Respect or discipline
There was a time when the chef wore a spotless white uniform, stood with the posture of a cavalry officer, and enforced rules with the sternness of someone who didn’t tolerate backtalk. In the kitchen, you obeyed. In the dining room, you whispered. And if in doubt, you stayed silent. That’s how it worked: it was a brigade, not a democracy. Clear orders, steady voice, few smiles and many pans flying (not always metaphorically), kicks in the backside, and the occasional knife taking unexpected trajectories. It was the era of “oui, chef” shouted with the conviction of a soldier charging the enemy trenches, of hierarchies carved in stone like the Ten Commandments. And if you messed up, you were out. No second chances.
Then one day, someone raised a finger. Not to ask permission to speak, but to say: “Excuse me, but aren’t we maybe overdoing it a little?” That’s when the myth began to crumble. It’s not that structure suddenly became useless — chaos is still the worst enemy of good service — but we finally started to ask ourselves whether obedience had to go hand in hand with humiliation, and whether respect always had to flow in just one direction: top-down.
The issue today is that many talk about teamwork, but still act like they’re commanding a Roman legion. The tone has softened, the words have changed, but underneath still smolders that cult of authority that mistakes charisma for cruelty, and experience for arrogance. And yet, working in a restaurant — despite what the reality shows suggest — is already complicated enough without the added burden of post-traumatic stress from a frustrated line cook or a maître d’ having an existential meltdown. We’re not saving lives, even if we often act as if we were. And no, yelling at a commis doesn’t improve service efficiency — it just boosts the resignation rate.
The trouble is, poor Escoffier only gets pulled out of the hat when it suits us. As if to say: “Ah, now that was discipline,” or “We need some order here — this isn’t a playground!” Conveniently forgetting that his military-style organization was a product of a very specific historical, social, and economic context that simply doesn’t exist anymore. Or at least, it shouldn’t. The kitchen brigade was born in a world with rigid social divisions, masters and servants, armies, and a lot of people willing to work twelve-hour shifts for a bowl of soup and a kick in the pants. Today, people quit via WhatsApp. And surprise: they’re right to.
The real issue, like it or not, is that leadership has evolved. It’s no longer about shouting or making everyone feel small so you can feel big. It’s about being able to lead, motivate, listen, and — brace yourselves — even apologize, when needed. Once unthinkable. Now essential. Not to be “nice” (this isn’t kindergarten, and personally I don’t believe in the Montessori method), but because it’s the only way to retain real talent and build something that lasts longer than an Instagram reel.
And that brings us to another myth: the “we’re a family” myth. We’re all one big family, they say. Until you ask for a day off. Or dare to say that something’s not working. Then the family vanishes, and out comes our inner Sergeant Hartman. But a brigade is not a family. It’s a team. A system that works only if everyone is put in a position to do their best. And that, whether we like it or not, also requires a healthy work environment — one where respect isn’t just demanded, but also given.
The truth, deep down, is that many of us were shaped in tough environments and believe that’s the only way to grow. But what we called “training” for years was often just trauma dressed up as teaching. We don’t need to repeat that model. We need to move beyond it.
Maybe it’s time to flip the paradigm: obedience, yes — but conscious. Respect, yes — but mutual. Standards, yes — but without hysteria. We can demand a lot, but only if we’re the first to give. We can ask for excellence, but only if we don’t forget we’re working with human beings, not programmable robots (although, I admit, robots sometimes seem more emotionally stable than certain sous-chefs).
And then there’s the big unspoken issue: training. Or rather, the lack of it. On one hand, we expect Michelin-level standards, and on the other, we’re working with brigades made up of half interns, bewildered students fresh out of school, or kids on their first summer contract, thrown into the fray as if the pass were a battlefield. The result? Chefs and maîtres end up acting as trainers, mentors, therapists, and babysitters, all at once, in the middle of high season, with a full house and guests asking for “natural wine” without having the faintest clue what they mean. Calling it unsustainable would be putting it mildly. Because without serious and ongoing training, every service becomes a roulette, and every mistake turns into a sin to be paid for in stress and at inhuman rhythms. And honestly, we’re not paid enough for that.
So no, we don’t need to throw everything out. Duty, discipline, and obsessive attention to detail remain essential. But if we want the next generation to stay, learn, and carry the craft forward, we’ll have to stop believing that only those who yell, humiliate, or squeeze people dry have “character.” We need less ego and more empathy, less theatre and more vision. Because today, more than a general, a restaurant needs a conductor — someone who knows the score, sure, but also knows when it’s time to let the soloist shine. After all, Escoffier got it right: what we needed was order, not terror. It’s just that, as usual, we managed to mess it up ourselves.