In 2011, my family and I packed up and moved to Asia, ready for a new professional adventure. The goal was clear: explore the region’s diverse cuisines, cultures, and ingredients. But whenever people ask which city I loved most, I struggle to answer. It’s like choosing a favorite child—each place had its own appeal, and I cherished them all for different reasons.
Reality, of course, never quite matches expectations. You see it in those viral memes about different professions—the romanticized view versus the often-harsh truth. My time in Asia was no different. I expected culinary exploration to take center stage, but instead, I found myself navigating something much more complex: human interactions. I encountered discrimination, cultural and religious biases, and assumptions about what I represented. The experience shaped me far more than any dish I discovered.
Food has a way of carrying emotions, especially meals from childhood. For many, their most treasured dishes aren’t just about flavor—they’re about who made them and the memories attached. When I managed a city club, I asked members about their breakfast habits. Most weren’t eating for pleasure; they were taking business meetings over coffee and eggs. It was a reminder that food is as much about context as it is about taste. A meal shared with the right company can elevate even the simplest dish into something unforgettable.
Perceptions, like memories, shift over time. What once seemed certain can become something entirely different in hindsight. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we hold onto past mistakes and the weight of unresolved regrets. Making amends has been a personal focus. I’ve learned that seeking forgiveness requires both courage and humility. Though I may not remember every misstep, I carry the awareness that my words and actions have left marks—some I wish I could erase.
My self-examination took on structure when I joined a spiritual program that required listing personal resentments and analyzing their impact. The process was uncomfortable but necessary. A true apology, I realized, is more than saying “I’m sorry.” It means taking responsibility, listening without defensiveness, and acknowledging harm, even when it wasn’t intentional. In our program, we call it a willingness to concede.
One of my most vivid lessons in perception came during an Executive Chef interview. A candidate casually mentioned that he had taken the Certified Master Chef exam. As we talked, I realized I had been a lead judge during his test years ago. And in that moment, an old regret resurfaced.
During the first few days of judging, I had let my ego take control. Instead of offering encouragement, I criticized what I saw as underwhelming performances. I don’t remember my exact words, but I remember the tone—and I’ve regretted it ever since. My role was supposed to be one of fairness and support. Instead, I had let insecurity masquerade as authority.
One of my mentors used to say, “If I stop challenging you, I’ve given up on you.” I took that to heart. The harsh feedback I received early in my career never felt personal—it was about pushing me to be better. But that approach doesn’t work for everyone, and I’ve since learned that perception of intent matters just as much as the intent itself.
After the interview, I pulled the chef aside and apologized. He accepted graciously, sharing his own perspective. He admitted he hadn’t been fully prepared for the exam and, in hindsight, appreciated the challenge. He later attempted the test again and, though he didn’t pass, took pride in having faced his fear.
He also acknowledged my reputation, saying he understood the standards I upheld. His ability to accept my apology with professionalism stayed with me. Over the years, I’ve stopped chasing others’ opinions about me. If they offer them, I listen—but I recognize that opinions are shaped by relationships, circumstances, and bias. Much like references in an interview, perceptions rarely tell the full story.
Executive Chefs live in a world where their work is judged in real time, often with extremes. One guest might call a dish the best thing they’ve ever eaten, while another dismisses it entirely. Neither is the full truth. The real measure of success lies in data, consistency, and leadership. I’ve found that a chef’s caliber is often reflected in the company they keep. The journey isn’t just about refining skills—it’s about refining how we see ourselves and how others see us.
So, what is perception? Maybe it’s just a request for understanding. And when we grant it—to ourselves and to others—that’s where real freedom begins.
