A Burnt Out Memoir
Yachting Culture #25/1062.
“So Let Me Get This Straight…”
A Burnt-End Memoir in Real Time by Yours Truly Chef Raffie
So let me get this straight…
I just landed in Nice—a land known for rosé, regrets, and rejected provisioning invoices—when my WhatsApp lit up like a fryer fire:
“No money.”
“Guests arriving tomorrow.”
“No groceries.”
“Apartment cooking too?”
“Also we need lunch in 2 hours. Can you do gluten-free sushi? But also vegan. But also caviar.”
I am tired. I am hungry. I am already mildly regretting all my life choices.
How did I go from “chef” to underpaid culinary therapist with a side hustle in miracles?
I haven’t even seen the galley yet and I’m already expected to prep lunch, dinner, and somehow manifest a five-course welcome dinner—with no provisions, no budget, and no time.
Oh, and for the record? The last two chefs apparently escaped into the sunset, burned out, used up, and (if there’s any justice in this world) now running a taco stand in Bali.
When I finally step into the galley, it hits me.
I’m not entering a kitchen.
I’m entering a crime scene.
The place is wrecked.
The onions are half-chopped and crying harder than I am.
There’s a smell that can only be described as culinary PTSD.
There’s no petty cash. No provisioning card. No plan. No clue.
But somehow I’m the one expected to whip out soufflés, sushi rolls, and foie gras foam like I’m auditioning for Hell’s Kitchen: Yacht Edition.
And the cherry on top?
“Can you smile more?”
“Hospitality is the heart of yachting.”
Excuse me—what?
Hospitality? You mean pretending everything’s fine while crafting fine dining from an empty fridge, a wet sponge, and a stewardess asking if I’ve ‘started plating yet’?
And God forbid I ask for one day to prep.
One. Freaking. Day.
A single moment to breathe.
To clean up the galley battlefield.
To locate something that isn’t expired or suspiciously green.
To plan a menu with actual ingredients instead of summoning lunch from the ether like a culinary necromancer.
But no.
Apparently, asking for a prep day is a diva move.
I’m not here to cook—I’m here to perform miracles.
So here I stand:
Eye twitching.
Hands trembling.
Holding a can of energy drink in one hand and an empty packet of vegan cheese in the other.
And quietly asking myself:
“Do I cry now or wait until service?”
💡
The Moment of Clarity
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t throw a ramekin.
I didn’t set the galley on fire and fake my own death (…tempting though).
Instead, I took a deep breath, wrote this story in my head, and realized:
- A day to prep isn’t diva behavior. It’s basic fing logistics*.
- Communication isn’t a luxury. It’s the difference between Michelin stars and meltdown scars.
- And most importantly: I’m a chef, not a one-man cruise ship food court.
🙌 Final Thoughts for My Fellow Galley Gladiators
You are not crazy.
You are not failing.
You are not ungrateful.
The industry is just drunk on its own delusions and expecting us to clean up the mess without even handing us a mop.
So if you’re feeling the pressure…
If you’re holding back the scream…
If someone just handed you a lemon and asked for a tasting menu—
I see you. You’re not alone.
Now go pour yourself a glass of wine. Or a triple espresso.
Or whatever keeps you from throwing the immersion blender at someone.
Because if Jesus could feed 5,000 with five loaves and two fish…
You can politely tell them you need a fing provisioning day.*
Have a wonderful, productive, and stress-free weekend.
(And if not, at least document it—there’s a book in this somewhere.)