"Pain, tears, humiliation" in a Somerset restaurant kitchen

Toxic work cultures exist in restaurants more than you probably think – even ones claiming to be ‘ethical’ and ‘sustainable’

To work in the hospitality industry is, in many ways, to work in a barbaric industry. Low pay, long hours, hot and stressful kitchens, belittling, misogyny, and general toxicity do not make the most aspirational of working environments.

But people do it anyway.

Through her affection for food, and that of sharing and providing, Dani is one of those people. After working in high-profile restaurants in London, a few years ago Dani chose to spend some time away from conventional hospitality, partly due to some of the reasons you read above.

More recently, encouraged by the positive changes the industry had reportedly undergone post-COVID, while also wanting to exercise her desire to feed and cook, she decided to dip back in, and applied to work in a casual restaurant in rural Somerset. Dani was encouraged by the restaurant’s commitment to ‘ethical produce’, low staff turnover, and ‘farm-to-fork’ practices. The restaurant is abundantly financed too, which gave the impression of a prosperous environment for its employees.

The following is a transcript of Dani’s account of what she saw and experienced during her time working at this restaurant. As it is edited with brevity and clarity in mind, the passage contains only a handful of anecdotes throughout her tenure there.

While this is one person’s story, it is similar to many others I’ve heard across the hospitality industry since I took a closer interest in it nine years ago. Positive experiences, while they do exist, are increasingly difficult to find. Perhaps this is a point to expound on another time, but within the realm of restaurant kitchens, I have almost entirely come to the conclusion you are either the exploiter or the exploited. Restaurateurs complain about a shortage of chefs; the reality is there’s always been a shortage of chefs. And you don’t have to read too far beyond Dani’s account to understand why.

All names – including Dani’s – are a pseudonym, and the identity of the restaurant in question has not been made explicit in order to avoid any unwanted attention from the employer or, for that matter, any other party.

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“We were on our knees”

I wish there was such a thing as a ‘delete’ button in my memory, because after witnessing this, I went out and brushed away my own tears.

On this particular week, the pastry chef was working six days a week, and had two double shifts. She was on her knees, saying that she's tired and needed a day off. She was not given it. She kept saying, “I just can't take this any further.” When I looked at her, she was mixing a cake batter and her tears were dropping into the mixture.

This was around 11:00 AM. When it came to 11:30 in the evening, her nose was red and her eyes were tearful. And I was wondering, what is that dessert? Who knows what they [the patrons] are eating – that what they’re feeding their body is out of pain.

We were on our knees, physically. We just couldn't cope with it. We were working five days with two double shifts – equal to seven shifts a week. I was working more than 60 hours a week, and earning slightly more than minimum wage, with no right to ask for overtime payment as part of the initial contract.¹

But then, not everyone was paid. When I came back from a short leave, I asked one of the young chefs how things had been while I was away. And he was like, “Oh, I worked 76 hours last week.” I couldn't believe he said that as a brag. “I put the team’s happiness over my personal health,” he said. I was shocked.

Even as I’m saying it I get goosebumps, because I can't believe these mindsets exist. Then I asked the same question to a middle-aged chef that I have so much respect for. He said, “Well, we’ve been powering through it.” And I was like, “That sounds full on, but I hope you get paid for it.” He said, “Well no, because we are not paid overtime, but Sam – the senior chef – promised he's looking after us.”

I felt dizzy, upset, and angry. Why is someone at this age hoping the senior chef will look after them rather than asking for their rights? What do we call this? Is there any better name than ‘modern slavery’?

Egos and empty promises

I originally interviewed for a different role from working in the restaurant kitchen, but because of an immediate vacancy, I was offered a chef role. I thought this could be a good way to start with them and get some fresh experience.

Within two weeks of working there, they offered me a promotion. I think they were hoping I would stay there and forget about the initial role I applied for.

Along with it, they offered a £2,000 per year pay rise. Considering the amount of responsibilities that the role puts on you, I've never seen such a marginal difference – normally payment is considerably higher.

Anyway, Sam offered me that promotion, and I told him I really appreciated it and took the gesture with pride. But also I needed to think about it because this is completely different to what we discussed in the interview.

After a week of reflection, I thought, well, if they are so enthusiastic about this, maybe I should stay here. I also hoped that being in that position I could have more impact [on the kitchen’s culture].

We were sitting round a table and I told Sam, “I'm very, very happy to take up your offer.” And he said, “Actually, a candidate comes next week for that role. I want you to watch him, see how he's doing, and give me your feedback.”

I didn’t know what to say. Do I want to explicitly reveal my vulnerability, or shall I hold onto it? I was like, “Hang on. I made my decision based on the enthusiasm you showed and the encouragement from the team, but I don't feel it now, I’m confused – is there any particular reason?” He looks at me as if I'm giving him so much satisfaction, pleasing his ego. He put on a humiliating smile and said, “I don't want to bet everything all on one horse.” I literally went speechless. It took me a while to find my balance after that.

“Enough to put me off deep-fried food”

The restaurant's claims about ingredient origins felt like marketing bravado – some items were locally sourced, but many day-to-day ingredients came from outside suppliers.

The food lacked care and love, with no attention to colour, taste, or consistency. The soup for example looked and tasted worse than what you’d get at a school cafeteria, but guests were too intoxicated to notice. It also sat out for hours, then was refrigerated for reuse rather than portioned to keep its freshness.

There were some serious concerns. Fryer oil was kept for at least five days, heated non-stop, and used for everything including chips, veggie dishes, and chicken. Burnt debris would accumulate at the bottom of the fryer, and be incorporated into the next day’s food. This was enough to put me off deep-fried food for good.

Meanwhile, vegetables used for starter dishes or nibbles almost always went unwashed until I took it upon myself to clean them, to the awkward surprise of my colleagues. Despite the chaos and lack of staff, I couldn’t bring myself to serve unwashed produce, knowing the potential health risks.

“No one asked how I felt”

We’d already had so many incidents with the same blender. Everyone knew you had to play with the wire a little [to make it work]. One day, me and another senior chef were working beside each other, and suddenly there was a big ‘pop’ and I was thrown a little bit, a wave of shock going through my knees. I screamed so loud without knowing what was happening, and the guy with me screamed too. The ‘pop’ was so loud that staff came in from the other side of the garden and said, “What was that?” I wasn't quite sure if I was still in this world, or if I had gone somewhere else.

Something like 20 minutes later, the head chef came in and said, “The power cut. What happened?” One of us said, “Someone was just about to die.” He said, “We are glad that you are still alive.” The day after, no one came to ask how I felt after the electric shock. I still had some pain, and never talked about it. No one recorded it in the accident book [as they should have, by law]. Similar incidents happened, and sweeping them under the carpet mattered more than people’s safety.

The beginning of the end

Work became unbearable – exhaustion and desperation weighed heavily. A new chef, once an assistant to a senior chef, arrived claiming to save us, but his arrogance and cruelty only made things worse. Even the usually patient pastry chef said, “All I want is to tell him to shut his big mouth. I can’t even look at him.”

One day, while on a double shift and everyone else was on break, he handed me a long list of tasks. I needed some fresh air as I hadn’t had time for even a few minutes. “No one takes breaks these days,” he said. “I can’t go on another eight hours without eating or some fresh air,” I said. “It’s my human right to rest during a 16-hour shift.” He clearly didn’t like that and spent the evening making me clean up after him.

A week later, he gave me a recipe but refused to answer my questions. When I confronted him, he mocked me. Frustrated, I finally spoke up in front of everyone, telling them I wouldn’t work under these abusive conditions. I walked out – that was the last time I was in that kitchen.

I can't be happier that I stepped away, because only recently can I see a joy for cooking again, and get back my deep connection with food. After just four months at that place – which presented this thoughtful ‘farm-to-table’ ethos – I couldn't eat. I didn't want to cook at all. Looking at food was making me feel like I had PTSD.

A few years ago, I promised myself that when that love of food isn’t present, it’s time to move on. I reached that point in a big way, probably by staying longer than I should have, holding on to the hope things would improve. It took nearly three months, but I now feel that deep love for cooking again.

1. Employees in the UK by law should only work a maximum of 48 hours a week, however it is common in the hospitality industry for an employee to contractually waive those rights. As Dani says, “It's always a bit awkward if you don't, because it seems like you’re setting a strong barrier between yourself and the employer. You’re signing it in the hope they treat you in the right way.”