A Seat with a View
The allure of an open kitchen
The first experience I had with an open kitchen was Benihana. I was about seven or eight. At the time, I had only seen my mom and Nan cook and that wasn’t terribly exciting. I didn’t understand why we would sit around a table and watch a guy make dinner. Once the show started, I quickly realized the draw.
Our chef blew my mind. I was mesmerized by the intentional flare ups, enamored with the dual knife chop, and giddy each time he caught a shrimp in his hat. He was part ninja, part circus clown, and part culinary master. Never again would watching Mom cook be the same. No matter how much I enjoyed the meal she made, it lacked the flair I now knew existed. (Except for the flare ups. Plenty of those.)
It would be long until I began my own fascination with cooking, but I had developed an admiration for food preparation. I watched intently as each sandwich was assembled step-by-step in the local deli. I slowly caught on to the science of burrito building. My first experience with bananas foster still burns bright in my mind. I now knew what hid behind the swinging double doors: a world of excitement.
If the choice was mine, I would always pick a seat with a view of the kitchen. There was something enticing about watching my plate start from nothing and gradually grow into the completed dish I would devour. Soon, I would be on the other side of the counter and I loved it just as much.
My first cooking job was in an open kitchen. The thrill of putting on a show was as important as putting out a good product. Working Sunday lunch with Domingo was the highlight of my week. It was the busiest day at the restaurant and I got to spend it with one of my best friends, making food, singing, and laughing. We began to work so well in unison, Sunday became more dance performance than lunch service — Dom and I, ballerinos. Our patrons, the audience. We would regularly harmonize vocals while frying potatoes — taking requests, serenading the masses, often ending our crooning in laughter. It created a bond between us and our customers that wouldn’t happen with walls separating the kitchen from the dining area. Patrons often picked up on our vibes and the joy spread like butter on toast.
To open the line of communication between the cooks and the consumers contributes greatly to the enjoyment of a meal. Diners can witness firsthand the work it takes in preparing a dish. Questions can be answered straight from the source. The passion a cook has for the food can be shared with the customer, giving greater meaning to what otherwise would be just another meal.
The open kitchen creates opportunity for gratitude in a rather thankless profession. The exchange of thanks across the counter builds a sense of community in a world that is filled with disconnect. With the rise of app-based ordering and the continued domination of drive-thrus, a face-to-face conversation between person preparing the food and person eating the has become a rare pleasantry.
Dining alone becomes an event with an open kitchen. No newspaper or TV required to keep a diner’s attention between courses. All that is required is a well-trained staff cranking out amazing food for an eager fanbase. It’s like watching championship football. Hours of preparation and practice have led to this moment and each member of the staff is executing at a high level.
It’s been decades since I first saw the onion volcano. Since then, I’ve seen plenty of sashimi sliced, onions sauteed, and grills flare as a steak is flipped. Each time is sit down in front of an open kitchen, my eyes light up like an 8-year-old watching shrimp being flipped into a hat.
