to cover why he was constantly late were equally baffling considering he lived walking distance of the restaurant. I think poor old Bob would have significantly benefitted from a good round of therapy as I certainly never got to the bottom of the compulsive lying. Ultimately you can only help someone who wants to be helped.

Extracted from A Woman’s Place is in the Kitchen: A Chef’s Dispatches from Behind the Pass by Sally Abé is out now in paperback, rrp £10.99