BLOOD ON THE PASS

People often say that cooking is a job of passion. That is the romantic lie sold to customers to help them digest their meals. The reality is that the kitchen is a meat grinder that uses your love for the craft as currency to buy your silence and submission. I lived in that world. I touched the stars, I crossed paths with geniuses, and I left pieces of my own flesh on the tiles of the rotisseries.

And yet, I entered through the small door, the one gilded in gold. My history with food began in the folds of my maternal grandmother’s apron—a peerless cook who passed down a love for the gesture and for sharing. As a kid, I grew up eating her best dishes. It was this visceral love that dictated my middle-school internship at Le Bistrot d’Olivier, in the heart of the Halles de Limoges. It was a helping hand from Marc, my step-grandfather, the man who gave my grandmother her best life. Rest in peace, Marc; it’s thanks to you that I first stepped into the fire.

At thirteen, while other kids were watching politely from a chair, I got my hands straight into the dough. Amidst heavy knives and the smell of grease, I discovered a three-person team that functioned like a local family, sourcing ingredients just steps away in the market stalls. My first professional experience was set to the rhythm of tripe, country pâtés, and a first tarte tatin devoured during a few minutes' break. At 9:00 AM, they’d take me for a mid-morning snack with the regulars: red wine, cheese, and terrine. By 2:00 PM, I was back home enjoying my grandparents' pool. It was the age of innocence. A time when cooking still meant freedom.

Then the lean years hit, and I had to look for a summer job where my only real skills lay. That’s when the trap snapped shut. Out of a hundred CVs, Chef Damien from 750g à table at Porte de Versailles called me back. His tone on the phone was already so unpleasant it should have tipped me off. But I was in desperate need of money. He reeled me in by rolling out the red carpet: starter, main, dessert, coffee, and beer on the house. And then that sentence, like an ultimatum: "Now, you’d better come and take your place in the kitchen." I nodded, confident, believing in my lucky star.

I worked a whole season there. I arrived fresh, bursting with ideas, sweeping everything aside to take over the starter and dessert stations with an ease that ruffled feathers. They hated that I made myself at home. They hated that a kid without an official culinary degree could adapt so quickly to their menu, guided only by his imagination, his skills, and the absolute certainty that doing things with love is enough to do them well.

They made my life a living hell. I was pushed to the breaking point every single day of the season. I cried tears I didn't think I had under the weight of sick, gratuitous insults spat out for no reason. And the next day, that same executioner would tell you he was proud of you for some triviality. Psychological manipulation in the kitchen isn't a TV myth. It’s a culture of reproduction. Older generations, broken by their own masters, dedicate themselves to destroying the young wolves before they have time to become chefs themselves. I left overnight. No contract, late payments—the norm in this world of buccaneers. They walk all over us because they know we need the work, and because they know the worst part: we love cooking, and the idea of not doing it anymore breaks our hearts. They exploit our passion as a tool for blackmail.

After that baptism of fire, I started my vocational degree. I graduated with honors while apprenticing under a truly great gentleman to whom I owe a great deal: Nicolas Brenelière. The venue was Le Paradis Latin. And the name didn't lie. It was a massive cabaret, a theater of sublime shows and dancing. I can still see myself, alone in the dim light of the hall during rehearsals, having the show all to myself.

I created, I learned, and I grew amidst the panic and the laughter, between third-degree burns and blood on the cutting boards. I shook hands with stars, chatted with master chefs like Pierre Hermé and Guy Savoy, and spoke with Tony Parker and the ASVEL players. We ate Beef Wellington like it was going out of style. At the pass, the tension was raw, almost military: plating 200 dishes in a row, sending out 700 covers in a single service, caught in a vice between the sauce chef and the expeditor screaming out orders. It was incredibly harsh, but the dopamine that flooded my brain at the end of the rush was priceless. I even ended up on the podium at the MAD competition. I was at the top of the wave.

But looking back with the necessary clinical distance, I was deeply miserable throughout that entire period. The personal problems, the addictions that take root just to keep you going, and the institutional violence that never lets up. I finished my apprenticeship and got a sous-chef position, which I held for a year and a half. The bar was high, or perhaps my feet were too heavy. But regardless of the scale or prestige of your kitchen, you operate in a closed environment, invisible to the customers. And since no one sees behind the curtain, anything goes.

Knife points jabbed into your hip or arm to make you move faster. Plates handed to you barehanded when they're sizzling with heat. Demeaning insults, slaps, or a blow from a mandoline to the back of the head when you aren't looking. Not to mention the disgusting, sexualized verbal abuse spat in the faces of the few women on the team. When you have thirty humans locked under pressure in a burning tin can, the mind snaps and chaos takes control. I left that great establishment with all the technical baggage I’d acquired, but with a ton of lead dragging behind my ankle.

I fled Paris shortly after a stint at Brasserie Bellanger. I took refuge in Limoges to close this first chapter in my head as a cook. Final stop: Le Paysand Gourmand. Provincial hacks who understood nothing. Narcissistic perverts who gave me the most menial tasks, even though I had worked with icons they would only ever see on TV. I had worked prestigious ceremonies, I was in photos of kitchens they would never set foot in, and there I was, cranking out waffles and Caesar salads on repeat while people talked behind my back and delayed my official registration to skim my wages. The final breaking point.

I left the restaurant world, but I didn't leave the kitchen. It is engraved in my muscles and in my source code. It will follow me all my life until the second chapter begins: private chef, events, or maybe my own restaurant one day. Who knows. For now, I carry on the craft in a noble way: through the educational workshops I create for those I support in my current work, and for those close to me, the ones I love.

I, the boy chopped up by life, had to stitch my lifeline back together amidst the shards of glass from their kitchens. They tried to make me loathe my art. They failed. The fire is still lit, but I’m the one controlling the flame now.