Welcome to a restaurant. Now, if you have never been in a modern kitchen, you have to forget about the old clichés of the mom-and-pop corner joint of the good old days.
The thing is I am fifty-four, so I remember that blessed period. And when I walk into my kitchen nowadays, it almost looks like a lab. It’s clean, controlled, sanitized, and the part I hate the most... silent. If I didn’t know better, I’d expect fewer knives, more consent forms, or even tubes and prescription notes.
Everywhere you look, everything is in place: you have screens, POS systems, terminals, checklists, and precision equipment telling you exactly what to do and when to do it. Just in case you have no idea what you’re doing or why you’re here. It feels less like a kitchen now but more like a clinic. Everything feels under control, even though it never really is. And yet, something is off.
We have more tools than ever, but I have the weird feeling that we have not gained more autonomy—quite the opposite. We have more data, but we use less and less our instincts, our skills, and our knowledge. The structure is heavier, piling up rules after rules… but less simplicity, and as weird as it may sound, more obedience.
And that shows on the line; with time I’ve seen that if you give any cooks, even the worst one you can find, a probe, they will succeed in hitting the right temperature of a steak. Alright, good job, but at some point, you will need to trust things that don’t beep.
But if I take it away… suddenly they are guessing. They hesitate. Even the best of them. Because they are so used to having that precision delivered by a tool instead of knowledge, skills, or experience, they lose their mark… . And I am getting worried by this dependence.
I remember a time, not so long ago, when cooking required attention and vigilance; you had to watch the pot or the pan from the corner of your eye while doing other tasks. You had to listen to the seer or pay attention to the smell from the oven. You could adjust seasoning to taste without reading a fucking spec sheet or being told. All this knowledge was built over time by experience, endless repetition, many fuck-ups, and countless corrections.
But things have obviously changed; now working in a kitchen often means compliance, obedience, and trusting the system. You follow what the screen tells you, you read the label, and when everything lights up, blinks, and beeps, you know it’s ready.
Different words, for a different time, for a different reality, but for the same job.
The funny thing is that the same thing has also happened in the dining room. I have seen with my own eyes the very same erosion of knowledge and skills that has forced the front of the house to mutate into geeks. Now servers can navigate the most complex POS system with lightning speed and accuracy and process orders instantly. Those same terminals allow you to manage tables more efficiently because they change color according to the course they are hating, how long they have been there, if they asked for the check, or if they have paid.
On the other hand, some skills of the craft are disappearing, such as the ability to debone a fish tableside and carve a meal in front of guests with the theater it deserves. Or flame a dish with the assurance of not torching the fucking place.
All these little things were there to create a momentary spark of joy for the party. But don't make the mistake of thinking these were here just for show; this is how you were able to understand the service with your hands, not just through a screen. And now, with fewer people knowing them—and let's be honest, fewer restaurants choosing to drop those ancient formal rituals in the dining room—hospitality is shifting; we are no longer providing a service or an experience; we are just executing a task like robots.
Because if the staff only knows how to handle a shift by pressing buttons on a tablet and knows how to manage his tables without having his eyes glued to a fucking terminal, then they will miss the crucial moments that make all the difference: looking at your station, keeping an eye intact with the guest, the right moment to act or to react to a situation, the perfect time to fire a table, or something even more essential... smile.
And that’s precisely my point: because a system can help a server or a cook, but it can’t replace one. It won’t fix a lack of coordination or speed. It won’t teach you the trade, the techniques, and the tricks that only experience gets you or an old pirate like me gives you. It won’t enforce standards and won't decide when something is not good enough. For sure it won’t say if you did a good job. Thank God, that's a human part.
Which leads us to the real reason for the article: what the fuck happens when the power goes out? Who will still know what they’re doing when the screens go dark? How do you put an order in, fire your tables, or manage the tickets without it?
And it's the same thing for the kitchen; now that nobody knows how to make a béarnaise without a fucking Thermomix, how the hell are you going to do it when it breaks?
When you're cooking, what happens when the oven can’t tell you when your meat is done? How do you know it’s ready to go?
We have to ask ourselves how good we are, cooks or chefs, if we can’t make sauce by hand or judge a temperature by touch.
After all, this craft relies on the ability to cook when the technology fails. That is the real measure of a brigade or a kitchen—not how well it runs when all our tools work, but how it holds when nothing does. And for me, what defines a chef is not the result when everything is automated but the ability to function and deliver when nothing is.
I have noticed that culinary schools are following the same direction. Students are trained in environments where equipment is abundant: combi ovens, probes, digital controls, and guided processes. Everything is designed to reduce uncertainty and mistakes and to standardize the knowledge and the skills. But they learn how to operate machines before they learn how to rely on their senses. And that’s the essence of cooking: heat, texture, sound, resistance, and smell. It's a form of physical awareness built through repetition, knowledge, and experience.
So when they enter a kitchen, they are often prepared to use the tools but are short on fundamentals and feelings. How to judge a temperature without a reading, using sight, sound, and touch instead of a number; how to reduce a sauce without instruction; and how to execute a task or gesture until it becomes instinct. And when I see that, I always tell them the same thing:
You don't, can't, and won't find inspiration in an oven manual. But there is something real in opening a recipe book like an old grimoire and, for a moment, working like an alchemist again, building something from scratch, without assistance.
I am not some Neanderthal troll who wants to cook stuff in his cave with a fire or force the servers to work old school. I am not rejecting technology; the tools are there, and they are useful. They improve consistency, and you save a lot of time. So I use them.
But they should not replace skills or knowledge. Because the moment they replace your brain, the craft disappears. And when it’s gone, you’re not building professionals anymore; you’re training operators. And last time I checked, hospitality was built on craft, not on procedure.
I am not saying that technology weakens talent; I regret it makes it optional.
So if your kitchen or your team needs a screen to function, be worried about the shitstorm coming your way when the screen is wrong, when it bugs, or when it shuts down.
In the end we have to wonder what will happen when cooks won't be able to cook without using their instincts or senses.
I’ll tell you, we won’t have hospitality professionals anymore, but operators who are mastering software instead of cooks mastering their crafts.
WHEN TECH REPLACES SKILLS
AND KNOWLEDGE.
4/27.26
MASTERING SOFTWARE vs.
MASTERING A CRAFT.
NEWSLETTER
YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE STARTS HERE
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.
Contact:
Welcome to a restaurant. Now, if you have never been in a modern kitchen, you have to forget about the old clichés of the mom-and-pop corner joint of the good old days.
The thing is I am fifty-four, so I remember that blessed period.
And when I walk into my kitchen nowadays, it almost looks like a lab. It’s clean, controlled, sanitized, and the part I hate the most... silent. If I didn’t know better, I’d expect fewer knives, more consent forms, or even tubes and prescription notes.
Everywhere you look, everything is in place: you have screens, POS systems, terminals, checklists, and precision equipment telling you exactly what to do and when to do it. Just in case you have no idea what you’re doing or why you’re here. It feels less like a kitchen now but more like a clinic. Everything feels under control, even though it never really is. And yet, something is off.
We have more tools than ever, but I have the weird feeling that we have not gained more autonomy—quite the opposite. We have more data, but we use less and less our instincts, our skills, and our knowledge. The structure is heavier, piling up rules after rules… but less simplicity, and as weird as it may sound, more obedience.
And that shows on the line; with time I’ve seen that if you give any cooks, even the worst one you can find, a probe, they will succeed in hitting the right temperature of a steak. Alright, good job, but at some point, you will need to trust things that don’t beep.
But if I take it away… suddenly they are guessing. They hesitate. Even the best of them. Because they are so used to having that precision delivered by a tool instead of knowledge, skills, or experience, they lose their mark… . And I am getting worried by this dependence.
I remember a time, not so long ago, when cooking required attention and vigilance; you had to watch the pot or the pan from the corner of your eye while doing other tasks. You had to listen to the seer or pay attention to the smell from the oven. You could adjust seasoning to taste without reading a fucking spec sheet or being told. All this knowledge was built over time by experience, endless repetition, many fucks, and countless corrections.
But things have obviously changed; now working in a kitchen often means compliance, obedience, and trusting the system. You follow what the screen tells you, you read the label, and when everything lights up, blinks, and beeps, you know it’s ready.
Different words, for a different time, for a different reality, but for the same job.
The funny thing is that the same thing has also happened in the dining room. I have seen with my own eyes the very same erosion of knowledge and skills that has forced the front of the house to mutate into geeks. Now servers can navigate the most complex POS system with lightning speed and accuracy and process orders instantly. Those same terminals allow you to manage tables more efficiently because they change color according to the course they are hating, how long they have been there, if they asked for the check, or if they have paid.
On the other hand, some skills of the craft are disappearing, such as the ability to debone a fish tableside and carve a meal in front of guests with the theater it deserves. Or flame a dish with the assurance of not torching the fucking place.
All these little things were there to create a momentary spark of joy for the party. But don't make the mistake of thinking these were here just for show; this is how you were able to understand the service with your hands, not just through a screen. And now, with fewer people knowing them—and let's be honest, fewer restaurants choosing to drop those ancient formal rituals in the dining room—hospitality is shifting; we are no longer providing a service or an experience; we are just executing a task like robots.
Because if the staff only knows how to handle a shift by pressing buttons on a tablet and knows how to manage his tables without having his eyes glued to a fucking terminal, then they will miss the crucial moments that make all the difference: looking at your station, keeping an eye intact with the guest, the right moment to act or to react to a situation, the perfect time to fire a table, or something even more essential... smile.
And that’s precisely my point: because a system can help a server or a cook, but it can’t replace one. It won’t fix a lack of coordination or speed. It won’t teach you the trade, the techniques, and the tricks that only experience gets you or an old pirate like me gives you. It won’t enforce standards and won't decide when something is not good enough. For sure it won’t say if you did a good job. Thank God, that's a human part.
Which leads us to the real reason for the article: what the fuck happens when the power goes out? Who will still know what they’re doing when the screens go dark? How do you put an order in, fire your tables, or manage the tickets without it?
And it's the same thing for the kitchen; now that nobody knows how to make a béarnaise without a fucking Thermomix, how the hell are you going to do it when it breaks?
When you're cooking, what happens when the oven can’t tell you when your meat is done? How do you know it’s ready to go?
We have to ask ourselves how good we are, cooks or chefs, if we can’t make sauce by hand or judge a temperature by touch.
After all, this craft relies on the ability to cook when the technology fails. That is the real measure of a brigade or a kitchen—not how well it runs when all our tools work, but how it holds when nothing does. And for me, what defines a chef is not the result when everything is automated but the ability to function and deliver when nothing is.
I have noticed that culinary schools are following the same direction. Students are trained in environments where equipment is abundant: combi ovens, probes, digital controls, and guided processes. Everything is designed to reduce uncertainty and mistakes and to standardize the knowledge and the skills. But they learn how to operate machines before they learn how to rely on their senses. And that’s the essence of cooking: heat, texture, sound, resistance, and smell. It's a form of physical awareness built through repetition, knowledge, and experience.
So when they enter a kitchen, they are often prepared to use the tools but are short on fundamentals and feelings. How to judge a temperature without a reading, using sight, sound, and touch instead of a number; how to reduce a sauce without instruction; and how to execute a task or gesture until it becomes instinct. And when I see that, I always tell them the same thing:
You don't, can't, and won't find inspiration in an oven manual. But there is something real in opening a recipe book like an old grimoire and, for a moment, working like an alchemist again, building something from scratch, without assistance.
I am not some Neanderthal troll who wants to cook stuff in his cave with a fire or force the servers to work old school. I am not rejecting technology; the tools are there, and they are useful. They improve consistency, and you save a lot of time. So I use them.
But they should not replace skills or knowledge. Because the moment they replace your brain, the craft disappears. And when it’s gone, you’re not building professionals anymore; you’re training operators. And last time I checked, hospitality was built on craft, not on procedure.
I am not saying that technology weakens talent; I regret it makes it optional.
So if your kitchen or your team needs a screen to function, be worried about the shitstorm coming your way when the screen is wrong, when it bugs, or when it shuts down.
In the end we have to wonder what will happen when cooks won't be able to cook without using their instincts or senses.
I’ll tell you, we won’t have hospitality professionals anymore, but operators who are mastering software instead of cooks mastering their crafts.
WHEN TECH REPLACES SKILLS
AND KNOWLEDGE.
MASTERING SOFTWARE
vs.
MASTERING A CRAFT.
4/27.26
NEWSLETTER
YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE STARTS HERE
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.
Contact:
alexandrefenot@gmail.com
NEWSLETTER
NO SPAM.
NO SPIN.
THE GOOD STUFF ONLY
Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.
BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.
© 2026 FOODNBULLSHIT All rights reserved.