The Dark Side of The Kitchen: How the Restaurant Industry Broke Me
I was born in Tuscany, Italy, into a family of humble means. My mother came from the countryside, while my father was a city man, two different worlds colliding under one roof. Growing up, I dreamed of becoming many things: a doctor, an architect, a musician. But my passion for cooking was born from family.
My grandmother made handmade pasta that was unforgettable. My uncle, one of the most important figures in my life, was a hunter. I remember seeing wild boar, pheasant, and hare on our table. Both my parents cooked. My mom made endless dishes to satisfy my picky tastes, while my father excelled with fish. Christmas dinners were grand affairs with 20 people seated at a table filled with fish dishes. It was then I realized I loved both eating and watching food come to life.
When my parents divorced, my mother found work in a kitchen. She became a respected chef of traditional Tuscan food, no formal training, just survival, skill, and heart. I was a teenager, sometimes helping as a waiter, feeling the furnace heat of the kitchen, my first taste of restaurant life.
After high school, I wanted to cook professionally. A family friend connected me with a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coast. At 18, I worked for seven months, earning only 500 euros. But I wasn’t there for money, I wanted to learn. My supposed five-hour days turned into 14-hour marathons. The sous chef ruled the kitchen, while the head chef entertained guests. He told me, "If you want to grow, go abroad." I listened.
I slept in cramped rooms, used towels for privacy, and smoked just to steal a moment’s rest. The first three months broke me, but I endured. By the end, I had earned their respect and a job offer, but I was exhausted.
Back home, another opportunity led me to Copenhagen. A visiting chef offered me a trial. I slept on a couch and earned barely enough to survive. My mattress had a hole in it, and I woke up on the floor. Privacy didn’t exist. The kitchen was relentless, one meal a day at 4 p.m. (if in line with the "mise en place"), no cigarettes during shifts, insults and at time hands-on punishments. Weekends were filled with partying to escape the pressure.
After seven months, I moved to a wine bar but soon landed in the hospital with severe bronchitis, worsened by smoking and poor conditions. That job ended with the manager vanishing after stealing money. I found better pay at a Danish bar and grill and started working out again, but weekends still meant alcohol, drugs, and chaos. Addiction was everywhere in the industry. Weed in the mornings, cocaine at night, chefs high around the clock. It was an open secret killing people and destroying lives. No one wanted to talk about it.
At 23, I became a sous chef and took a loan to buy my apartment. I joined a catering company that grew from serving 300 to 2,000 people. Despite moving away from evening shifts, my weekends remained the same, partying, drinking, escaping.
Eventually, I helped open a restaurant. A road trip in the U.S. forced me to reflect, I didn’t want that life anymore. Then COVID struck. I left the catering company and used unemployment benefits to study personal training and nutrition. I spent a year in Tuscany managing a family’s food business before returning to Copenhagen to begin a three-year health coaching master’s program.
I took a bar manager job but quickly remembered why I had left nightlife. When a former colleague offered me a role in a Danish corporation, I hesitated. It was a ‘perfect’ job: no nights, five days a week, good pay. It changed everything. We had freedom to create menus, the best ingredients, and supportive leadership. I thrived.
The executive chef championed my coaching studies and helped launch The Mindful Chef Movement. We brought in consultants to teach breathwork, communication, and stress management. I tested my coaching skills, showing there could be a better way. But I neglected myself.
My body gave out. It began with hearing loss, then balance problems. A cholesteatoma, a growth in my ear, nearly paralyzed my face. Stress and surgery forced me to leave. I knew I couldn’t continue.
Twelve years in kitchens gave me lessons, joy, and pain. I saw addiction, burnout, and toxic cultures everywhere. One of my mentors, a seemingly happy chef, took his own life. That tragedy opened my eyes.
Mental health is everything. You must value yourself first. Titles and bravado won’t save you. We normalize suffering in kitchens, but we don’t have to.
If you’re struggling, know this: It’s okay to leave. It’s okay to stay. But take care of your mind and heart. Don’t wait until it’s too late. And if you need to talk, I’m here. You’re not alone.
Thanks for reading,
Gabriello
Creator of The Mindful Chef Movement
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