From London to Vegas, A 30 year chef shift.

The Early Days

I’ve seen a lot in my thirty years as a chef - some unforgettable, some distressing, and some best left in the kitchen.

My humble beginnings date back to 1989, when a cocky sixteen-year-old fresh out of catering college (that’d be me) walked into the intimidating kitchen of The Berkeley Hotel in London. It was like tossing a guppy into a tank full of sharks - very different from the chilled kitchens of the Isle of Wight, where I’d been learning my craft.

College life had been structured: theory lessons on classical French cuisine one day, cooking those same dishes the next in the college restaurant - where guests could enjoy a three-course meal for £10 (and rarely left a tip). We even got a taste of grandeur, assisting at royal galas, the Queen Mother’s 90th, and events like the Chelsea Flower Show and Royal Ascot.

But walking into The Berkeley was like stepping into a category-five hurricane. Prep lists ruled your life, and every Chef de Partie (CDP) had you assigned to tasks for a service that could stretch from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. - a short day by fine-dining standards. No wonder there weren’t many chefs over forty; it’s a young person’s game.

If your mise en place wasn’t done by service, you might as well be in a sinking boat. I learned that the hard way when my inconsistent pommes parmentier (1 cm cubed potatoes) were hurled - copper pan and all - into the sink. The whole table had to be restarted. Whether it was stress or a hangover that caused my downfall that night, I’ll never know.

Back then, I had a cocky edge that didn’t quite match my shy nature. Once, I even called the Head Chef, John Williams, “mate.” He politely corrected me - in his office, under a photo of himself surrounded by fellow Maîtres Cuisiniers de France. That moment, and his mentorship, taught me what professionalism and respect meant in a five-star kitchen.

From Williams, I learned precision, confidence, and the importance of tasting food constantly. He’d always say, "how's it taste chef". Those lessons stuck with me across the Atlantic and through two decades in the States.

“Perfection is lots of little things done well.” – Marco Pierre White

To any young chefs reading this: travel. Work for great chefs in new countries. The world is your kitchen - it’ll shape your confidence, broaden your palate, and feed your soul.

Tricks of the Trade

Before The Berkeley, I worked in a small restaurant on the Isle of Wight, where I witnessed some questionable “old-school” kitchen tricks.

Once, I dropped a whole batch of duck liver pâté on the floor. My head chef caught me trying to sweep it up and, instead of binning it, made me cook it anyway. “Do you know how expensive duck livers are, ya donut?” he said. Somewhere out there, someone unknowingly ate that pâté.

Other tricks included marinating steaks in oil, shallots, and garlic to extend their shelf life - or worse, changing use-by labels to cut costs. Common practice then, illegal now.

Even front-of-house had their antics - hovering around like vultures for scraps left on the hotline. One night, we coated dog biscuits in jalapeño chocolate and left them out. By the end of service, they were almost gone. No one called in sick, miraculously.

Years later at Caesars Palace, I saw an Asian chef pressing noodles with his clogs in a colander to “remove moisture.” I tossed them straight in the bin. He looked like a six-year-old who’d dropped his ice cream.

The early 2000s brought the rise of veganism and allergen awareness. Many chefs - including me - had no clue at first. Butter sometimes found its way into vegan dishes by accident, and gluten-free pasta got strained in the wrong colander. Training and awareness have come a long way since.

Not all kitchens were honest. Back on the Isle of Wight, a manager once recycled uneaten prawns and even repurposed returned steaks into beef stew. That was my cue to leave.

Cooking for Celebrities & Chaos in Vegas

Over the years, I’ve been lucky to cook for the rich and famous - David Copperfield, Elton John, Tony Bennett, Shania Twain, Priscilla Presley, and many more.

During a function for Priscilla Presley at Caesars Palace, a saucepan of hot oil spilled onto my hand. I spent the night service cooking one-handed, left hand submerged in an ice bath, right hand cutting veal tenderloin with an electric carver! That’s kitchen camaraderie - you don’t leave your team short.

Vegas kitchens were wild. Once, a chef dropped his foot into a vat of boiling soup and came back to work a week later - bandaged and limping but smiling.

At Mandalay Bay, we catered events for up to six thousand guests. Seventy chefs, twenty banquet rooms, and “Queen Mary transport” carts of food, pulled by electric tugs we called Red Bulls. I once jammed one into an electric closing door; the door didn’t survive.

Vegas taught me mass catering, teamwork, and how to laugh at chaos. It also taught me never to order Eggs Benedict from a buffet - you don’t want to know how much sweat can season a hollandaise on a hot morning after a long night.

My favourite years were at The Bacchanal, Caesars Palace (1995–2000). The energy, the banter, the multicultural chaos - it was electric. I even learned Spanish by osmosis, though I’m sure I swore at people accidentally.

And then there was the infamous arse grabbing. In that "macho" environment, Mexican chefs would randomly grab each other’s backsides mid-service. It was bizarre, supposedly “just banter,” but I learned to keep my back to the wall. Strange times, but great memories.

Still, the Mexican and Filipino chefs I worked with were some of the hardest workers I’ve ever known - many juggling two jobs and sending money home. Their dedication humbled me.

From the 90s to the HACCP Era

Cheffing has changed beyond recognition. Back in the late ’80s, our fridge “labels” were bits of cartouche (parchment paper with a central hole, item name scribbled on with a Sharpie - no expiry dates, no allergen labels, just common sense. 

Today, it’s all HACCP forms, allergen charts, temperature logs, and dietary breakdowns. Safety is crucial, of course, but the paperwork can crush creativity. When you’re deep in service and have to stop to fill out a cooling log, it kills the rhythm - and the joy.

Head chefs now wear more hats than ever: leader, mentor, therapist, and diplomat. It’s a rewarding but punishing role, especially when you’re short-staffed and someone orders a well-done steak at closing time.

Despite the red tape, I still love this life. Cooking has given me stories, scars, laughter, and friendships across continents. And as I look ahead to my next cookbook involving Barbecue and Mexican dishes, with no calorie counts, no allergen awareness notes and no cooling down logs - just a pure passion for the food.

My cheffing days are over and now work for myself, creating and selling homemade smoked seasonings at BroesSeasonings.com.

Author

Brad Roe

Chef & Author