u/LectureSalt1588

I don't know what's best. Roasting the chicken, eating the chicken, or standing barefoot the next day in the kitchen haze, tearing at cold carcass scraps before making a broth that could raise the fucking dead.

But maybe that's the point. You don't pick a favourite hymn in church. You sing the whole damn thing.

It starts with the roast. You treat that bird like it owes you money. Salted, maybe brined. Maybe not. Doesn't matter. You slide it into the oven like you're sending it to war.

And when it comes out? That skin is blistered, crackling, the colour of a Marlboro filter left in the sun. Juices pooling. Legs just begging to be pulled apart. You carve it like you've been yelled at in a hot French kitchen by a guy named Jean-Luc who calls everyone "imbecile" and smokes Winfield Reds through his nose. You eat with your fingers. You burn your mouth. You nod through the pain. That's love.

You don't need silverware for chicken. You need instinct. Greasy fingertips, a stack of paper towels, and enough self-respect to know that anyone reaching for the breast first either grew up wrong or has never known hardship. The thighs are where the truth lives. The oysters are hidden treasure. The wings are the cook's tax. And whoever roasted the bird gets first crack at the crispy skin hanging near the cavity. That's international law as far as I'm concerned.

Then later, when the guests are gone and the adrenaline's bled out, you circle back. The fridge glows like some back-alley confession booth. You stand there, half-dressed, half-drunk, chewing on a cold wing like a feral thing.

It's better cold. You know it. I know it. The chicken knew it. The fat has set. The seasoning has settled in. The juices have nowhere left to run. Cold roast chicken at one in the morning is one of those universal experiences that cuts across class, politics, religion and common sense. Presidents have done it. Dishwashers have done it. Line cooks have done it leaning over milk crates behind restaurants at midnight, still smelling faintly of fryer oil and regret.

That's not leftovers. That's penance. That's communion. And if you've got half a loaf of bread nearby, some mustard, maybe a pickle that's seen better days, you've accidentally made one of the greatest sandwiches known to civilisation. No culinary school required. No foam. No tweezers. No twelve-word menu description involving "essence" or "soil." Just chicken. Honest, beautiful, unpretentious chicken.

But the resurrection, that's the real gospel.

You take what's left: bones, bits, cartilage, wing tips, a lonely drumstick nobody claimed, a lemon squeezed into exhaustion, parsley stems hanging on for dear life. Toss it all into a stockpot like you're starting a spell. Onions you forgot about. Garlic that's more sprout than clove. Carrots that have become suspiciously flexible. Celery so old it has achieved enlightenment. Maybe a bay leaf. Maybe peppercorns. Maybe nothing.

Because stock has always been an act of faith.

You cover it with water, turn the heat low, and walk away. Hours pass. The house changes. The air thickens. The smell creeps into curtains, clothes, memory. It smells like grandmothers. It smells like snow days. It smells like being sick as a kid and somehow feeling safe because somebody, somewhere, was making soup.

You skim. You taste. You add a little salt. And what comes out? That broth? That's not soup. That's redemption. That's a second chance. That's every cook who's ever refused to throw anything useful away because they understood something important long before sustainability became fashionable: respect the animal, respect the ingredient, respect the work it took to get here.

A chicken gives itself to you in chapters. The roast. The feast. The midnight scavenging. The sandwich. The stock. The risotto. The noodle bowl. The ramen you swear was accidental but somehow ends up tasting like you've spent ten years studying under a monk in Osaka. One bird. Five meals. A week of memories. That's economy. That's craftsmanship. That's poetry disguised as dinner.

So don't ask me what the best part is. That's like choosing your favourite scene in a Scorsese film. Every act hits. Every cut bleeds. It's like picking the best dive bar in Tokyo. Each one is seedy, sacred, and exactly what you needed at the time. It's like asking a musician which note matters most. None of them. All of them. The beauty is in hearing the whole song.

You just ride the arc, respect the craft, and thank the bird for its service. Because chicken, done properly, isn't food. It's ritual. It's comfort. It's survival. It's generosity. It's what people cook when they want to feed someone they love, impress someone they admire, or repair a week that kicked the absolute shit out of them.

And if there is a heaven for cooks, I suspect it smells faintly of rendered chicken fat, burnt fingertips, black pepper, old cutting boards and stock quietly simmering in the background. You've got this, Chef!

Amen.

— The Cheeky Chef.

If you survived the first episode and still have the audacity to think you can keep up with the big dogs, congratulations. Or maybe you're just here for more kitchen schadenfreude. Either way, let’s dive in.

Today, let's talk about something even your grandma and her prized meatloaf can’t argue with: ChefTip #2 — keep your knives sharp.

Yeah, I see you. Proud of that shiny knife set you got last Christmas, feeling like the next coming of Thomas Keller every time you slice a tomato. Newsflash: if your knives are as dull as that joke your Uncle Bob tells every Thanksgiving, you’re doing it wrong. A dull knife is dangerous, inefficient, and frankly, a disgrace to kitchens everywhere.

In the trenches of a professional kitchen, a dull knife means the difference between a beautifully diced onion and a finger-severing disaster. We don’t have time to mess around with subpar tools. A sharp knife slices through veggies, meat, and even that infernal plastic wrap with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. You might think it’s magic, but really, it’s just good old knife maintenance.

And here’s the kicker: sharpening your knives isn't rocket science. No need for those fancy electric sharpeners. A simple whetstone or honing rod does the job just fine. A few minutes of attention can save you a lot of grief and make your prep work smoother than a Sinatra ballad. Trust me, your fingers will thank you.

Now, here’s another gem that separates the pros from the wannabes: ChefTip #3 — season properly. And by properly, I mean with authority and understanding.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard folks brag about their cooking, only to find out they think a pinch of salt is enough to season a pot of stew. Here's the harsh truth: seasoning isn’t just about salt and pepper. It’s about balance. It’s about knowing when to add a splash of acidity to brighten a dish or a hint of sweetness to round out the flavours. And for Pete’s sake, taste your food as you go. If you're not tasting, you're not cooking; you’re just pretending.

Imagine you’re at home, cooking your famous spaghetti Bolognese. You throw in a bit of salt at the beginning and call it a day. Meanwhile, I’m in my kitchen, tasting that sauce every step of the way, adjusting the seasoning until it's perfect. That’s the difference between a home cook and a chef. We don’t just cook food; we coax flavours to their full potential.

The first time I truly understood seasoning, I was a fresh-faced greenhorn, barely able to tell the difference between basil and bay leaves. The head chef handed me a spoonful of soup and asked, "What’s missing?" I mumbled something about needing more salt. He nodded, then added a squeeze of lemon juice, a dash of soy sauce, and a pinch of sugar. The difference was night and day. That was my epiphany. Seasoning isn't a one-note affair; it's a symphony.

Here’s something else that’s crucial for both seasoned chefs and home cooks: ChefTip #4 — mise en place, everything in its place. This isn’t just a fancy French term to impress your friends at dinner parties. It’s the backbone of professional cooking. It means having all your ingredients prepped and ready to go before you start cooking.

When you watch me in the kitchen, it might look like chaos, but I assure you, it’s controlled chaos. Every ingredient is prepped, every tool is within reach, and every step is meticulously planned. This way, when the orders start flying in, I’m not scrambling to chop an onion or find the cumin. I’m ready to go.

At home, you can apply the same principle. Before you even turn on the stove, make sure you’ve got everything you need laid out and ready. It might seem tedious, but it will make your cooking smoother, faster, and much more enjoyable. Plus, you’ll impress the hell out of anyone watching.

So there you have it. Keep your knives sharp, season like you mean it, and get your mise en place in order. Three simple tips that can transform your cooking from amateur hour to professional-grade. Remember, cooking isn’t just about following a recipe; it’s about technique, understanding, and a little bit of swagger.

Next time someone tells you they can cook as well as a chef, just smile and nod. You know better. And if they really push it, invite them over, hand them a dull knife, and watch the chaos unfold. It’ll be the most entertaining dinner party you’ve ever hosted.

You're welcome.

- The Cheeky Chef.

​

There is one conversation that seems to happen constantly: people telling me how well they can cook.

.. Or how well their partner cooks.

... Or how well their Mum cooks.

I get it ok. You think you can do what I do. But do you want to know something? You can't.

And I don't say that to be arrogant.

I say it for the same reason I don't tell an electrician how to wire a switchboard or a pilot how to land a plane.

There are countless differences between my cooking environment and yours. My kitchen stove top does not have a "Save As" button. If I fuck up in the kitchen that's it. There's no undo, there's no: "Oh well, the guests will understand."

Guests will NEVER understand. Nor do they appreciate that I can cook a steak to medium rare, every time. Because when my guest is paying $58 for that steak, do you really think they're going to be satisfied when it's not right? A simple: "Oh that's ok love, medium rare, give or take a few degrees."

They may as well be saying, "Here, while you're at it take my wallet and the keys to my Mercedes E350... And I'm an understanding laid-back guy, of course you may fuck my wife."

You just sit in your cushy little household kitchen with your nine hundred dollar Kitchen Aid that you have only managed how to whisk in and casually stress over trying to pull the garlic bread up at the same time as Donna Hay's Pasta a la Primavera without everything going stodgy and cold for your 5 other guests who will probably still accept you at least as a casual acquaintance even if it is only for a Christmas party invite - sadly my reviewers are not the same.

I'll have seven pans going, three of them bipolar and temperamental sauces, two fish in the oven, a salad to prep all while watching the kitchen hand with one eye who keeps wiping the plates clean with a tea towel instead of actually washing them whilst not forgetting that table 7 is half gluten free even though it's not on the docket and 34, 17 and 3 are coming up on mains all at once because front of house are cunts and chronology is optional.

No worries mate.

But it's even different for us chefs at home. I guarantee you when I make a meal it's all: "Thanks gorgeous girl, please pass the potatoes." But you bet your ass if my boy is cooking for me I better act like he's single-handedly built the Great Wall of China, blindfolded, with nothing more than a toothpick and some intuition.

But since this is supposed to be ChefTips and not just forty-seven paragraphs of me yelling at strangers...

Here's ChefTip #1: Putting a damp tea towel or CHUX cloth under a chopping board will stop it sliding around.

That's it. That's the tip.

This was the first thing I ever learnt in a commercial kitchen. (Directly followed by being shown that 'cunt' is a way to express fondness and admiration). How to set up a chopping board. Simple. So, so simple.

This is quite a significant point of my life as a Shit Kicker. The first ever minute I was in a kitchen, the Chef asked me to set up a board and when I pulled it onto the bench he said, "Chuck a tea towel under it - it won't slide."

Twenty-five years later I still can't put a chopping board on a bench without automatically reaching for a damp cloth first.

That's what kitchens do to you.

They hardwire habits.

You're weeeelcome.

But as far as your Mum being the best chef you know, shush, just stop it. Your Mum might be the best cook in the world for sure. Hell, my Mum makes the best Kangaroo curry I have ever tasted. And my Dad? Apple torte. I can guarantee you, it can't be beaten. So I do believe you when you say your half-Lebanese mother makes the best... I don't know, falafel. Whatever, my point is, they make it for you. They make it for your brothers and sisters and family friends.

They don't make it every single night, for 55 or 105 covers, plated perfectly, cooked perfectly, over and over, repeatedly and consistently - and fast.

My Dad can't do that. Do you know WHY he can't do that?

Because he's a fucking heart surgeon, not a chef.

That's not how professions work.

Julia Child once wrote: "No one is born a great cook, one learns by doing."

I like that quote. I like to think that the techniques I have repeated day in and out for however many years, mean something. I like to think that what we do, is kind of like porn. You can watch it, be fascinated by it, it will entice your intrigue and tickle your curiosity - but try it at home, it won't look or sound nearly the same or as satisfying and majority of you are sensible enough to realise that it's probably not wise to try and act it out and suddenly everyone involved is disappointed.

You can like cooking all you want, it doesn't mean it will like you back.

And it's the little things that make us different. For example:

I can chop without looking.

I know when beurre noisette has gone too far by smell alone.

I can hear cream splitting before most people realise they've left it unattended.

I season by instinct. I don't measure. I adjust.

I don't follow a recipe. I laugh at recipes. I look at them, study them, then laugh at them and think: "Well fuck, that's not gonna happen, I'm doing it this way."

I can pick up a piece of confit duck with my bare hands. It doesn't bother me one bit, I lost all feeling in them years ago anyway. The sensation in my index finger is left with the skin that is now attached to the grill of my first job. There it shall remain.

We don't have Band-Aids, we have masking tape. If it stops the bleeding long enough to finish service, congratulations, it's medical equipment.

Where my palms once were, I now have scars and calluses.

I don't have an 8 o'clock reservation for two at a delightful little wine bar with my significant other, I have a second sitting, a headache and I'm running out of leeks.

Do you see me walking up to neurosurgeon suggesting that: "Hey, I played Operation as a kid. I can do this shit too."

No. I'm not that fucking stupid.

So please. Stop trying to patronise me and my fellow industry comrades by telling me you can do what I do. You can't. And when you try, you just look like an idiot.

So yes...

Your Mum probably makes the best roast you've ever eaten. Your partner might cook an incredible risotto. And your uncle Steve absolutely dominates the barbecue every Christmas.

Good.

I hope they keep cooking. We need more people who love food. But loving food isn't the same as surviving a Saturday night service.

So until you've plated a hundred covers, fixed someone else's mistakes, burnt yourself six times before lunch, and still managed to smile at Table 14 while your ticket rail looks like a Red Funnel receipt...

Maybe don't tell chefs you can do what they do.

When you try - you do things like go on Masterchef and I laugh at you.

Really.

Fucking.

Hard.

BUT...

But I'll still teach you how to put a damp cloth under a chopping board. Because that's the thing about chefs. We don't want people to stop cooking. We just want them to understand why we spent twenty years learning how.

- The Cheeky Chef.