Here's What It's Really Like To Be A Private Chef For The Rich & Famous
We’ve seriously seen it all…
for Town & Country
I never dreamed I'd become a private chef. I was a workaholic writer and bookish actor with a good deal of success under my belt, but the instability of the artist's paycheck wore me down over the years. Soon, my confident kitchen skills blossomed into a full-time cooking gig for a wealthy big-city family who had several homes and high expectations. Jackpot!
The salary was more than I'd ever made as an artist. I set my own menus and dove head-first into managing a very particular household. And because of the level of intimacy necessary between client and chef, I was privy to some juicy insights into the human psyche. All private chefs are. No, we don't make a habit of spilling deeply personal stories, but we do recognize the absurdity of the upstairs-downstairs paradigm.
One weekend, my clients had a gaggle of guests staying at their Cape Cod home. I was up at dawn, running groggily to set out an elaborate spread before anyone else awoke. Racing between the espresso machine, the refrigerator, and four burners of eggs blasting in various stages, I was stopped in my tracks by, "Jacqueline, darling, can you please cut my bagel? I'm so bad at cutting bagels!"
Oh. My. God.
This reminded me of one chef who'd told me he'd worked for 'the rich and hopeless,' when I asked him about any asinine requests he'd received: "Any bread served is without crust, cut 1/4th of an inch thick. Coffee and tea is served at only 120.5 degrees F. Toast is to be buttered on both sides. All meats served will be cut into ½-inch slices. No yellow vegetables are to be served."
A fellow chef friend told me a story about how a suited gentleman left the dining room to take a call during dinner just before dessert had been served. He then walked right into the kitchen with his phone in hand and simply uttered the words, 'ice cream'.She told me his absent eye contact and lack of humanity was flooring.
Out in Los Angeles, a chef to celebrity clientele laughed when sharing the plethora of odd requests he'd received: "I work with a bunch of absurd people, and the more money they have, the more absurdity they express. One client invited me into his bedroom while he was having sex with three girls and asked me if I could cook for him right there. I was like, Fine, no problem. I have no boundaries – whatever you can afford, I can cook."
Fortunately, no client has ever asked me to do that. Nor have they asked me to "create a meal around a poem," or "find and cook fresh monkey's brains," as other chefs have experienced. But when they do, you rarely say no.
We don't tell a guest that they showed up without an RSVP, throwing off the table settings and portions of a menu. Or that maybe they should have told us they were a vegetarian before we set a plate of veal down.
No, we know our clients appreciate discretion, and so we don't point out social faux pas or a misstep that made our tough day nearly unbearable.
Because here's the thing: despite the insane requests and occasional calamities, we thrive in this kind of work. Most who go into the business have a natural inclination to take care of people. Several women I've spoken with don't have children, and so we get a little thrill out of nailing a picky 13-year old's pasta sauce recipe, even if it takes ten excruciating goes at it before she'll wolf it down.
And we dearly value the incredible intimacy we get to share with our clients and their families. "I had a client a couple of years ago who had terminal cancer and two teenage kids, and with the meals I prepared she sat and ate with them," a chef friend told me. "It's a gift to be trusted enough to provide food for a family."
I no longer work as a private chef, but a bagel-cutting request will never again register as odd in my ears. Looking back, I remember more how that same guest was always extremely warm and friendly to me, so there was something almost nurturing about helping her when she was in town. Yes, I'd see an eyebrow raise if I'd accidentally reacted to an intellectual conversation overheard at the dinner table while serving or clearing. Yes, sometimes I'd feel "put in my place" by those whom I was feeding.
Overall, though, I thrived in a profession where as much love and heartfelt compassion was sneaked into service as possible. And while a plethora of private chefs dotting the country will talk amongst ourselves about the incapability of those "above" us and the hysterical requests they make, we keep our mouths buttoned up if treated fairly and paid well. Or – worst case scenario – we sneak an ingredient a client's sworn not to like into a dish, and watch with smug satisfaction as they lap it up.
Something like that.
