Sebastian Pasinetti

Shifting between the titles of “cook” and “chef” has never sat right with me. For the past 15 years I’ve worked in restaurants, cafes and bars where people have often called me “chef” by default. But the truth is – and here’s my little coming-out moment – I’m a cook, and proudly so. 

That certainty comes from my family, mainly my mum and grandmother. I grew up surrounded by food rooted in family and culture, with some of my most vivid memories tied to food cooked by their hands.

At school, my classmates always wanted to see my lunches. For my sister’s first birthday, my mum cooked for 110 people by herself. She’s led many “real” kitchens, too, from school canteens to commercial restaurants and everything in between. But never once in her life has she called herself a chef.

For her, the title was intimidating – reserved for men in crisp whites leading a highly stratified kitchen staff with near-military precision. In her world, women simply cooked. They fed families, neighbours and communities. Calling them “chef” would have complicated something that was meant to be simple.

I’ve witnessed the power of simplicity through Oko, the catering business my mum and I have run together for the last four years. With recipes passed down through her Italian family, we’ve catered weddings, birthdays, charity dinners, art shows, LGBTQIA+ events and countless pop-ups. In those moments, the only thing people cared about was that the food was warm, generous and tasted good. 

For me, part of the tension comes from the way our industry elevates culinary school. Training can impart valuable skills and open doors, no doubt about it. But for many of us, the cost of attendance alone can be prohibitive. Some institutions also require minimum English language skills and a proven academic record, making the barrier for entry impossibly high for some. 

Of course, tertiary education isn’t the only avenue to professional cooking. Even trained chefs will tell you the most valuable lessons come from getting your hands dirty and learning on the job. Some of the best cooks I’ve worked with never studied a day in their life – and their food had more creativity and soul than any curriculum could teach.

That curriculum is indebted to the French brigade system – the military-style hierarchy that’s shaped Western restaurant kitchens since the 19th century. Within that system, an executive chef sits at the top of the chain, with a number of junior chefs (head, sous, de partie, commis) working below.

While leadership and structure are essential in any kitchen environment, somewhere along the way we fetishised it, and today the cult of the chef feels bigger and more important than the act of cooking itself. International guides (Michelin, World’s 50 Best Restaurants) and our media have helped turn chefs into brands. Celebrities like Gordon Ramsay and TV shows like The Bear have cast the role in a narrow mould: white, male, shouty, untouchable.

For me, reclaiming the title of “cook” is a means of breaking away from some of the harmful stereotypes of our industry. For too long, throwing pots and pans and verbal abuse was excused as upholding “standards”. We’ve celebrated the rockstar male chef at the pass, while ignoring the cooks – often women and migrants – who build food culture by sharing intergenerational recipes and cultural knowledge outside institutional frameworks. 

Australian hospitality is already shifting. Staff are demanding healthier kitchens with proper support systems in place; diners are craving honesty over polish; and communities want spaces that reflect them – not just the person at the top. Our dining guides should reflect this too.

That shift doesn’t mean we should reject chefs or the title. I’ve worked alongside some brilliant ones. But it’s time people stopped thinking of cooks as second best. Both roles have their rightful place – but only one of them feels true to me and why I and so many others started in this industry. So now, when someone calls me chef, I smile and correct them. I’m a cook. 

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