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When scrolling social media, I often land in the world of private-chef-tok: TikTok accounts run by people who do the same job I do of cooking in homes. This genre is immensely popular, in part for how visually pleasing these videos can be: luxurious kitchens, pristine counters, a pace of work that is somehow both zippy and unhurried.
But cooking from a client’s home rarely looks like it does on social media. A kitchen is the heart of the home, the backdrop of groggy mornings, standing-up snacks and behind-the-scenes moments. I live and work in New York City, where the home is often the only oasis in the surrounding chaos. It didn’t take me long to learn that when I enter a client’s space as a person who is there to do a job, some of that tranquility gets unsettled.
Often, clients don’t totally know how to act. Should they talk to me? Can they speak frankly with one another while I’m there? Sometimes clients fire off mid-recipe requests (I won’t forget the diabetic who kept requesting bacon as I cooked him oatmeal). And I, of course, carry a low-level hum of anxiety with me. What if I break the heirloom knife? What if I spill flour all over myself? Am I meant to be keeping an eye on that toddler? I don’t blame my clients for one second. Why shouldn’t they move through their home freely?
All this has led me to an unconventional place: I am a private chef who prefers not to cook in my client’s homes. I know how that sounds. One would assume that part of the job is producing food quickly and at close quarters, but I interpret good personal cheffing as something intimate, as opposed to immediate.
To be clear, I’ll never say a hard no to cooking in someone’s home, but my preferred set-up holds surprising value for both of us. First, it removes the unnecessary hours of hauling around ingredients, knife kits etc that come with performing one’s work in another person’s space. Second, clients don’t have to see the less glamorous elements of how the sausage is made — me scaling fish or peeling garlic or pounding cutlets. People who have hired a chef are often looking for some extra support, and doing these tasks away from their intimate space allows for it to stay uncomplicated and uncompromised. In my own space, I work quietly and quickly. The food is my only focus. My attention can go towards making the best experience for the client, as opposed to worrying about how the process looks.
The choice is also practical (and a bit bittersweet). Private cheffing relies on a strange relationship, one built on care but, ultimately, transactional. When budgets tighten, the chef is often the first cut. Cooking off-site keeps it sustainable for both sides. The idea of cooking in a separate space, then, isn’t an avoidance of the intimacy that comes from the work; it’s in fact in the interest of protecting it.
I know personal chefs who have no problem showing up in someone’s home, cooking and leaving. For them, work stays in the kitchen, whereas I seem to carry it with me.
In many ways, this is why aspirational private-chef-tok is so attractive to consume. No mess, no heavy loading of ingredients in and out of space, and — crucially — no clients! Just someone cooking on camera, in good light, for someone invisible.
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