Bitch,” “sl**,” “c***,” “difficult,” “too emotional,” “can’t take a joke” – these are all terms that have been said to me by men in professional kitchens.
I’m the head chef of a Michelin-starred restaurant in central London. I’ve been working as a professional chef in high-end kitchens around the world for nearly 20 years. There is currently a spotlight on sexism in hospitality but this fight has been happening behind swinging doors for as long as I can remember.
I can only speak to my own experience. At times, I’ve felt insane trying to navigate my way through professional kitchens. I’ve been “pantsed” (when someone comes up behind you, yanks your trousers down and walks off) more than once, so I started wearing leggings under my trousers. I’ve been called a “stupid bitch” for not chiffonading tarragon properly. I’ve had a chef walk over and say, “While you’re down there…” as I crouched to get something from the fridge. I’ve had red-hot tongs stuck to my arm. I’ve been called a sl** because I’ve overcooked scallops.
Only in hindsight can I see these experiences for what they are: sexist bullying. This is because I’ve played things down or tried to laugh them off. Did I say or do anything about it at the time? No. I just “got on” with it, because the culture was: It’s only a bit of craic. They’re joking. It’s just a joke. But in private I was often sick with fear.
I have had an internal tug of war with myself for a lot of my career because, at certain points, I have wondered if these men are right: maybe I am just a woman not cut out for kitchens. A thought which to me, on some level, verifies the “too emotional” slur. This is why the problem is so insidious: the places we go inside ourselves when faced with entrenched sexism.
Some people would say, “Well, just leave. Why put up with it?” But that’s easier said than done when you have something to prove. I really felt like I did: that I could hold my own; that I was good enough.
As a means to survive these environments with certain men, I felt I had to match them and develop a similar bite, to protect myself. When I spoke a certain way, it would nip things in the bud. They would go away and let me get on with my work. It was exhausting. But I knew no other way to be taken seriously at a high level and I don’t think I would have survived the first 10 years of my career had I not been like that.
Now I’m in a position of seniority. I am the one managing kitchens and I have standards that I have to reach. I can be firm in expressing expectations but pride myself on fostering mutual respect. I will always disarm situations that carry even the faintest whiff of sexism, whether directed at me or not.
What I struggle to respect is being subcategorised as a “female chef”. Excuse my Irish, but it boils my piss. Everyone has eyes: I’m pretty sure my femaleness can be seen. I don’t need my own token category from men. My senses for egotistical male nonsense are more heightened than ever. I just don’t have time for it any more. Any misogynistic comment made towards a woman while she’s trying to work is crossing a line.
As much as I’ve experienced horrendous sexism and, on occasion, harassment, I have to nod to the dozens of men in this industry I’ve worked with – many of whom are friends – who do the work. They call out sexist or inappropriate behaviour when they see it. They don’t ignore it.
These men give me some hope that others, particularly younger chefs, will want to follow suit. The men I’m thinking of don’t need to use pathetic defences like, “I’m married to a woman,” or, “I have daughters” to convince people they’re good guys. (As if these facts automatically disqualify you from behaving badly towards women. I’d tend to assume the opposite these days.)
“Not my section, not my problem” is a dated and boring mantra. This is everyone’s problem.
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