Ciarán intrigued me from the first evening I walked into his restaurant with my lacklustre CV. After a day of hounding head chefs all around the city, to a chorus of “we’ll be in touch”, Ciarán, my last stop, pressed me briefly on why I wanted to do this before quickly arranging my attendance the next day at 8AM, then swaggering back to his pass and into service mode. As I took the lift and descended from the hot, new, place-to-be-in-Belfast roof-top eatery, I imagined days spent in his kitchen and what I would reap or learn or witness. Not let down, I learnt things all day every day and my intrigue for my new boss became a rapt attention toward him and the rest of the team.

After a short while I was bedded in, and I could hold my own. I was a cell in the living organism that was the brigade, a little part of a highly organised structure which relied on me. It felt good, and bore stark contrast to the chagrin which school had become once the class clown act had worn thin. Although certain that I wasn’t dim, I had to remind myself of that fact, often. Excuses for staring out the window or failing to complete work were consistently met with jeer from teachers and students alike. Being there made my blood boil and exacerbated the hostility and restlessness which I had already been dealing with, suppressing traits, feelings and urges in a bizarre game of emotional Whac-A-Mole.

In 2004, I was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia and prescribed an escalating prescription of Concerta, a prolonged-release central nervous stimulant used to treat ADHD. I felt more or less indifferent. I had already surmised that some of us just weren’t cut out to be sat in a stacking chair for eight hours, listening to a depressed middle-aged man release his caged emotions on the underachievers of the class. My mum felt better knowing I was being managed more fairly, I had a free card for erratic behaviour, was given a reason as to why I felt different (despite knowing this was likely universal), and the prescription delivered more than a modicum of long-lasting euphoria for breakfast every day.

If intelligence exists in different conventionalities, my new iron-fisted boss was a shining example of this, and I realised this contributed to my feeling of kinship toward him. In our small brigade there were a number of dyslexic chefs. Spelling correctly when labelling food was a struggle for them, and more easily spelt nicknames or abbreviations were often applied instead. Ciarán was one of these chefs and would delegate written tasks to his sous chef regularly. I mustered the courage to ask him if he had ever been diagnosed with ADHD or considered whether he might have it. “I’m hyper-intelligent, me”, he explained amidst the cacophony (which I have come to love) of a very busy and intense kitchen, quashing any notion of a mental health disorder as quickly as possible.

Ciarán went on to explain how he’d found his teenage self washing up in Harry Ramsdens, as opposed to the usual, darker trappings and inevitabilities fated to most of those who grow up in certain parts of West Belfast. Less than 10 years later Ciarán had cut his teeth in Michelin Star brigades, and under hot demand, went on to successfully open and run two restaurants as head chef. His scepticism was unsurprising, given ADHD was only recognised as a valid condition in 2000, following a report from the National Institute of Clinical Excellence. Furthermore, a lot of stigma still existed around mental health. This stigma also impeded diagnosis in the male-dominated demographic of adult sufferers. This is something which has changed dramatically in recent years with a huge spike in both adult and child diagnoses (30% increased prevalence in eight years). The de-stigmatisation of ADHD and mental health disorders has greatly facilitated this, as well as a popularised trend for consuming drugs such as Ritalin and Adderall for recreation or as a study aid. In recent years I have encountered many chefs with ADD/ADHD who were more than happy to discuss it. Jamie Oliver and Heston Blumenthal have flown the flag as ADHD sufferers themselves, the former calling for nutritional therapy and the latter declaring it a privilege and the root of an enhanced level of creativity.

Ten years on from my fiery baptism into the cook line, and I find I’ve become the subject of a running gag amongst friends, who compare my daily work routine to the frenetic life of Howard Ratner in the movie Uncut Gems. If you haven’t seen the movie, the gag implies that I spend most days running around like a mad man, putting out fires and dodging mild heart attacks. Aptly enough, I voice-recorded most of this article driving around Manchester, shopping for live Canadian lobster and onglet steak, whilst catering two events in two different locations and launching a new food offering, all on the same day. This little joke bore relevant and genuine critique on how stressful and high octane the work of a chef can be. Rather than bother me, it stirred nostalgia. It reminded me of a transition from feeling a little bit lost and a little bit abnormal, to feeling very much in my natural habitat upon discovering life in a kitchen.

It's worth mentioning at this point that a linear thinker, as opposed to the above associative/non-linear (impairment, as it were), would probably be less likely to enter the domain of a kitchen brigade in the first place. They would perhaps analyse, connect the dots from beginning to end, and realise that cheffing is a fruitless proposition riddled with long hours, low pay, slow progression, bullying, constant stress and a reputation for substance abuse - and of course then conclude that there are better ways to get the quids in. On the other hand, there are some of us who will stumble into this environment, as most seem to, and rather than running in the opposite direction, will become infatuated with the high intensity, ultra-structured, passion fuelled, noisy, boisterous, lightning paced space called a kitchen.

Despite the wide spectrum, it’s quite straightforward to recognise symptoms of ADD/ADHD. To name but a few (and fairly cliché ones at that): fidgeting, spontaneity, interrupting, impatience, and lack of a sense of danger. Sufferers struggle to receive and remember verbal instructions. If you have any chefs with ADHD in your kitchen, buy 2-ply till roll and make sure they have a cheque rail on their section! Admin day is inevitably akin to pushing water up a hill, and stock takes are the stuff of nightmares, unless of course the sufferer finds counting stock interesting, in which case they might enter into hyper focus mode and fly through it (really it’s a thing).

Then there is the dreary fact that 75% of adults with ADHD also suffer from at least one other mental health disorder or condition, namely dyslexia, anxiety, mood disorders, substance misuse or insomnia. The previously mentioned nostalgia refers to the serendipity an ADHD chef will enjoy when they realise that the organisational structure of a kitchen and modus operandi of a brigade happens to precisely employ tools which help manage their symptoms, i.e, strict timings, lists and checklists for everything, visual aids for cheques and recipes, the inherent prioritisation of every little task, a dynamic and stimulating environment, and of course lots of timers.

What we haven’t yet endeavoured to discern, in what is a relatively new and still controversial condition, is the upswing. There are traits which are antithetical to the above that transfer directly into being a good chef. As it happens, the same has been said to benefit trauma doctors and some of those working in emergency services. You’ve learnt to cope with having a thousand things running through your mind at once. Then one day, you find yourself on a busy cook line, facing 20 cheques, each with several dishes that must be cooked and served perfectly in timing and tandem with four other sections in the kitchen. Thinking about a thousand things at once has suddenly been transformed into something which is thrilling and satisfying, which you are good at. The importance of timing, the rigid structure, the space for creativity and the regiment of a brigade, are all parameters creating an environment where someone who might struggle in the slower pace of school or an office can thrive. The brusque and thick-skinned nature of a team of chefs provides a more fitting social environment for someone who is prone to accidentally offending, talking too much/not saying anything, not listening, interrupting and behaving erratically or unpredictably. There is a level of acceptance which is unsurprising for an industry that has been somewhat of a sanctuary for the under-educated, the impoverished, the ex-convicts, the immigrants and the addicts. I will always remember seeing rough-as-toast Catholics and Protestants playing nicely together for the first time when I began working in a Belfast kitchen.

I’m not saying that becoming a chef is adequate therapy for an adult with ADD/ADHD, nor am I saying that all you (square) linear thinkers don’t belong in kitchens. I’m advocating that amidst a fundamentally flawed industry rife with issues from top to bottom, let’s not forget that kitchens, and the industry as a whole, have provided a sanctuary for society’s jetsam, waifs and strays since day dot. Despite challenges like covid-19, Brexit, labour shortage and food costs, let’s remember the community we are a part of and the solace it can provide. Coronavirus legislation necessitated the food and beverage sector speak up and be heard. The industry is now better footed than ever to implement the changes that it needs. Restaurants and bars will bounce back, just as they have before. As we innovate once again, it’s imperative we shed the prejudice and discrimination which clearly remains, call out the bullies, stop burning through staff, and revive the camaraderie, kindness and embrace of the restaurant culture that we all fell in love with.

Gary Weir is a North-West based chef currently working on private dining, consultancy and some freelance projects coming soon - keep your eyes peeled.