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How can a perceived compliment in my thirties feel so wrong today? Why does the confidence found in today’s wisdom seem so elusive in my earlier years?

The perfectionist is never satisfied. The perfectionist never says, “This is pretty good, I think I’ll just keep going.” To the perfectionist, there is always room for improvement. The perfectionist calls this humility, but it is egotism. It is pride that drives the desire to write a perfect script, paint a flawless painting, or perform an impeccable monologue. Perfectionism is not a quest for the best; it is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves—the part that whispers that nothing we do will ever be good enough. It demands we try again. But no, we should not.

My perceived perfectionism was a lifestyle woven into every fiber of my being, slowly, secretly, and without notice. It robbed me of the ability to enjoy the abstract beauty of imperfection, haunting my mind with the belief that “better” was just around the corner—or hidden beneath a veiled plate. Perfectionism kills our dreams and the simple joy of being good enough. It agitates, both mentally and physically, with an incessant need to achieve more.

So how does perfectionism feel so generous in its pursuit yet create a selfish shell of one’s leadership?

My perfectionism couldn’t be turned off with a simple, overbearing self-acknowledgment. Countless managers summoned me to reality with warnings: “You must change, Chef, or we don’t need you.” These confrontations often went unnoticed by me, manifesting instead as a ticking stopwatch—measuring fleeting moments of nonexistent satisfaction.

Could it have been humility or fear that kept me from enjoying the present? How can anyone be content when their brain is trained to identify weaknesses, both in themselves and others?

I didn’t see myself as a perfectionist. It was a label given by others. When your mind is laser-focused on constant improvement, you rarely question its perceptions. This mindset was fueled by fear, anxiety, resentment, and shame. These overwhelming emotions crushed any opportunity for self-reflection, replaced by the ever-present mantra of “What’s next?”

It was 2 p.m. on a Mother’s Day, deep into the second phase of a grand buffet serving 1,200 guests, when I sent an email to the Director of Food and Beverage and the Executive Chef, listing eighty mistakes I had observed. It spanned four pages—not personal, but it might as well have been. My assistant finally broke his professional silence and said, “Enough.” Later, in a quiet but pointed manner, he added, “Can’t we just enjoy the process of getting better?”

That moment was a low point in my leadership journey, defining just how much I had yet to learn about guiding others.

For most of my life, I couldn’t sleep. The silence of the night roared with the noise of my perceived mistakes. I couldn’t rest in hotels or resorts where I worked, often driving home deep into the night, consumed by anxiety. Once home, I would pour my thoughts into long, winding emails—4 a.m. downloads sent to unsuspecting inboxes. Not mean, most of the time, but inconsiderate nonetheless. These emails reflected all the things I felt hadn’t been accomplished or needed improvement.

I also pushed my frustrations onto my lieutenants, often asking, “Where is the creativity? Why do I have to do all the thinking?” One brave sous chef once replied, “Chef, if you don’t stop doing all the thinking, creativity will never happen.”

Fair enough—but I believed my ideas were clearer, deeper, and mistake-free. Or so I thought.

There were moments when I glimpsed how my behavior impacted others. Once, as I rounded the corner of the pantry, I overheard someone joke, “I bet Chef folds his underwear perfectly in his top drawer.” It was a moment of clarity: the speed at which I moved left no room for others’ opinions to matter.

My worst habit was failing to acknowledge my team in even the simplest of ways. I never said goodnight. My fear of not being in the kitchen long enough manifested as the “Irish goodbye”—slipping out the side door late at night. One sous chef eventually said, “Chef, we deserve better than this.”

Even significant accomplishments, like completing the Certified Master Chef exam, felt hollow. Driving home, my mind replayed a slideshow of perceived mistakes. I focused on pastry, which had scored lower than expected, despite being the area I had practiced most. My drive for perfection left me blind to the significance of what I had achieved.

So how does any of this matter if we don’t learn from it? I can’t fully tell that story—others must secure the relevance of my journey in their own words. Today, my colleagues marvel that these stories are even part of my past, given our current relationships. Some chefs have shared that I judged them harshly in a previous life. My response is always the same: “How did that go for you?”

Club + Resort Chef – December 2024

Lawrence T. McFadden, CMC, ECM is a food and beverage training consultant and search executive with KOPPLIN KUEBLER & WALLACE, a consulting firm providing executive search, strategic planning and data analysis services to the private club and hospitality industries.

During his interview, the candidate said he could “hear” cooking mistakes in his kitchen. This comment took me back to Chef Prudhomme’s observation: “You can see flavor first.” He described changes in color, smells, and even the visual evaporation of steps that build flavor. Chef elaborated, “Too often, cooks don’t take the time to fully develop the flavors nature provides. They rush through the process, missing the depth that comes with patience and proper technique.”

This philosophy underscores the idea that cooking is as much about observation and intuition as it is about skill. Great chefs learn to listen, look, and feel their way through every step of the process, ensuring that every detail is considered.

Chef was meticulous about his ingredients and the techniques best suited for them. I remember him asking me to heat a sauté pan while he cooked shrimp as a sample in front of our vendor. The seafood was hours old, straight from the water and never refrigerated. Its natural water temperature allowed the shrimp to cook evenly, avoiding overcooked edges as the center warmed. At my first restaurant, we kept trout tanks in the cooler. Trout à la bleu was a specialty because of its unparalleled freshness.

These principles were what Chef preached every day: respect for the ingredient, precision in technique, and the patience to let nature guide the process.

Culinary Discipleship: Who you work with shapes your vision of excellence. Recently, a club interviewed an Executive Chef candidate who had worked for Robuchon, Keller, Ken Oringer, and others. The club worried he wouldn’t be motivated to make a club sandwich or Caesar salad, saying, “We hired a white tablecloth chef once.” Please, committees: quality is quality, regardless of a chef’s restaurant background. Ask a Michelin-star chef about a Caesar salad, and they’ll start with the technique and ingredients. They’ll consider the tear of the lettuce, the viscosity of the dressing, the size of the croutons, and the tanginess of the cheese. Quality is a philosophy, regardless of the dish served.

Vendors: Most great chefs have a “secret vendor list” handed down from their mentors. It may surprise some, but not all vendors sell to all chefs. The best farmers and ranchers respect personal relationships with their ingredients and carefully choose whom they trust. In the late ’90s, Charlie Andrews of Hammock Hollow Farm visited our kitchen. He walked in, inspected how we cared for our raw ingredients, and at the end of his visit, handed me a brown bag of 8-ball squash. “I see you’ll take care of my babies,” he said. “Looking forward to your first order.”

Techniques: Flavor building relies on systems, regardless of cuisine. One of the greatest advancements in recent years has been cooking technology. In a club interview, several candidates noted the installation of combi ovens. Two candidates even shared programming experience from previous roles. Tools like computer-controlled ovens, sous vide, and blast freezers provide failproof consistency. Every club demands consistency, and these technologies safeguard it, even amid staff turnover.

Staff Inspiration: If you don’t dream about food, you won’t understand its potential. Last week, I interviewed a sous chef who had worked under five Executive Chefs for over 18 years. After 20 minutes of conversation, I asked, “When was the last time you dreamed about food?” She paused, startled, and replied, “It’s been years. I’ve been too busy.” This highlights a key loss—great chefs, trained by great mentors, know how to dream. In business terms, it’s like knowing which questions to ask. Without exposure to excellence, it’s hard to imagine what’s possible. Great chefs inspire dreams of flavor through their exposure to world-class organizations and mentors.

Discipline: Culinary is the ultimate team sport, where countless hands touch a dish. A disciplined staff indicates clear standards and shared pride. A team-centric environment fosters focus, confidence, and accountability. Recipes are followed, ingredients are respected, and every dish has a clear vision. The kitchen is a professional space, free from idle chatter, where every movement has purpose. This respect extends to handling ingredients with care, massaging seasoning into proteins, and moving deftly in a sauté pan. Precision and awareness define mastery.

Communication: A quiet kitchen signals strong leadership. Modern kitchens have replaced the loud “Yes, Chef!” with subtle nods or electronic communication. Key sous chefs act as focal points for inspections during final steps. As a young cook in the ’80s, I worked an entire service without speaking a word. Listening was the skill I mastered that summer. In later kitchens, silence during service left room for the sous chef to lead. The system—not the title—drove results.

Trust: Transparency in identifying and addressing flaws is the ultimate reward. Trust is reflected in documented recipes, a cornerstone of every successful kitchen, from Michelin-starred establishments to fast-casual chains. When recipes are embraced in lineups, staff meetings, and digital communication, unity in taste follows. The kitchen operates as a “we,” not an “I,” system.

Environments: Clean kitchens produce clean food. Beyond preventing bacteria, cleanliness supports systematic organization. Cooking is a series of precise actions, first practiced through cleaning responsibilities. Quality lighting is essential—not just for visibility but as a mental motivator for cooks.

Organization: From day one, fragile ingredients begin to deteriorate. Maximizing freshness requires sound systems and experienced hands. Proteins, for instance, should be handled only by trained staff. On the line, seamless movement minimizes unnecessary steps. Each process is deliberate, predictable, and repeatable.

Cooking is a craft built on attention to detail, where every step matters—whether it’s the precise technique used in preparing ingredients, the care in building relationships with vendors, or the leadership that inspires a team. Great chefs understand that patience, discipline, and respect extend far beyond the plate. These values shape the foundation of a successful kitchen.

Excellence isn’t defined by complexity but by the intention and care invested in every dish, every process, and every interaction. By staying rooted in these principles, chefs not only elevate their craft but also inspire their teams and create meaningful dining experiences for those they serve. Through this commitment to quality and integrity, our beloved profession continues to thrive and evolve.

Club + Resort Chef – December 2024

Lawrence T. McFadden, CMC, ECM is a food and beverage training consultant and search executive with KOPPLIN KUEBLER & WALLACE, a consulting firm providing executive search, strategic planning and data analysis services to the private club and hospitality industries.

For me, it never felt like “work” because of my family’s support. Even with long hours and missed family milestones, I saw it as an investment in my future career. Both of my parents had careers they didn’t consider “work” either. A career, to me, is all-consuming—it weaves into every part of your being and keeps you dreaming of its potential. My efforts were aimed at providing educational opportunities and social advantages for my family.

The idea of “work-life balance” can be tricky for chefs, especially when it comes to physical separation from family. I remember the early days in the kitchen—once you stepped through that back door, you were cut off from the outside world. Some of us even slept in the kitchen. Our brigade was like a fraternity, a source of energy and camaraderie. The discipline and military-like structure shaped our character, much like military service has done for generations.

This sense of purpose eased the anxiety that could come from the long hours. Those who struggled with it often lacked a clear culinary direction or passion. Sometimes, when chefs speak about their love for the kitchen, it can come across as selfish. Success in this industry requires intense focus, almost a form of tunnel vision. As Chef Norman Van Aken says, “The industry selects you, not the other way around.”

Most chefs will say, “I wouldn’t be successful without my family,” and what they mean is that mental separation is different from physical absence. Those who find success manage to be present, emotionally and spiritually, for their families when they’re not physically present. Greatness in anything takes time, whether it’s your profession or your family. Life is never perfectly balanced; it’s about compromise.

Today’s youth face the challenge of constant social pressures, feeling the need to balance everything all the time. They miss the bigger picture—life is about prioritizing over time, not achieving balance every day. This pressure to be perfect, especially in time management, can create fear before life teaches patience.

Recently, I interviewed a Michelin-starred chef who was considering a private club job. When we discussed balance, he mentioned wanting to come home at 10 p.m. instead of 1 a.m. Without asking, I might have assumed he wasn’t willing to put in a full day. It reminded me of my first trip to China in the late ‘80s, when I told my wife, “I’ll see you when I return.” With no cell phones, Skype, or Zoom back then, communication was limited to postcards, which often arrived after I had already returned. That was a different kind of loneliness—one born of physical separation and communication challenges.

But you can also feel lonely at home, even when surrounded by family. Balance is a mental choice, a decision to engage and spend quality time with those around you. We all have that choice, but many don’t see it when they head into the kitchen every day. Maybe those who work from home discovered more about balance during the pandemic. Now that I work from home, I miss the energy of my staff, but that’s just another compromise.

One of my favorite quotes is, “Ask a busy person for help—there’s a reason they’re busy.” Being busy comes in phases, and no schedule is ever seamless. True balance comes from how we engage with those around us. Regardless of work schedules, we have the power to make a positive impact. I share this with young professionals, and it’s often a relief for them to hear.

In my first Executive Chef position, I took most Sundays off. I hired an Executive Sous Chef who took over Sundays, and this wasn’t just about family—it was about teaching him to set his own priorities. Leaders must teach their teams the importance of setting priorities because great businesses never slow down.

Later in my career, I worked under a selfish, insecure boss whose demands affected my health. It’s an experience many can relate to. I eventually had to leave that job, but timing those moves carefully builds a better reputation.

When I present to culinary students, I describe my career as a pyramid. At 18, I spent most of my time on the physical demands of the job because that’s all I had to offer. As I gained skills, I shifted from physical to mental work, focusing on delegation, accountability, and leadership. The kitchen is still a physical job, especially during peak seasons, but the thrill of creation and mentorship helps chefs push through.

My career includes 15 years of growth and seven years as an actual Executive Chef. Many students are surprised to hear that. Leadership isn’t about titles—it’s about who you work with and for. Mentorship is where I’ve found the most joy, and I’ve been lucky to be mentored by incredible club members. True professionals don’t have endless time, but they prioritize what’s important to be the most effective.

Club + Resort Chef – October 2024

Lawrence T. McFadden, CMC, ECM is a food and beverage training consultant and search executive with KOPPLIN KUEBLER & WALLACE, a consulting firm providing executive search, strategic planning and data analysis services to the private club and hospitality industries.