What a Smile Taught Me about Leading Kitchens across the World

What a Smile Taught Me About Leading Kitchens Across the World

How one small gesture changed everything in a high-pressure kitchen

The kitchen was already alive.

Pans were clanging, the heat was suffocating, and the relentless rhythm of orders printing set a sharp tempo. You could feel the hum of the exhaust fans vibrating in your chest, smell the hot steel, the faint bitterness of burnt shallots, the sharpness of overly reduced sauces.

I remember thinking clearly: We're behind, and it’s only going to get worse.

It was a Friday night. VIP guests, every seat taken, four different restaurants running simultaneously. I was in the Maldives, leading a brigade of more than 80 chefs from fourteen different countries. Talented people, a dream team—but that night, something felt off. The rhythm wasn't right. Plates moved too fast or too slow, the sauce station was slipping behind, eyes started to dart nervously around the kitchen.

And then it happened.

The Moment Everything Could’ve Fallen Apart

One of my youngest cooks, barely twenty-two, overcooked the meat on our most important plate—the final dish of a carefully crafted VIP tasting menu. This wasn’t just a dish; it was our reputation. He froze immediately. His shoulders tightened. He stared at the burnt edges of the meat like his career was already over.

In any other kitchen I've worked in, this was the moment for shouting, for slammed plates, for that icy tension that silences a kitchen.

The sous chef glanced at me anxiously, waiting for the reaction. The noise around us dimmed, as if someone had suddenly turned down the volume.

I stepped forward, feeling every set of eyes watching closely. My heart was beating fast, too—I won’t pretend otherwise.

But instead of anger, something else happened, almost instinctively.

I smiled.

The Power of Not Losing Control

"Fix it," I said quietly. "Do it again—quickly. I trust you."

The cook looked startled. He nodded, moved instantly, and the kitchen flowed again.

The next plate went out perfectly.

But this isn't a story about saving a dish. It's about saving something far more important.

Leadership Is Energy

I've been cooking professionally for more than twenty-five years, in kitchens around the world—from Italy to Dubai, cruise ships to luxury island resorts. I've worked under incredible pressure, led massive brigades, and served thousands of plates.

And the most important lesson I’ve learned in all those years is simple:

The real ingredients of leadership aren't found in culinary schools or cookbooks. They’re found in moments like this:

• Knowing when to say nothing.
• Knowing when to hold back your temper.
• Knowing when the loudest statement is the smallest smile.

A smile doesn't make you weak. It doesn’t mean you're soft. It means you're present. And presence is what holds a team together when the heat rises and everything around you starts to crumble.

Kitchens Run on Energy, Not Fear

I’ve seen kitchens that thrive on intimidation. And I've seen them collapse just as fast.

Fear doesn't just silence a kitchen—it kills its spirit. It blocks creativity. It makes people move slowly, nervously, without confidence.

Presence, though—real, calm, clear presence—creates energy. It creates trust. It lets your team breathe, even when the night is spiraling out of control.

I didn't learn this from a book or a manual. I learned it on the line, in the heat, under the sharp white lights of the kitchen, surrounded by chaos.

It's Not About Being Nice

Don’t misunderstand: smiling in the kitchen isn't about pretending everything is okay. It’s not about being pleasant or agreeable. It’s about showing your team that, despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the mistakes, you're still there, holding it together.

• It's leadership as communication.
• It's leadership as empathy.
• It's leadership that says, clearly: I'm with you.

That Night Stayed With Me

We made it through service, of course. Guests happy, dishes beautifully executed, reputation intact.

But the real success wasn't on any plate. It was in the way the kitchen felt afterward—like we'd won something bigger than dinner service.

We'd won a moment of true connection. We'd won trust. We'd won the right to say, "We are still here."

That's why this moment became Rule #2 in a list of ten rules I've since carried everywhere:

"Find a reason to smile."

Because that night in the Maldives, I didn't just save a dish.

I saved a rhythm.

I saved a spirit.

I saved a team.

All with something as small—and as powerful—as a smile.

Final Thought

A smile can’t fix everything in life.

But sometimes, in the hottest, hardest moments—it’s enough to hold everything together.

Cristian Marino

Executive Chef & Culinary Consultant

Author of 10 Rules of the Chef in the Modern Era