At the pass, the person calling service writes the menu, sets the pace, and runs the room. It’s the centre of the kitchen’s gravity. And yet, for many female chefs, even standing there doesn’t guarantee recognition.
The reality inside kitchens has changed dramatically. More women are leading brigades, opening restaurants and shaping the next generation of kitchen culture. But speak to female chefs and a different picture emerges — one where authority is still questioned, titles are quietly redirected, and the person running the pass is sometimes mistaken for someone else entirely.
The moments themselves are often small. A handshake given to the wrong person. A question addressed to a junior male colleague. A casual assumption about what a woman 'should' cook. But repeated over years, they reveal how deeply ingrained the image of the chef still is.
So many female chefs [...] have also shared my experience of joining a workplace in the hot kitchen and then found myself — the only woman in the kitchen — increasingly rota’d on to pastry.
Emily Chia, Head Chef of Dockley Road knows this dynamic well. At her Bermondsey restaurant, and at her previous head chef roles at St. JOHN Marylebone and also Le Grand Bain in Paris, these restaurants' open kitchens meant diners could see the team at work — and react in real time to what they saw. “We're still in a world in which, if there is a man in the kitchen, the assumption is made that he must be the chef,” she says. “At Le Grand Bain my team was all female at one point, as it is now at Dockley Road, and it would confuse or surprise people to see us. We would have women excited to talk to us about being a team of women, but we would also have confused faces wondering where the chef was.”
The question she has heard more than any other reveals just how persistent those expectations are. “I have constantly been asked ‘Are you the pastry chef?’ by customers, acquaintances, delivery drivers,” she says. “I write the menu, I run the pass all night, and this is the question I get?” The irony is that pastry itself is a discipline she values deeply. But the way it is subtly assigned to women in kitchens tells its own story.
Pastry is a highly skilled discipline, she points out, but the way it is often gendered within kitchens tells its own story. “So many female chefs will have been asked that same question, and will have also shared my experience of joining a workplace in the hot kitchen and then found myself — the only woman in the kitchen — increasingly rota’d on to pastry.”
Outside the kitchen too, the expectations persist. Chia remembers being asked in an interview why her food was “so masculine.” “What does that even mean?” she says. “Because the flavours and plating style weren't delicate like he was expecting?”
Although I'm standing at the pass, he strides straight past me, so he can thank the men in the kitchen. He's thanking us for making his day, but he's just ruined mine.
These assumptions are rarely isolated incidents; they accumulate into a subtle kind of invisibility. Bex Staunton recalls a moment that captures the dynamic perfectly. “It’s a Sunday night, towards the end of a tiring six-hour lunch service,” she recalls. “An overjoyed customer wants to thank the kitchen for his meal.” Front-of-house staff pointed him towards the open kitchen. Staunton was standing at the pass, running service. But the diner walked straight past her. “He strides straight past me so he can thank the men in the kitchen.” The moment left a mark. “He's thanking us for making his day, but he's just ruined mine.”
On paper it might sound trivial, but the context matters. Staunton was managing the shift and often runs a team made up largely of male chefs “The unfortunate outcome of his lovely meal and gracious ‘thanks to the kitchen’ left me questioning what’s the point of working so hard that weekend to ensure that tables like him and his family had the best experience.”
Despite being only a few years into her career, she says she has already built up a long list of similar moments: Being mistaken for non-chef staff. Being asked to pass thanks on to “the chefs” as if she isn’t one of them. Delivery drivers waiting for a man to sign paperwork. Suppliers calling her “darling” or “love” on the phone.
Even interactions with customers can carry an uncomfortable tone. “I’ve had a customer of the older generation slapping me on the back repeatedly saying ‘good girl, good girl, good girl’ whilst I'm trying to roll a tart case on the window counter.”
The issue, she believes, comes down to public perception. “The number of female chefs is increasing, and so is their online visibility. The industry is changing, yet it seems that many of our customers are not.” The emotional impact varies depending on the day.
“If I'm not too tired, I can join the male chefs and laugh about these situations. I can think ‘how embarrassing for them.’” But with the exhaustion that so often comes with working in a busy kitchen, the same moment lands differently: “If it’s my sixth shift, or the fourteenth hour, or if it's the second time that week I've worked a double with period pains, it’s just not as easy to laugh off.”
I have even had men come in and refer to the male chefs as ‘chef’ and myself as pet names such as ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling. It really infuriates me that I have worked for so long to then be referred to by that title, and yet my male chefs are given it automatically — despite how junior they are — while I am often denied it.'
Head Chef Anna Søgaard has encountered a similar pattern. “There is absolutely a difference in the way male and female chefs are perceived,” she says. “After taking my first head chef role, I experienced more sexism than I ever have before.”
Delivery drivers, suppliers and even diners often enter the kitchen asking to speak to the head chef — and instinctively approach the male chefs first. “They go straight up to my male chefs and shake their hand, assuming they must be the one in charge,” she says. “Often resulting in a surprised reaction when my chefs explain that I'm the one they should speak to.”
Sometimes the behaviour is more explicit. “I have even had men come in and refer to the male chefs as ‘chef’ and myself as pet names such as ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’.” The contrast is hard to ignore. “It really infuriates me that I have worked for so long to then be referred to by that title, and yet my male chefs are given it automatically — despite how junior they are — while I am often denied it.”
Earlier in her career, those perceptions made Søgaard wary of public attention. She had often been told she was “very feminine for a female chef” and worried it might undermine how seriously she was taken. “I used to try to downplay my femininity,” she says. Over time, however, she realised that compromise wasn’t necessary. “By embracing my identity as a woman in the kitchen and showcasing it publicly, I can demonstrate to others that there is room for all types of women in kitchens.”
The same old chefs get quoted, take up the column inches, and dominate the airtime.
Chef Chantelle Nicholson agrees with Søgaard that visibility plays an important role in shaping those perceptions. For younger chefs entering the profession, that lack of representation can shape expectations about who belongs in the kitchen. “When I was coming up I was often the only woman in the kitchen,” Nicholson says.
It matters on a macro level too: she believes the industry still amplifies a narrow group of voices, often the same chefs who have dominated media coverage for decades. “There's a clear lack of female chefs in the media spotlight,” she says. “The same old chefs get quoted, take up the column inches, and dominate the airtime.”
The irony, she suggests, is that some of those figures built their reputations within the harsh, aggressive culture that the industry is now trying to leave behind. Meanwhile, chefs pushing for healthier workplaces or exploring new approaches to food receive far less attention.
And in kitchens themselves, in spite of these efforts the culture in some still carries traces of the past. “Bullying and micromanagement are still significant issues" says chef Simmie Vedi, adding that "men just don't understand how we are affected by the different way in which they speak to us in work. From dismissive to patronising to overly familiar or flirtatious, all women have the same set of experiences at varying frequencies throughout our career."
Being called ‘darling,’ ‘miss,’ or ‘young lady’ even at a senior level is incredibly condescending
Sally Abé agrees that language can be one of the clearest signals of 'othering': “Being called ‘darling,’ ‘miss,’ or ‘young lady’ even at a senior level is incredibly condescending”, which reinforces women's sense that this is not an environment for them - a sense which even the design of the kitchens can build, day-to-day.
"All the small things mount up,” says Chia. “Shelves being so unnecessarily high that I have to ask for help every single time I need something. Or not being able to see into the top deck of my oven. Uniforms can have the same effect. “The classic Carême jacket when fitted on a chef is the equivalent of a power suit,” she says. “I have yet to be provided with chef whites that don’t feel like I'm playing dress-up.”
Over time, she says, those small signals can shape how women feel they are perceived. “From the responses and attitudes I have found over the course of my career, it seems like others think I'm playing dress-up too.”
We need to make our kitchens places that are attractive to women — flexible hours, maternity packages, environments where they don't feel like an outsider.
And yet many chefs believe the industry now has an opportunity to change course — not just in theory, but in the way kitchens are run day to day. Chantelle Nicholson opened Apricity with the explicit intention of building the kind of workplace she wished had existed earlier in her career. “It took quite a lot of unlearning,” she says, but the goal was clear: a restaurant that serves great food while putting the wellbeing of the team first. Today, the dynamic has flipped almost entirely: her kitchen now has one male chef rather than one female. The shift wasn’t deliberate; it happened organically once the environment became supportive and sustainable.
For Sally Abe, this moment represents a rare turning point for the industry. Restaurants are struggling to recruit and retain staff, which means the balance of power is changing. “The power lies with the staff now,” she says. “We need to make our kitchens places that are attractive to women — flexible hours, maternity packages, environments where they don't feel like an outsider.”
Chia approaches the challenge through hiring and mentorship, deliberately taking chances on applicants who may not have traditional experience but show promise. Some of the women she hired early in their careers are now head chefs themselves. “I couldn't be prouder,” she says.
Just don't make assumptions about me or what I can do based on what I look like.
What these chefs describe is not a dramatic barrier blocking women from kitchens, but something harder to dismantle: a culture of quiet assumptions. They appear in the question asked at the pass, in the hand shaken across the counter, in the title withheld or casually reassigned. Individually they seem small; collectively they shape how authority is recognised — or overlooked.
The industry likes to believe it has moved on. In many ways it has. But until the person running the kitchen can do so without being mistaken for the pastry chef, the assistant, or someone who must answer to a man standing beside them, the work isn’t finished. The next generation of chefs is already rewriting the culture of the kitchen. As Emily Chia puts it, the simplest starting point is also the most important: “Just don't make assumptions about me or what I can do based on what I look like.”
The challenge now is making sure the world outside the kitchen catches up.
