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“It’s not the Critic that counts; not the person who points out how the strong person stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the person in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…”

The famous ‘Man in the Arena’ speech was delivered by Theodore Roosevelt in 1910. If read in full, and every line digested, it rings as loud today as it did 115 years ago.

Most chefs experience the spirit-crushing commentaries of the armchair critic, the Twitter trolls, the self-appointed experts. Your sweat and stress penalised by a bigoted review. Little wonder that a chef feels overwhelmed from time to time.

“There can be no courage without vulnerability,” to quote TED Talks’ Brené Brown. If a chef is to be successful, she must put herself in the arena—apron on, knife in hand—hoping for praise but knowing she is one precarious ingredient away from a body blow. It’s an occupational hazard. Chefs are vulnerable to the opinions of those who don’t have the courage to dare greatly. The people who would rather self-validate by pointing out shortcomings and errors. Those unadventurous, timid, cynical souls who indulge themselves in your discomfort—or, at worst, revel in your downfall.

But vulnerability is not weakness. It is, in fact, the birthplace of innovation and authenticity. The great chefs of the world—those who have truly left a mark—did so not by playing it safe, but by daring to be different. They risked failure with every dish they sent out, balancing on the knife-edge between genius and disaster. If one builds a shield to deflect hurt, a chef will soon become just another backroom cook who once was fearless. Worse still, one may end up joining the ranks of the baying mob who will never know the agony of defeat or the glory of triumph.

I suppose one must find the inner strength to cope with the inevitable jibes of the ‘cold souls’ who haunt the pages of TripAdvisor, Zomato, Facebook and Twitter. To find the fortitude to mentally compartmentalise their declarations of “The worst meal I’ve ever had in my life, like, ever.” Every creative soul must wrestle with this modern reality. The digital world has made criticism easy, anonymous, and often cruel. Yet the arena remains—real, hot, loud, and filled with the clatter of pans and the pounding of hearts.

Still, we shouldn’t mind the constructive and helpful criticism given by those who are brave enough to engage directly. The people who deliver this news help us to grow and improve. These folks you need on your team—the mentors, the honest customers, the colleagues who taste your sauce and tell you the truth.

To be a chef is to live in a world of daily risk. Service is theatre without rehearsal. Each plate is a performance, fleeting yet full of meaning. So, we must start daring greatly. A chef will never know the triumph and achievement of true success without risking both victory and defeat. It is only by stepping willingly into the arena—dust, sweat, and all—that we find the courage to create something truly extraordinary.


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