What Happens In Our World Once A Dinner Is Booked
“Hospitality should feel effortless even when it absolutely is not.”
Reflections by Chef Adam Vandermey
14 minute read · Behind the Curtain of Service
Most people only see the final version of a private dining experience.
The plated food.
The relaxed atmosphere.
The conversations around the table.
The calm flow of the evening.
What they do not see is the invisible machine quietly operating underneath all of it.
And honestly, that is probably how it should be.
Hospitality should feel effortless even when it absolutely is not.
For us, the process actually begins long before a booking is officially confirmed.
Most guests first connect with us through our website which triggers a one-on-one consultation call with me. Those conversations are rarely just about food. We talk about the host’s vision for the evening, the type of atmosphere they want to create and the personalities sitting around the table.
Then we start getting into details.
Dietary restrictions.
Allergies.
Strong dislikes.
And not in a casual way either.
As an example, I absolutely despise pineapple. If a single element on my plate has been touched or influenced by pineapple, the entire dish is ruined for me. That sounds dramatic until you realize almost everyone has some version of that same relationship with certain foods.
If a host does not know those details about their guests, we ask them to find out.
Hospitality starts with making people feel considered.
Once I understand the group, I begin building two or three completely different multi-course menu concepts. I do not like overlap between menus because I want each one to feel personalized and intentional to the specific event.
Honestly, this is one of my favorite parts of the entire process.
It gives me permission to be creative, thoughtful and occasionally push myself outside my own comfort zone.
Very rarely do I ask to see the host’s kitchen beforehand.
This drives Jeanette crazy.
If she had her way, we would probably have photos, measurements and a detailed floorplan before we ever walked through the door.
Meanwhile, I kind of enjoy the unknown challenges.
Some things are more fun when they remain surprises.
Once the menu is selected, the deposit is paid and the date is locked in, the real work begins.
In an ideal world, I like having at least two weeks between booking and service. That gives us time to properly organize, test and rehearse the experience before we ever serve a single plate.
From a staffing perspective, smaller dinners are usually just me. Groups of three to six are typically Jeanette and I. Larger groups may involve a sous chef as well, although we intentionally prefer to keep most experiences under twelve guests.
Intimacy matters to us more than maximizing numbers.
Then I move into research and development mode.
Every single element on every plate gets evaluated:
Can it be prepared ahead of time?
Does it need to be finished on site?
Will it hold properly?
How does it react to reheating?
Can we realistically execute it in a residential kitchen without sacrificing quality?
Then comes the best part:
the test cooks.
It is a burden Jeanette and I have simply accepted as our fate.
We cook every dish repeatedly, testing flavor, texture, temperature, timing and plating. The plating usually evolves the most throughout the process.
I will wake up at four in the morning with an idea about how a dish could flow better visually or how one element should sit slightly differently on the plate.
I sketch dishes constantly until I am happy with them and then, more often than not, tweak them again anyway.
Once plating is finalized, we photograph it and include those reference photos inside our kitchen checklist package.
During service, if anyone on the team has a brain lock moment, the answer is already sitting there waiting for them.
We never rely on memory when systems can protect the experience instead.
That philosophy took me years to learn properly.
Earlier in my career, I could be a very difficult chef to work with in high-pressure environments. I had a hard time effectively communicating the vision I saw in my head which meant I was never fully utilizing the people around me.
Eventually, probably fifteen years ago now, I realized something incredibly important:
no one can read my mind.
Even worse, sometimes the information was hidden from me too.
Instinct and vision mean nothing if they cannot be translated clearly enough for other people to execute alongside you.
That realization completely changed the way I lead kitchens and hospitality teams.
Now, systems exist to communicate clearly and empower the people around me.
If a sous chef is involved in a dinner, they will usually come over a few days before the event and we rehearse the menu together exactly as we imagine service unfolding. Prep stations are set up properly, mise en place is organized as it will be during service and every dish is tested again under simulated service conditions.
This is also the final moment where changes are allowed to happen.
After that rehearsal, the menu is locked.
The plating is locked.
The progression is locked.
At that point my focus shifts entirely from creativity to execution.
One of the biggest rules we live by in our kitchen is simple:
things will go wrong and that is okay.
Something will be forgotten.
Something will not work exactly the way we planned.
A timeline will compress unexpectedly.
An element will need adjusting.
Perfection is always the direction we run toward, but hospitality is alive and living things are never perfectly controllable.
The goal is not panic-free service.
The goal is calm adaptation.
Service day itself is extremely structured for me.
Everyone in my orbit knows that once I put my headphones on, the best thing they can do is leave me alone.
I am moving through checklists, labeling stacks of deli containers with bright green painter’s tape and slowly wearing a Sharpie marker down to a nub.
Portable fridges are getting packed.
Equipment is being checked off.
Coolers are loaded carefully.
Every detail is accounted for.
And if I need help, I will instruct it.
When we arrive at a host’s home roughly ninety minutes before service, the first few minutes are all about reassurance.
We introduce ourselves, check out the kitchen space and let the host know everything will work perfectly, even if it creates a few interesting challenges behind the scenes.
Then the orchestral part of my job begins.
Stations get built.
Cutting stations.
Cooking stations.
A beverage station.
A plating station.
A cleaning station.
Before a single ingredient comes out of a fridge or cooler, our workspace is perfect.
On the surface we probably look calm and collected, but underneath we are paddling like a duck on water.
And then something important happens.
We stop.
For five or ten minutes we intentionally take a breath before guests arrive. Maybe there is a glass of wine involved. Maybe someone steps outside for a quick smoke.
We do not spend that time obsessing over procedures or tasks.
We talk about the house, the kitchen or sometimes nothing at all.
If the host joins us for a moment, we welcome that too.
Hospitality begets hospitality.
Then we step back into the kitchen and the rhythm starts.
Tasks are assigned.
Responsibilities are vocalized.
Timers begin.
Heat starts building.
As guests arrive, Jeanette or I make sure every person feels welcomed immediately.
Sometimes Jeanette will point toward the kitchen and laugh:
“That’s Chef Adam, but we don’t want to bother him just yet. He’ll introduce himself soon.”
And for me, live service actually starts before the first plate ever leaves the kitchen.
Live service begins the moment Jeanette and I walk out and take control of the room.
We introduce the team.
We explain the progression of the evening.
We warn guests that they are going to hear strange kitchen phrases like “behind,” “hot,” “hands,” “five to service” and “protein walking,” but not to worry because that is simply how kitchens communicate under pressure.
Then we begin collecting infusion preferences.
Using clipboards and seating charts, every guest is assigned a seat number and their infusion preferences are divided carefully across courses according to the evening’s service plan.
Those numbers are not floating around in my memory either.
They are written clearly in Sharpie on bright green painter’s tape directly on the plating counter because in the middle of service systems matter more than ego.
And then the fun begins.
Ten plates lined up.
Temperatures being monitored constantly.
Elements landing one by one.
Timers moving.
Communication flying across the kitchen.
Every plate individually dosed according to the master plan.
That pressure is the part I genuinely love.
Striving for perfection while fully understanding that little gremlins of chaos will always exist somewhere in the process is exactly what being a chef does for me.
It makes me feel alive.
Ironically, by this point my actual cooking skills become secondary.
Leadership, timing, communication and composure become everything.
I know we are in trouble if I ask for something and do not immediately hear “yes chef,” or if someone completes a task and I fail to respond with “thank-you chef.”
Those little moments tell me someone’s mental bandwidth is overloaded and we need to adjust the system before stress starts compounding itself.
Guests rarely notice any of that though.
What they experience is calm.
That is the entire point.
At the table, I am usually looking for one of two things:
silence or loud conversation.
Silence means people are fully immersed in the food.
Loud conversation means people are relaxed and connected.
What I never want to hear is a low murmur.
Hushed tones kill energy inside a dining room. They usually mean uncertainty or hesitation are still lingering somewhere in the space.
My job is creating enough comfort and confidence that people fully settle into the experience and into each other.
And eventually, almost without fail, they do.
Then, several hours later, the final plate leaves the kitchen.
The last dishes get cleaned.
The coolers get packed.
The equipment gets stacked beside the front door.
And then there is one final moment that never stops feeling gratifying to me.
I walk back into the kitchen one last time.
A few hours earlier it was controlled chaos.
Heat.
Timers.
Callbacks.
Plates flying.
People moving.
Now it is quiet again.
Clean.
Calm.
Back together.
I think that moment stays with me because great hospitality should leave people with the memory of the experience, not the weight of the work that created it.