It’s Cool to Be Passionate: A Decade of Chef’s Table

The Cinematic Language of Obsession

When Gelb first pitched the series, it sounded implausible. A food show without a host. Without a celebrity anchor. Without a single instructional element. Just long, slow shots of glistening sauces, and camera pans across kitchen rituals previously reserved for fine art.

Netflix said ‘yes’.

“We were the first original doc series on the platform,” Gelb says. “And it was a gamble. But we believed in this idea that chefs were more than just technicians. They’re artists. They’re obsessed.”

He and executive producer Brian McGinn took the visual language that Gelb begun developing in Jiro Dreams of Sushi and expanded it into what became known, internally, as the "food symphony." It wasn’t just about what was on the plate. It was about who put it there, and why they couldn’t live without doing it.

That idea—that a life in food could be a lens for storytelling on a global scale—would define the show’s voice. “Anyone with a passion that strong can be inspiring,” says Gelb. “Even if it’s a hot dog vendor outside the Met. It’s about what they give up for it. That’s the universal theme.”

What It Means to Be Seen

Chef after chef speaks about what it meant to be chosen. For some, like Grant Achatz, it validated their life’s work. “Chef’s Table changed the industry,” he says. "It earned chefs a seat at the artist table and showed the public what makes us all tick."

For others, it was life-altering. Asma Khan remembers the Monday lunch service after her episode aired: "We ran out of food. People were sharing tables with strangers."

Christina Tosi, in her typically heartfelt way, says the series “gave my story language.” That it offered a way to articulate what Cool Whip containers and childhood memories and unapologetic joy actually mean when translated into a slice of cake.

Gelb feels that impact deeply. “It knocks the chefs’ socks off,” he says. “They're not paid. They give up their time, open their restaurants, bring in extra staff just so we can light the scene beautifully. But what they give to the episode is what they get back.”

The Ripple Effect of a Global Stage

When Chef’s Table first launched on Netflix in 2015, it wasn’t just the format that was unconventional—it was the reach. “We were only in the U.S. when we started,” Gelb says. “Now the show streams in over 165 countries. That’s revolutionary.”

For chefs, the global exposure was seismic. Nancy Silverton still hasn’t watched her own episode, but she hears about it almost nightly. “People cry. They hug me. They say they’ve seen it multiple times,” she says. “Some even start to tear up in front of me.” The show also opened new doors for Silverton. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” she says. “We were already doing well, but the show kicked it into high gear.”

Rodney Scott echoes the same sentiment. “My restaurant became a center of conversation with BBQ around the world,” he says. “People walk in and say, ‘You’re that guy from Chef’s Table.’”

The visibility doesn’t come without cost. Episodes take weeks to film. There’s no payment. The chefs must open themselves, their kitchens, their pasts. But what they gain, Gelb says, is a kind of legacy. “Years from now, Nancy’s grandkids will have that episode to remember her by,” he says. “That’s powerful.”

Redefining the Chef Archetype

From the beginning, Chef’s Table set out to expand the definition of who could be a chef—and what it meant to be one. The early episodes featured luminaries like Massimo Bottura and Ben Shewry, high-concept chefs with global recognition. But by season two, the series began to shift.

“You didn’t need a Michelin star to be on Chef’s Table,” says Gelb. “You just needed a story. Passion. Something to say.”

That ethos led the series to Buddhist nun Jeong Kwan, who lives in a monastery and cooks for her fellow nuns. To a woman baking pies in the South. To street food vendors in Bangkok. To pitmasters, pizzaiolos, and pastry rebels. If the food was an expression of self, if the work came with sacrifice and devotion, it belonged.

Rodney Scott calls it “an in-depth look into the story of a chef telling their story through food.” And Francis Mallmann—ever poetic—described the experience of filming his episode as “a way to paint, in words and images, what I have learned about living.”

The Blueprint Everyone Borrowed

In the decade since Chef’s Table first aired, its stylistic fingerprints have shown up everywhere—from prestige food documentaries to Instagram reels. The show’s moody lighting, orchestral scores, and lingering close-ups became a new visual language for how we talk about food—and how chefs tell their own stories.

“It’s amazing how often we hear Vivaldi in a restaurant now,” Gelb jokes. “Every fine dining spot has a ‘chef’s table,’ a tasting menu, a little open kitchen window. That wasn’t common before.”

But it wasn’t just about visuals. Gelb says the storytelling format—the sweeping life arcs, the hero’s journey, the “why” behind the food—reshaped how chefs relate to their guests, and even how they see themselves. “They start launching into their origin story,” he says, “and they know that it matters. Because people remember the why.”

Albert Adrià, whose episode explored his post-elBulli evolution, puts it simply: “It was a huge inflection point in my career. People all over the world started recognizing me. And they were surprised to see I still worked in my own restaurant.”

“This is a historic moment and we are here to celebrate you,” one guest told Asma Khan after her episode aired. Her restaurant went from serving 10 to 100 guests in a day. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

What Passion Leaves Behind

For all the reverence Chef’s Table brings to food and craft, it never shies away from the cost of obsession.

“It can be a tragedy at times,” Gelb says. “A personal tragedy and a creative triumph.”

He’s seen it up close. Chefs sacrificing sleep, health, relationships—all in pursuit of the perfect bite. Chris Bianco, who nearly worked himself to death. Jiro Ono, whose sons barely recognized him growing up. Even Gelb himself, now a father, grapples with the tension between creative ambition and presence. “I want to be with them,” he says. “But I’m also passionate about this thing. I’m still learning what that balance looks like.”

It’s the kind of sacrifice few can articulate. But Francis Mallmann—ever the poet of flame and solitude—put it into words few others could:

“Today, as always, my life is represented by layers of colors. They lead me to a place I am forever traveling toward, silently searching for something lost. That loss is tied to the splendor of hope—the hope that has shaped my days, in and out.

My Chef’s Table episode was a way to paint, in words and images, what I have learned about living at the treasured crossroads of my world: Patagonia and Uruguay.

Even if I missed being in Paris—the cathedral of my life—it is understandable. She is the wonder of angels and demons, belonging to none yet inspiring all.
Inexplicable, baffling, mine.

I feel that my confession of life in this episode reached the hearts of many, carried by the thread of my fires—fires born from the collective memory of humankind, woven into the universe of alchemy, silence, and patience.

Thanks to this episode, I feel a soft voice in the wind, one that transcends my thoughts and reaches the dreams of others.

For hope is the true sustenance of nights and days. And in reaching out to all of you—yes, it changed my life.
Yes.”