The Big Unspoken Truth
There’s a big unspoken truth in the world of hospitality — a shadow zone everyone knows about but no one likes to name: burnout. It’s not a trend, nor a fabrication of the so-called “new weak generation.” It’s a cross-cutting reality that affects chefs, waiters, sommeliers, bartenders, maître d’s — and even some owners, who find themselves staring at the average bill as if it were a flatlining ECG, somewhere between double shifts and a slump in reservations.
In our industry — built on passion, adrenaline, rituals, perfect plates and dining rooms to be tamed with a smile — burnout hides well. It’s disguised as a calling, as “you just have to tough it out,” as “this is a job you do only if you love it.” Too bad love, when unreciprocated, wears you down. And if the brigade is drained, if service becomes a minefield, if a proper day off becomes an urban legend, then maybe it’s time to ask: what’s the cost?
Because no — it’s not normal to always be tired. It’s not normal to cry in the bathroom before service. It’s not normal to survive on coffee, ibuprofen, cigarettes and other “substances.” It’s not normal to wait for the summer season or your vacation to “recover,” and then collapse the moment you’re back on the floor. What is normal — or rather, human — is to recognize when you’ve reached the limit. And to learn — as an industry — how to talk about it. Without rhetoric, without shame, and without waiting until it’s too late.
Front of House and Kitchen: Two Worlds, Same Hell
Kitchen and dining room. Two hemispheres often separated by a swinging door and a different language — but united by the same fate: constant pressure. On one side: shouting, rushing, cuts, burns, and plates arranged with surgical precision. On the other hand: smiles, listening, memorizing, improvising, managing the customers’ moods — and often the chefs’ as well.
The chef’s body is wrecked: damaged hands, broken back, inhuman pace. Often working in an environment that doesn’t forgive mistakes, where hierarchy is rigid, and the unexpected is a sworn enemy. Professional pride is measured in unpaid hours and in “perfect” dishes that vanish in three minutes. No talking. Just doing. And if the fire is too hot — in or out of the pan — you keep going anyway. But for how long?
The waiter, on the other hand, has a broken smile. Exposed, vulnerable, forced to translate every customer’s desire — spoken or implied — into flawless service. Or at least, hopefully. A human buffer between kitchen and dining room, between the tension at the pass and the demands of table 4. They have to know everything, remember everything, anticipate everything. Be empathetic but not intrusive, formal but not stiff, fast but graceful. And in the meantime, they absorb it all. Anger, stress, humiliation — seemingly without flinching.
Both — chefs and waiters — are on stage. Every service is a performance, often delivered in apnea. But unlike the theatre, there’s no curtain. No rehearsal can prepare you, and there’s no final applause — unless the customer leaves a tip (if they do).
Burnout, in the dining room and in the kitchen, is a short-circuit between devotion and the inability to stop. Between passion and the struggle to breathe. And the problem is, if you keep pretending nothing’s wrong, you get used to it. Until you feel nothing at all. And at that point, it’s no longer just tiredness. It’s disconnection.
The Symptoms No One Wants to See
The trouble with burnout is that it doesn’t show up all at once. It creeps in slowly, disguised as regular tiredness, as “it’s just a phase,” or “come on, your day off is almost here.” But meanwhile, it eats away at you.
The first signs are subtle: you wake up already tired, you lose your patience more easily, coffee isn’t enough anymore. Then come the memory lapses, the irritability, that sense of apathy that makes you serve a plate like it’s just another object — without even looking at it. Or worse: without looking at the customer anymore.
You start feeling empty, even when everything’s running smoothly. The place is full, the service is seamless, but you feel nothing. No satisfaction. No connection. Just the wish for it all to end — faster and faster.
Other signs?
– Cynical irony that goes from pressure valve to default language.
– Emotional detachment, turning every guest into “just another table.”
– Physical exhaustion that sticks with you even on your days off.
– Overuse of substances: coffee to get going, alcohol to fall asleep, cigarettes as emotional punctuation between one order and the next.
And then there’s the worst symptom of all — the one that often goes unnoticed because it’s quiet: the loss of passion. When you stop loving what you once did with pride. When you start thinking maybe you made the wrong choice. When you fantasize about quitting everything and becoming a farmer — and it’s no longer a joke.
But burnout, unlike simple tiredness, doesn’t go away after a good night’s sleep. And it can’t be fixed just by changing restaurants. It takes time, awareness, and most of all an environment that recognizes the problem — which, sadly, is still the exception, not the rule.
Why Does It Really Happen?
Burnout in hospitality isn’t (just) the fault of the customer asking for risotto at 11 PM, or of the season that “started slow this year.” It happens because the entire system is designed to squeeze people dry, often in the name of excellence, efficiency or — even worse — “passion.”
It happens because people work too much, too long, too often. Exhausting shifts, split hours, double shifts with no double pay. Floating days off, postponed vacations, sick leave seen as betrayal — toward colleagues or management. And all of this is treated as normal, even necessary. If you hold up, you belong. You’re worthy. If you crash, maybe you’re not cut out for this job.
It also happens because the work culture in this industry is still soaked in toxic masculinity and a kind of martyrdom mythology. In the kitchen, people yell, obey, suffer — and woe to those who complain. In the dining room, you grit your teeth and handle everything gracefully, even as you’re imploding inside. Suffering becomes a badge of honor, and burnout the silent price you’re expected to pay.
Then there’s the training gap: how many people truly know how to recognize burnout symptoms? How many owners understand what it means to manage a stressed team or to create a healthy work environment? The truth is, many venues — even the best ones — are built to extract the maximum in the shortest possible time. Not to last. And certainly not to make the people working there last.
And finally, there are the unrealistic expectations: the guest who wants to feel like the center of the universe (and maybe also get a discount), the owner who expects maximum output with minimum expense, the staff trying not to disappoint anyone. The result? A ticking time bomb.
That’s why burnout isn’t an individual weakness, but a systemic flaw. A side effect of a working model that rewards endurance over skill, and tolerance over clarity.
So… What Now? (Spoiler: Yoga Isn’t Enough)
Talking about burnout in hospitality isn’t about self-pity. It’s about putting the person back at the center of the job. Saying “we’re a family” means nothing if that family doesn’t listen, doesn’t protect you, and asks you to sacrifice yourself every day — in exchange for a bowl of lentils.
What’s needed is a real shift in perspective, grounded and daily. Yes, it takes commitment — but also just a bit of common sense. Here’s where we could start:
– Rethink shift planning, avoiding doubles and split hours whenever possible.
– Introduce real breaks, not just “grab a coffee while you’re plating.”
– Acknowledge the value of training, including stress and team management.
– Normalize dialogue: ask your colleague “how are you?” — and listen.
– Build non-toxic environments, where authority doesn’t mean abuse and leadership isn’t measured in shouting or manipulation.
And for those leading a brigade, a dining room, or an entire venue: remember that service quality doesn’t depend only on what reaches the table, but on how people work behind the scenes. A tired, frustrated, exhausted team will never deliver a truly memorable experience. At best, it’ll be a well-executed task. Until the next breakdown.
And no, burnout can’t be fixed with a yoga class, a post-service drink, or a motivational quote dropped in the WhatsApp group. It takes culture, time, listening — and a bit of humility. It’s about redefining what we mean by excellence: not just performance, but human sustainability.
Those who work in this industry often do it out of love. But even love needs respect, care, and boundaries. Otherwise, it’s not love — it’s exploitation and manipulation.