Stars may make a chef more visible, but the true social impact of food is shaped in schools, hospitals and institutional kitchens. And the real power of the kitchen begins precisely where the applause ends. Stepping away consciously from one of the world’s most prestigious culinary stages, Dan Giusti reminds us that the true strength of the chef’s profession stands at the very center of everyday life
I find the way success is defined in the gastronomy world deeply problematic—more accurately, incomplete. Cheffing is still read through a narrow display window: Michelin stars, international rankings, fully booked dining rooms, open kitchens, stage lights. Prestige has become less a measure of impact and more a carefully curated shopfront. Yet what is visible is not always what is influential. Fine dining is neither the only path within the profession, nor the sole address of good food.
This narrow definition of success does more than pull young chefs into a misguided race; it also renders invisible the far broader—and far more vital—relationship food can have with society. When we look at a chef’s career today, the questions are predictable: Where did they work? Who did they train under? How many stars did they earn? What we rarely ask are the questions that truly matter: How many lives did they touch, how often and in what way? Whose health, habits, or even relationship with life did they shape through food?
Because food is not merely an aesthetic experience. It is a fundamental need that directly affects the body, the mind and daily life. For that very reason, good food cannot be considered a privilege accessible only by reservation; especially in collective dining contexts, it must be understood as a public right.
It is here that the conscious decision of a chef to step down from the pinnacle of fine dining gains real significance. After three years as head chef at Noma in Copenhagen—one of the most revered kitchens in the world—Dan Giusti became one of the rare figures to openly question gastronomy’s sacred definition of success. This is not a story of escape. Not burnout. Not disillusionment. It is, instead, a sharply articulated reassessment of purpose. The question Giusti asked himself was simple—and profoundly unsettling: “Does the world really need another fine dining restaurant?”
This question is not merely a personal career pivot; it is a pointed critique directed at the entire industry. In fine dining, you may cook for the same guest once—perhaps once in a lifetime. But food creates impact through repetition. Daily. Regularly. Continuously. This realization is what gave birth to Brigaid, the initiative Giusti founded in 2016. Brigaid removes the chef from the stage and places them inside the system—into school kitchens, elder-care facilities, organizations feeding the unhoused. Into spaces where gastronomy is rarely discussed, yet where millions of people eat every single day. These are the least romanticized arenas of cooking, but perhaps the most powerful. Because here, there is no applause. No stars. No plated-food photography. There is only real life.
And this is perhaps the most critical point: In collective dining spaces, food is not a choice — it is often the only option. For a child at school, a patient in a hospital, an elderly person in a care home, or a worker in a factory cafeteria, the plate in front of them is not a matter of preference but of necessity. That is why the quality of food served in these settings is not a question of taste; it is a matter of health, equality and human dignity.
Brigaid’s program, launched in the Bronx, New York, in 2023 — providing free, freshly cooked meals to over a thousand students every day — is a tangible example of this philosophy in action. And contrary to romantic assumptions, this work is neither easy nor idyllic. In large-scale kitchens, there is no luxury of “use whatever you want.” Budget, time and staffing demand constant negotiation. Do you invest in a more expensive container, or choose a cheaper protein? Plastic may be environmentally harmful, yes — but budget realities are equally real. These grey zones rarely make it to social media, yet institutional food systems survive precisely through such decisions.
The Turkish dimension of this story may be the most striking of all. Here, too, institutional food is burdened with the same assumptions: Canteen food is boring, tasteless, obligatory. It goes unquestioned. Rarely does anyone ask, “Could it be better?” And yet food is, in itself, a form of soft power — unifying, motivating and healing.
It is exactly at this juncture that the forthcoming collaboration between Dan Giusti and the Culinary Arts Academy (Mutfak Sanatları Akademisi) gains meaning. As MSA director Sitare Baras emphasizes, cheffing is not limited to prestigious restaurants. There exists a vast culinary ecosystem that society engages with daily — and its future is just as critical as that of fine dining. Schools, hospitals, institutional kitchens: Spaces absent from most career maps, yet directly shaping millions of lives.
Perhaps the greatest problem facing gastronomy today is this: The places we refuse to look at. Entire systems we turn away from because there is no applause, no star, no visibility. What Dan Giusti has done is to make this very space visible — without asking for applause, without seeking stars, but with an impact that is far more lasting and far more just.
And so the question remains: Does cheffing truly find its meaning on stage, or on the plate placed in front of people every single day? Dan Giusti’s story feels like a clear and powerful answer to that question.
