When I start a dish, I don’t start with technique.
I start with the season, the ingredients I can actually get and plan around, and the story I’m trying to tell — or why the dish even deserves to be on the menu.
From there, I set limits.
Every plate has a center: the protein.
Around that, everything else has to earn its place — garnish, sauce, texture, temperature. Nothing goes on the plate that isn’t edible. Every technique has a purpose, and that purpose is always to bring out the ingredient, not show off the cook.
I care about clean lines, symmetry, and balance. I ask myself whether each component can stand on its own, and then whether they still work when they come together. When you take a bite of everything, are you getting highs and lows? Does it finish clean? Is there a sense of harmony — or confusion?
Sometimes I’ll add a surprise element, something unexpected, just enough to keep you guessing. Not a gimmick. A quiet moment that makes you pause.
Culinary school drilled certain rules into us for a reason: crunch, softness, sweet, sour, bitter, salty. Are most of those elements present, and are they in balance? That’s why I love appetizers. You only get two bites, and you have to hit every note. There’s nowhere to hide.
Link: What I Do When the Recipe Doesn’t Make Sense: A Chef’s Approach
Link: Why I Cook With What I Have: The Skill That Made Me a Better Chef
Link: Why I Don’t Chase Ingredients I Can’t Get Twice
A dish becomes good enough when it’s technically correct and the message I’m trying to send is coming through clearly. When nothing feels forced. When everything is in harmony.
Where cooks usually go wrong is putting too much on the plate, or not fully understanding the foundation of the dish. When that happens, the customer gets lost — and if the customer is lost, the dish has failed.
The pressure to keep pushing a dish usually comes from ego, chasing praise, overthinking, or fear of criticism. I have to watch all of them. At some point, you have to be comfortable in your own skin and trust your ability. That also means learning to listen — bouncing the dish off your cooks and your wait staff and actually hearing what they’re telling you.
If I wouldn’t run the dish again tomorrow, that’s a red flag. Sometimes the only hesitation is seasonality — maybe it’s a special, not a permanent menu item — but if the ingredients are right and the intent is clear, I should want to cook it again.
There is a point where touching a dish too much makes it worse. You lose focus, start second-guessing, and end up back at the beginning. I recognize that moment by asking one simple question:
Am I still honoring the intent of the dish — and does it make sense alongside the rest of the menu — or has it turned into a lone wolf?
That’s when you stop. Maybe a quick refinement. Then you serve it.
That’s when a dish is good enough.
