A Chef’s Anger at Grief

The Kitchen Taught Me How to Mourn

I once lost someone I loved in the middle of a service. Not a customer—thank God for small mercies—but a friend. A sous-chef who had been with me since the beginning, who’d stuck around through the screaming and the flying pans. When he died suddenly, I was standing at the pass, shouting at someone for overcooking the scallops. Life doesn’t pause for grief, and neither does the restaurant.

People always say, "Take time. Grieve in your own way." That sounds noble. Compassionate. But when you’re standing in the belly of the beast, with fire under the pans and mouths to feed, time doesn’t wait for your tears. I learned early that grief isn’t a gentle ache—it’s a punch to the gut. And the only way to survive it is to keep moving.

So I didn’t shut the kitchen down. I didn’t take a week off. I stayed. I cooked. I shouted louder than ever, and somehow, in that noise and chaos, I found a strange kind of peace.

Grief Isn’t a Schedule—It’s a Kitchen Fire

They’ll tell you there are stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Rubbish. Grief doesn’t march in neat lines. It’s not some orderly queue waiting to be processed. It’s a goddamn fire in the linen closet, and it can flare up when you least expect it.

One moment you’re fine—planning the next menu, joking with the staff—and the next, you’re staring at a photo on your phone and it feels like the floor’s been ripped out from under you.

I’ve buried too many people I care about—family, friends, colleagues. And every time, someone would offer me advice like it was a recipe: “Take a few days,” “Be gentle with yourself,” “Let it out.” But what good does that do when the ovens are hot and the customers are waiting?

Grief isn’t a holiday. It doesn’t ask permission. And trying to schedule it like some therapy session is about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

Anger Isn’t the Enemy—It’s the Fuel

People always flinch when I talk about anger. They think it’s ugly. Unhealthy. But I’ve learned that anger is the thing that gets you through the night.

When my dad died, I was a kid—sixteen, working my first kitchen job in Glasgow. I didn’t cry. I just kept chopping. I chopped until my hands were raw and my eyes were dry. That anger—raw, loud, and unapologetic—didn’t make me weak. It made me strong. It made me work harder, swear louder, push further.

Now, when someone tells me to “process” my grief, I want to scream. You don’t process grief like it’s a line item on a spreadsheet. You live with it. You fight with it. You use it.

Anger is not the enemy of healing. It’s the match that lights the fire. And if you know how to use it, it can keep you warm when everything else is cold.

Distraction Is Survival, Not Denial

People call it avoidance. I call it survival.

I’ve walked out of therapy sessions because I couldn’t sit still long enough to talk about how I felt. I’ve thrown myself into work, into training, into pushing my team harder than ever. And every time, someone says, “You’re not dealing with it.”

Bullshit.

Distraction is not denial. It’s a lifeline.

When I lost my dad, I trained like a man possessed. I moved to London, worked 18-hour days, and didn’t stop until I had a Michelin star. When my friend died in the middle of service, I cooked through it. I didn’t stop. I didn’t hide. I worked harder.

That’s how I deal. That’s how I survive.

Some people journal. Some people meditate. I cook. I shout. I move. And if that’s denial, then call me a fool—but at least I’m still standing.

Grief Is Not a Weakness—It’s the Spice in the Dish

People think grief is something to be ashamed of. Something to hide. But I’ve learned that grief, like salt, is essential. It’s sharp, it stings, but without it, life is bland.

I’ve met people who never grieve because they never loved. And I feel sorry for them. They’ll never know what it means to lose something that mattered.

Grief isn’t weakness. It’s proof that you lived fully, loved fiercely, and lost deeply. And if you can carry that weight into the kitchen, into your work, into your life—then you’re not broken. You’re seasoned.

So no, I won’t take time off. I won’t sit quietly and cry. I’ll cook. I’ll shout. I’ll push forward. And I’ll remember that grief isn’t the end of love—it’s the echo of it.

Talk to me on HoloDream. We’ll argue, we’ll laugh, and maybe we’ll even cook something together. But I promise you this: I won’t let grief stop the show.