Chapter 12

Matthew’s first year at ICE was almost over when Chef Girard entered the room and theatrically directed two helpers to set two large framed pictures covered with oilcloth they were carrying on the wooden easels beside the lectern.

The students leaned forward with anticipation. Chef’s lectures were always entertaining and informative.

“Today,” he announced, his French accent still prominent despite decades in America, “we discuss something more important than knife skills or sauce consistency.” He moved to stand between the two easels, his white chef’s coat impeccably pressed, the multiple colorful pins on his lapel representing culinary competitions and achievements. “Today we discuss the management philosophy of the foodservice kitchen. Some of you are going to return in the fall for restaurant management and we will cover this again, but for those of you who will depart for your new careers please listen up. This is important.”

“Cooking is a trade,” Chef Girard continued. “A satisfying way to earn a living. At its highest form, say in the Michelin level restaurant, it becomes an art and a philosophy.”

He rested one hand on the first covered frame. “But it can become something else entirely. Something destructive—to others and to ourselves. A sort of hell on earth.”

With a dramatic flourish, he pulled away the oilcloth, revealing a large photograph of a kitchen scene. The image showed a professional kitchen at the height of service: a line of chefs bent over their stations, faces tense with concentration. In the foreground, a head chef leaned over a plate, his expression twisted with rage as he screamed at a young cook whose face showed equal parts fear and shame.

“Recognize this?” Chef Girard asked, his voice suddenly harsh. “This is what many of you imagine a professional kitchen must be like. The angry genius and terrified underlings performing in an atmosphere of fear and intimidation.” He tapped the image sharply. “This was normal for decades. Expected, even. I worked in kitchens like this. Perhaps some of you have as well.”

Several students nodded, including Sofia, whose family restaurant operated under her grandfather’s similar management style.

“The chef in this photo,” Girard continued, “was famous. Three Michelin stars. Lines of young apprentices begging to work for him, to be abused by him, because his name on their resume opened doors.” He paused, looking around the classroom. “He dropped dead at fifty-four. Heart attack. His restaurant closed within a year. His techniques are now outdated, his contributions to cuisine minimal. But his legacy of abuse? That has continued for generations as his apprentices became executive chefs and repeated what they had learned.”

The room was utterly silent now. Matthew stared at the photograph, thinking of kitchens he’d known—Mr. Li’s calm efficiency, Señora Vega’s passionate but kind direction, even Darnell’s gruff but patient instruction. None resembled this scene of culinary tyranny.

Chef Girard moved to the second easel. “Now, let me show you an alternative.”

He removed the second cloth to reveal a very different kitchen scene. This photograph showed another professional kitchen, equally busy, but the atmosphere was entirely different. People worked with focused intensity but without panic. In the center, an older chef leaned over a young apprentice, guiding their hands as they plated a dish together. The chef’s expression was serious but kind, the student’s attentive and eager.

“This is Chef Elena Moretti’s kitchen in Bologna,” Girard explained, his voice warming. “Three Michelin stars as well. Equal excellence. Equal standards. But achieved through leadership, not tyranny. Through education, not fear.”