Being a club chef is quite different from working in a restaurant or hotel. While tradition matters in both, it runs deeper in clubs. These are places where generations of families grow up, and food becomes part of their shared history. As a club chef, you’re not just serving distinguished clientele—you’re entrusted with something much more personal.
Think of it like being handed the keys to a beloved family car, passed down through generations. It could be a Rolls Royce, a Cadillac, or something else entirely, but the expectation is clear: You’re responsible for taking members somewhere. Some will have strong opinions on the route; others just want to end up somewhere nice. Meanwhile, you’re juggling multiple passengers, each with different, well-meaning advice. You’re the one driving, but you’re also managing the experience—ensuring the ride is smooth, the scenery is enjoyable, and the outcome meets expectations.
And it’s not just about the route. Sometimes, the car itself needs a tune-up—translate that however you like. You’ll have to make adjustments to improve efficiency, comfort, or capacity, all without ever pulling over. Members expect the journey to continue without interruption. They want to get where they’re going fast. Stopping isn’t an option.
That brings me to the point: Club chefs don’t call their kitchens “mine” the way restaurant chefs often do. There’s a good reason for that. The kitchen isn’t yours—it never will be. You’ve been entrusted with it, and that comes with a different level of responsibility.
If it were truly yours, you could take the kitchen in any direction you wanted, hit every pothole, or make abrupt turns without consequence. But in a club, you’re carrying forward history, tradition, and identity. Yes, quality, consistency, and service matter—just like in any food and beverage operation—but in a club, those things must be delivered within the framework of tradition.
You might hate the chicken salad recipe, but if it’s been on the menu for 20 years, changing it could cause an uproar. You exist to make people happy, not to satisfy your own ego.
Your job isn’t just to cook—it’s to make sustainable changes that benefit the membership as a whole. Not every member will agree on the route, but if most want to go to the beach, you’d better not take them to the Grand Canyon.
And when it’s time for you to move on, your responsibility doesn’t end—it shifts. You owe it to the club and the next chef to leave things better than you found them. That’s where documentation comes in. Every time I’ve transitioned out of a role, I’ve left behind a neatly organized flash drive with critical documents, saved and printed recipes, a welcome letter, and key operational details. Because we’ve all walked into a kitchen where the only records are tattered, stained pages in a forgotten binder.
A club kitchen isn’t yours. It belongs to the members, to the legacy of the club, and to the chefs who will come after you. Your role is to honor what’s been built while ensuring it’s ready for the future.
