A Baptism by Fire: My First Kitchen Job

I landed my first real gig in a professional kitchen at the tender age of 16. It was a loud, chaotic madhouse where the air hung heavy with the smell of simmering stocks, white wine sauces reducing to perfection, and meats roasting like some primal symphony. To most people, it might’ve seemed like chaos.

To me, it was church. I was just a kid—barely out of short trousers—who’d been cooking with his grandmother since he was eight years old. She taught me how to knead dough until my hands ached, how to taste soup with an instinctive pinch of salt, and how to respect the ingredients, no matter how humble. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the brutality of my first kitchen job.

This wasn’t the cozy, floral-wallpapered kitchen of my grandmother’s house. This was war. A battleground of egos, heat, and sharp objects. And I was the rookie, the new guy—bottom of the ladder, barely clinging to the rungs. They threw me into the deep end, and I didn’t just sink; I flailed.

The Humble Potato: A Lesson in Paying Attention

The first two weeks, I was the cleaner, the runner, and the chief potato peeler—a job so low on the kitchen hierarchy, I half-expected someone to toss me a mop as a badge of honor.

No one looked me in the eye. No one cared if I lived or died. But what someone else might’ve written off as mindless, soul-crushing grunt work, I found… strangely captivating.

Potatoes. Humble. Unassuming. You don’t think about them much—until you’re stuck peeling sacks of the damn things for hours on end. That’s when you start to notice. Potatoes aren’t just potatoes. They have personality, history, geography. I learned they came from places I couldn’t even place on a map at the time—Peru, Cyprus, and God knows where else.

There were the gnarly, rough-skinned varieties that looked like they’d been dragged straight out of some Andean mountainside, earthy and nutty in flavor. Then there were the smooth, golden spuds from Cyprus—so waxy and perfect they felt almost decadent. Each one had a story, and with every peel, I started to read it. I wasn’t just peeling potatoes. I was peeling back layers of the world.

And here’s the kicker: I loved it. I loved the ritual of it, the repetition, the slow rhythm that gave me a moment to breathe in the chaos. This was my first lesson in the kitchen: nothing is mundane if you pay attention. Even a potato can teach you something if you’re willing to listen.

Thrown into the Fire: My First Encounter with French Onion Soup

By week three, the deliveries had just rolled in—crates and sacks spilling over with produce that smelled like the earth had just been dug up outside. The Sous Chef, a man who radiated menace and authority in equal measure, barked at me: “Go grab the two massive sacks of onions, the ones that look like they could feed an entire village.”

I dragged them into the kitchen, each sack heavier than my dignity. He didn’t even glance up as he said, “We’re making French onion soup for tonight’s event. You’re helping me this morning. Peel all of these.”

Then, without warning, he grabbed an onion and turned to me.

“Watch closely, because I’m only showing you this once.”

And let me tell you, I don’t know where this guy trained—samurai school, maybe? Or was he secretly a magician? But he had the skin off that onion in a blink. One flick of the wrist, a twitch of his eye, and it was naked and ready to go.

“Alright, you watched closely, right?” he said, throwing the onion down with a smirk.

“Yes, Chef,” I lied. Of course, I hadn’t seen a damn thing. How could I? The man was a blur.

And just like that, I was left with two massive sacks of onions, a paring knife, and no clue how to peel them like some kind of onion ninja. Welcome to the kitchen.

A Rookie Mistake: The English Onion Soup Incident

While peeling my way through what felt like an eternity of onions, one of the older chefs wandered over, smirking like he knew something I didn’t. “How’s it going, kid?” he asked.

“Good,” I replied, even though my hands were slick with onion juice, and my eyes were stinging like someone had sprayed me with mace. Trying to keep the mood light, I added, “I did notice something, though. These onions—they’re grown in Lancashire, England. But the Chef said we’re making French onion soup. Should I tell him? Maybe he’ll want to call it English onion soup instead?”

The guy’s face lit up with a devilish grin. “Oh, absolutely, Jon. You must tell him. In fact, you’d be doing him a favor. Tell him he might want to rename it. He’s going to respect you so much for noticing.”

I got the biggest smile on my face, thinking I was about to save the day. Here I was, the rookie, catching something all the seasoned pros had missed. This was my moment.

By the time Chef returned, I’d peeled three-quarters of the onions, my fingers pruned and reeking of sulfur. His entrance was as dramatic as always, his posture regal, his voice dripping with that distinct Inspector Clouseau energy: “Why is it taking you so long, boy? I showed you how to peel zem!” His mustache quivered, his eyebrow arched in exaggerated disdain.

“Sorry, Chef,” I stammered. “I’m still learning. I promise I’ll get faster.”

He rolled his eyes with a flourish, muttering something indecipherable in French under his breath as he turned on his heel to leave. I could almost hear his internal monologue: ‘Zees children zey send to me! Mon dieu!’

“Chef,” I blurted out, stopping him mid-step. He spun back around, his expression a mix of irritation and exaggerated patience, his arms crossing dramatically. “Yes?” he said, drawing out the word like it pained him to speak it.

“These onions—they’re from England, not France. Maybe there was a mix-up? Should we, uh… call it English onion soup instead?” I asked, with all the misplaced confidence of a man about to be knighted.

He froze, his mustache twitching in what I thought might be a smile—until he erupted: “Espèce de bouffon idiot!” He gestured wildly, as though addressing the heavens for strength. “Ze onions do not need to be from France to make French onion soup! Sacre bleu! It is ze technique, ze way we cook zem zat makes it French onion soup! England, France—it does not matter! Do you also ask if ze carrots must be from Paris, hein?”

The kitchen erupted into laughter, pans clanging and voices echoing off the walls. My face burned hotter than the stock simmering on the stove. I wanted to disappear into the nearest walk-in fridge.

But looking back? Yeah, I laugh too. It was my first lesson in the unspoken rule of the kitchen: never take yourself too seriously. I went back to my cleaning chores, hauling crates of produce and scrubbing pots until my hands were raw. Just another day at the bottom of the kitchen hierarchy. 

A Taste That Changed Everything

About an hour later, Chef called me back into the kitchen. He seemed calmer now, his earlier irritation softened, like the storm had passed.

“Jon,” he said, his voice measured. “Have you ever tasted French onion soup?

“No, Chef.”

Without another word, he grabbed a spoon, dipped it into the simmering pot, and handed it to me. “Take a taste,” he said, his tone low and confident like he already knew what was coming. Like he’d seen this moment play out a thousand times before.

I hesitated, staring at the amber liquid on the spoon, steam curling up like a siren’s call. Then I took a bite.

The first sip stopped me in my tracks. It was incredible—deep, layered, comforting in a way that words couldn’t quite capture. The sweetness of the onions mingled with the wine and thyme, creating a symphony of flavors that felt like home.

My mind was blown. How could a bag of English onions and a handful of simple ingredients taste like this?

I stood there, spoon in hand, the warmth of the soup spreading through me, and thought of my Granny Ashton. This was a dish she would have adored—a recipe she’d have made with love and served to her friends and neighbors, filling her kitchen with laughter and the clinking of spoons against bowls.

For a moment, I felt her presence there with me, like she was smiling over my shoulder, proud that I was discovering the magic in something as simple as an onion. It wasn’t just soup. It was a memory in the making, a connection to the past, and a reminder of how food, at its best, brings us back to what really matters: love, sharing, and the joy of a good meal.

The Secret Ingredients That Elevate the Soup

The lessons from that day have stayed with me, forming the foundation for my success in the kitchen. Over the years, I’ve added a few tricks of my own that make my French onion soup truly stand out.

1. A single star anise flower. Its subtle magic transforms the soup, enhancing the natural sulfur compounds in the onions and drawing out deep, rich, meaty notes that take the dish to a place your taste buds never imagined possible. It’s a quiet alchemy, a whisper of flavor that lingers in the background, elevating every bite.

   A slice of orange zest. Not a show-stealer, but a backup singer, lending its warmth and brightness to the harmony of the dish. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible—a soft, citrusy glow that makes you pause and wonder. You know there’s something different, something special, but you just can’t quite put your finger on it.

Together, these small additions create a symphony of flavors, turning a humble bowl of soup into an unforgettable experience—one that warms both the body and the soul.

Share the Magic

I hope you enjoy this recipe. If you do, share it with a friend or family member. Because at its best, food is about more than just taste—it’s about love, connection, and the joy of a good meal.