René Redzepi used to punch his staff in the ribs. You all found out last month after a New York Times expose. I found out 5 years ago after one of his former best friends told me, at 4am, riddled with drink and other paraphernalia.
It struck me then, and it still strikes me now – no pun intended. Why would someone do that? Is this the sign of greatness, of great leadership – to rule with violence and fear. Is this how you achieve excellence? Where no mistake goes unpunished. Where the pursuit of perfection overrules basic decency and respect towards your employees?
I thought long and hard. For years, my father berated me for being too lenient with staff. For being too involved, too caring. I was deemed a pushover, who didn’t rule with an iron fist and hence, had people running rings all around me. I guess it was a generational mindset that I could never fully get behind. I like to joke, I like to poke fun at myself, and to create a harmonious work atmosphere that’s bridged by friendships and kindness. Is my restaurant groundbreaking like Noma? Do we serve reindeer penis? No. But we also, I feel and hope, haven’t traumatised anyone enough to whistleblow us to the Hackney Gazette.
There are exceptions. Some staff, I simply have not liked and never will. Truth be told, there are a few individuals who I would love to punch in the ribs - just not in the workplace.
Growing up, I punched everyone, a lot, all the time. It was my signature mark. I, a 5-year-old, punching kids and grown-ups alike. Anyone could get it. It came to a head when on a family vacation in Germany (words no one should ever have to utter) I punched my 3-year-old cousin and gave him a nosebleed. Satisfied with my day’s work, I took a nap on his bed.
Half an hour later, I woke up to a room on fire. My vindictive little cousin, whilst I was asleep, stole a lighter from the living room and set the bed alight. Did he panic? Did he fuck. He cooly left the room and played dumb, joining the other kids with their Lego making. It was only when an older cousin smelled fire and came bursting into the room, saw the scene of the crime and bundled me out of bed, that I was saved. I woke up in shock, not expecting any sort of retribution for my crimes. I’d had such a great run punching people left, right and centre. The thought of anyone responding to my violent behaviour was alien to me.
Maybe that’s how René felt. A culture of fear, of silence, of punches and no response. Of power, intoxicating, dizzying power.
Soon after the Germany fiasco, my mum sent me Karate with my sister. We were both forced to go – I hated every second of it. All I wanted to do was play football, and if I could help it, play for Arsenal. Issue was, I wasn’t that good. And I was pretty adept at punching. The next 6-years brought lessons 3 times a week. We’d travel from Tottenham, to Walthamstow, to Chingford, as we prepared for our Black Belts. I felt a nauseating fear on Thursdays because that’s when we, the little students, were forced to spar one another – basically fight. Often older, bigger boys. I’d win some and lose a lot. The fear never left all through the years, through the different belts I’d acquire and experiences I gained. My mum said “If you achieve a Black Belt, you can quit” – sure enough, when I reached this feat at age 11, being at the time the third youngest person in Britain to do so, I quit that very week. I never looked back, and barring a few school fights, never punched another person with conviction again.
I think of René. He has dark features in a nation of blonde demi-gods and goddesses. He is relatively short, in a land of Vikings and model-like frames. He is from a working class, ethnic background, and no part of me doubts he has a chip on his shoulder. I’m not an amateur psychologist, but I suspect he grew up not fully conforming or fitting in. That he was slightly outcast and felt disconnected with a lot of his peers.
I understand that internalised anger, and that strive for leaving a legacy as a final “Fuck You” to the establishment.
But it doesn’t justify violence. It doesn’t justify using hundreds of unpaid interns to build a dynasty and shape the gastronomical world. It doesn’t justify using your restaurant as a travelling circus around the globe with astronomical prices which I’m fairly certain aids and abets their (I suspect) minimal contributions to tax whilst the rest of the industry is on its knees.
He’s not the only one, and he may not be the last. A lot of the old brigade of very successful chefs are massive cunts – abusive, scary, inhumane. There often lies a strong correlation in our industry between bullying and success, same as the fashion industry, same as in many fields. Being nice wins no prizes, but it does help you look yourself in the mirror. Mangal II will never receive a Michelin star – it probably won’t even be handed a Bib Gourmand whilst lesser, newer, shinier places with no soul, but who stick to a boring, outdated formula will. But I simply couldn’t care less.
In the end, it’s all just food, isn’t it? Most will like what you serve, and some may not. All we’ve done is help someone not cook that evening, and if we provide a little pleasure for them and some good memories of their meal, then it’s a bonus. The world moves. We eat again. No one died and no one gave a fuck that the molecule of badger semen squeezed through a pipette had a smear on it. No one gets punched, because life is bigger than that. Noma’s customer base may demand that level of perfection, but they’re not my people and I am not in the business of pandering to Finance-Bros to earn a living. My menu is moderately priced, our Sunday Roasts are cheap, and my restaurant is part of a community and neighbourhood.
Punching somebody will never fix any problem. It won’t buy loyalty, and whilst it may correct a chef’s output to prevent them from making the same mistake again, it’ll never be worth the supposed corrective action these men take to pursue the stars.
I grew up angry too. And I punched a lot. Where did it get me? Almost burned alive. Which seems fitting because now my job is to run a business where we cook things over open fire, just like young Ferhat in Frankfurt. I hold no anger towards the perpetuator of attempted murder, lol. He was 3. A sick 3-year-old, but still a toddler. But he’s grown up to be a half-decent man. Can these stunted chefs say the same? They can sit with their awards, their wealth, their acclaim, their episodes on Netflix. But until they stop being massive man-babies, they’ll never be adults. Just angry little boys.