Chef’s table NZ

I've worked with hundreds of people in professional kitchens over the past two decades. Some of them were talented. Some were fast. Some could break down a whole fish in under three minutes or turn out perfect brunoise without thinking. But the ones I actually wanted to keep? They weren't always the most skilled. They were the ones who made the kitchen work. There's a version of this job that people imagine before they start. You show up, you cook, you learn some knife skills, maybe you get yelled at a bit, and eventually you become a chef. That's not how it works. The kitchen runs on people who do the things nobody asked them to do. Who see the low mise en place and fill it before service without being told. Who clean as they go not because the head chef is watching but because they understand why it matters. Who show up on time — actually on time, not walking-through-the-door-at-start-time — ready to work. That's it. That's most of it. Skills can be taught. I...

  Let me be clear from the start. This isn't about young people. I've worked with twenty-year-olds who were sharp, resilient, and hungry to learn. I've also worked with people in their thirties and forties who fell apart the moment someone questioned their work. Age isn't the issue. How you were raised is. The kitchen exposes everything. There is nowhere to hide in a professional kitchen. The pressure is real. The criticism is constant. The mistakes are visible. And how someone responds tells you everything about who they are — not as a cook, but as a person. What I keep seeing is the same pattern regardless of age. Can't take feedback. Can't handle pressure. Nothing is ever their fault. There is always an excuse, always someone else to blame. The salt container was faulty. The ticket was wrong. Nobody told them. Two very different backgrounds. Same result. The first is the over-protected. Small family, only child, parents who solved every problem and never...

  Walk into almost any professional kitchen in Auckland. Look around. Count the faces. Then ask yourself — how many of these people were born here? In my kitchen, out of 20 staff, only 3 are NZ citizens — and of those 3, only 2 were actually born here. Two more hold Permanent Residency. The rest are migrants navigating visas, paperwork, and uncertainty just to show up and do the work. Without them, we don't open. It's that simple. Kiwis aren't applying. This isn't an opinion. It's what happens every single time we post a job. The applications from locals are thin. The interest is low. The follow-through is even lower. New Zealanders, for whatever reason, are not choosing kitchen work. Not in the numbers the industry needs. So we turn to migrants. We always have. And for a long time it worked. But here's the truth nobody wants to say out loud. Migrants are keeping this industry alive — but they're not always keeping it at the standard it needs to be. T...

  I've watched good people leave. Colleagues. Friends. People who were genuinely talented, genuinely committed, genuinely trying to build something here. One by one, they packed up and moved to Australia. And every single time, I understood why. This isn't just a hospitality story. Every industry in this country is feeling it. Chefs, nurses, tradespeople, engineers — the pattern is the same. Work hard. Earn less than you should. Pay more than you can afford. Repeat until you break or you leave. The money doesn't add up. Australia pays more. Not a little more — significantly more. For the same skill, the same hours, the same grind. A cook who crosses the Tasman doesn't suddenly become a better cook. They just get paid like one. And when you're working 50 to 60 hour weeks in a hot kitchen and still can't save anything at the end of the month, that flight to Sydney starts looking less like giving up and more like common sense. Everyone shops at the same places....

  Everyone who's ever gotten a compliment on their roast has thought about it. Maybe I could do this professionally. And look, I get it. Cooking a beautiful meal for people you love is satisfying. It should be. But let me be straight with you — that has almost nothing to do with being a chef. Here's the reality. In a professional kitchen, you're not cooking for five people who love you. You're cooking for a hundred people who don't know you, don't care about your process, and want their food hot, on time, and exactly the same as the table next to them ordered. Saturday night. Full cover. Every section firing at once. That's the job. Passion gets you through the door. Consistency keeps you employed. Fast hands don't mean a sharp mind. Another one I see constantly — cooks who move like they're on fire but leave chaos behind them. Mis-labelled containers. Prep done in the wrong order. A station that looks like a war zone by 7pm. Speed matters, but speed...

 I've worked alongside some exceptional chefs in New Zealand — people who've cooked in Michelin-starred kitchens across Europe and Asia. And almost without fail, when they first arrive here, they say the same thing. "You're an island nation. The seafood must be incredible." Then they cook their first service. And the disappointment is real. The Island Nation Paradox New Zealand sits in the middle of some of the world's most pristine ocean. By every logical assumption, we should have extraordinary seafood. The reality? Our fish counters are underwhelming, variety is limited, and what's available is expensive for what it is. It's not just seafood. New Zealand produces some of the finest grass-fed beef and lamb on the planet — product commanding premium prices in Tokyo, London, and Dubai. But local chefs are often left with second-grade cuts, inconsistent supply, and prices that don't match the quality. Dairy tells the same story. We're the world...

Everyone who wants to become a chef eventually asks the same question: do I need to go to culinary school? It sounds straightforward, but the honest answer is — it depends. And nobody seems to want to say that out loud. I've worked in professional kitchens for years. I've seen chefs who came through culinary school and chefs who came up entirely through the ranks. Both can be exceptional. Both can be completely useless. The piece of paper doesn't decide that. So let's actually break it down. What Culinary School in NZ Looks Like In New Zealand, the main pathways are through institutions like NZMA, Le Cordon Bleu (Auckland and Wellington), AUT, and various polytechnics offering Level 3 and Level 4 culinary certificates. Courses range from six months to two years, and fees vary widely — from around $5,000 for a certificate programme to upwards of $30,000–$40,000 for a full diploma at a private institution. That's a significant investment. And before you sign anything,...

 I grew up in a world where music came on plastic discs. You'd scratch one and lose the song forever. Then one day, someone handed me an MP3 player, and just like that — the disc was dead. Nobody mourned it for long. Then came the smartphone. A camera, a map, a bank, a library — all collapsed into a slab of glass that fits in your pocket. I remember thinking: this is it, this is the peak, it can't get more surreal than this. I was wrong. I've been cooking professionally long enough to have seen trends arrive and die. Molecular gastronomy. The quinoa explosion. Avocado on everything. Food comes in waves, and so does technology. You learn to read the tide. But AI feels different. Not like a wave — more like the ocean floor shifting. We're already seeing it creep into hospitality. Reservation systems that predict no-shows. Inventory software that orders before you even notice you're running low. AI-generated menus optimised for margin. Front-of-house chatbots that hand...

 When I became a head chef, I thought I was ready. I'd spent years as a sous chef — running sections, covering service, stepping up when the head chef was away. I knew the kitchen. I knew the food. I thought the next step was just more of the same, with a bigger title and a bit more authority. I was wrong. The gap between sous chef and head chef is one of the most misunderstood transitions in the industry. From the outside it looks like a natural progression. From the inside, it feels like starting over in a completely different job. Here's what I wish someone had told me. 1. You stop being a cook. You become a manager. As a sous chef, your identity is still tied to the food. You're hands-on every service. The craft is yours to own. As a head chef, the job shifts beneath your feet. You spend more time thinking about your people than your plates. Who's struggling. Who's about to quit. Who's causing tension and how to deal with it before it hits service. The best ...

People on the outside look at a professional kitchen and see the shouting, the ranking, the "yes Chef" culture, and they think it's ego. They think it's chefs on a power trip. They think it's outdated, toxic, something that needs to be dismantled. They're wrong. Let me explain what a kitchen actually is before we talk about how it runs. At any given moment during service, you have people moving fast in a tight space with knives sharp enough to take a finger off, oil hot enough to cause third-degree burns in seconds, open flames, heavy pans, slippery floors, and the clock running against every single one of you. There is no margin for confusion. There is no room for "wait, who's in charge here?" Someone has to be. Everyone has to know their place in the chain — not because of tradition, but because of physics. Because of the very real consequences when things go wrong. That's what the hierarchy is. It's not a power structure. It's a sa...

 Let me guess. You watched a cooking show, maybe a documentary, maybe even a movie like Boiling Point — and something clicked. The energy, the creativity, the passion. You thought, yeah, I want to do that. And honestly? I get it. I've been there. But after 20-plus years in professional kitchens, I want to have an honest conversation with you. Not to put you off — but because I wish someone had told me this when I was starting out. The TV version vs the real version On TV, kitchens look electric and glamorous. The chef is cool under pressure, the food is beautiful, and everyone goes home happy. In reality? You're on your feet for 12–14 hours. The kitchen is hot — like, really hot. You'll miss birthdays, weekends, Christmas dinners, and New Year's Eve with your family. While everyone else is celebrating, you're behind a pass making sure their celebration looks perfect. That's just Tuesday. The physical toll is real Your back will hurt. Your feet will hurt. You...

 Hey there, and welcome to Chef's Table NZ! So… who am I? Well, let's just say I'm a Head Chef somewhere in Auckland who spends way too much time thinking about food. Like, way too much. Whether I'm at work, at the supermarket, or just eating a late-night snack, my brain is always somewhere in the kitchen. I've been cooking professionally for over 20 years, and somewhere between the chaos of a busy service and the quiet satisfaction of a dish coming together just right, I thought — why not share some of this with the world? This blog is my little corner of the internet where I'll be sharing: Recipes I love (and some that I've royally messed up 😅) Stories from the kitchen — the good, the crazy, and the delicious My thoughts on food, eating out, and the NZ food scene And whatever else is on my mind! Twenty-plus years in the kitchen and I'm still learning something new every single day — and that's exactly what I love about this craft. So pull up a cha...