Living with a chef sounds like it should come with perfectly torched mackerel, a fridge full of jarred ferments, and someone whispering “umami” over your Tuesday lunch. In reality? It’s a lifetime as an unpaid kitchen porter, avoiding knives that come with rules, and knowing exactly when to leave the room. But, yes – the food is excellent.
‘He’s always giving out to me for not using enough butter’
Catherine Dundon on Kevin Dundon, executive chef at Dunbrody House Hotel
“If you’re foostering around and taking too long, or maybe on the phone while you’re getting dinner, it will be, ‘Oh Jesus, just get out of the way and I’ll do it myself,’” says Catherine Dundon, who runs Dunbrody House Hotel with her husband, Kevin.
“He’s the same with the kids. He’d be nearly over their shoulder going, ‘Would you not do it this way?’ And they’re like, ‘I’m 25. I don’t need you over my shoulder.’ And then we just say, ‘Okay, well do it yourself.’ He knows he could have it done in 10 minutes flat, and it’s taken us half an hour. He often just loses patience and says, ‘No, no, no. Just give it to me here.’ And I’ve absolutely no problem with that, I’ll just pour myself a glass of wine,” she laughs.
It may sound like a dictatorship, but the domestic arrangement is a collaboration, albeit one with battlefield rules. They both cook – Kevin in full chef mode, with butter and cream, using every pot in the kitchen, Catherine with a one-pot shepherd’s pie. “He’s always giving out to me for not using enough butter,” she says. “He’d be turning his nose up at my mashed potatoes.”
When Kevin cooks for the family, it’s not tweezers and dots of sauce. It’s big hitters: “amazing carbonara,” passed on to the kids who now make it for their friends, legendary Yorkshire puddings, and roast pork with crackling. Christmas Day is a solo performance. “He will do the entire thing, but always, it’s: ‘Would everybody please leave the kitchen and leave me alone?’”
No one’s complaining – everyone sits down, every night, and Sundays are sacred.
‘Does he let me touch his knives? No’
JoJo Sun on Barry Sun, chef/patron of Volpe Nera
People assume it’s fine dining on demand. “You’re so lucky,” the school mums say. And I say ‘No. He doesn’t cook that often,’” says JoJo. It’s not nightly haute cuisine, but JoJo knows how to work the system. “If I want something, I ask the kids to ask him. And every time the kids ask him, he will do it,” she says. Especially their youngest – a nine-year-old fish fanatic who eats every type of fish and seafood. “He thinks his dad’s tastes better. Even if I cook the same thing.”
When Barry cooks, it’s not about theatre. “He doesn’t follow recipes. He can just make it work,” says JoJo. “He’ll clean a little bit. Then disappear.” Offers to take the bins out are made while backing out of the kitchen.
He’s not a tyrant, though. “He likes the chat. If he’s cooking, he likes people around.” But like most chefs, his kitchen kit is off-limits. “Does he let me touch his knives? No. But they look scary. They’re so sharp,” she says. She’s fine with her own cheaper set.
Living with a chef is all about balance, she says. “Barry works 10 or 12 hours a day in the restaurant so I don’t expect him to come home and start scrubbing. You marry a chef – you just need to be real.”
‘She says I’m always in the way’
Dave Murphy on Jess Murphy, executive chef at Kai
Jess Murphy doesn’t just cook at home – she takes over. She occupies the kitchen like it’s a war zone and the utensils are under siege. She may run one of Ireland’s best kitchens, but at home, she leaves a trail like a one-woman catering bomb.
Jess uses every pot in the kitchen. Dave washes them. He’s been a kitchen porter for 25 years. He does the chef whites – washed, dried, folded. He cooks breakfast. He makes jacket potatoes and beans. He also knows when to quietly exit the kitchen.
He’s not allowed to help. “She says I’m always in the way.” So he loiters. Offers moral support. Holds a peeler if asked. The knives are completely off-limits. There are two racks – serious stuff, including a pair of Fingal Fergusons and a Damascus steel blade he once dared to wash after a glass of wine or two. He sliced his finger open. Lesson learned. He hasn’t touched it since.
When Jess cooks at home, it’s not just dinner – it’s a continuation of service. There are no shortcuts, no half-measures, and certainly no recipes. The pantry is rammed with jars that have long since lost their labels, yuzu paste, fermented black bean sauce, and a rotating cast of odd condiments picked up over the years. One night it’s lasagne. The next, donburi. Or maybe she’s in the kitchen for hours making bagels from scratch.
He doesn’t complain. This is the rhythm of their life – Kai by day, chaos by night. Jess doesn’t let up just because she’s off duty. She never really is. “There are definitely perks to being married to a chef,” Dave says. “Jess could be doing a photo shoot at home and I could be eating a turkey and ham dinner in August.”
“It all works out,” he says. Or, as he puts it: “I wash the knives, I shut up, and I eat well.”
‘She cooks, I do the dishes’
Arielle Agusto on Daniela Dullius, sous chef at Mae
She may be married to a chef, but most nights, it’s Agusto at the stove. She makes enough for both of them – so there’s food ready when Dani gets home late from the restaurant. Her go-to is a curry she learned how to make from an Indian colleague.
When Dullius is off, the energy shifts. She might cook two or three times a week. And when she does, she goes all in. They’re both from Brazil, but left in their early 20s. Now, in their 30s and living in Dublin, dinner is a mix of Brazilian staples, the food they grew up with, and things picked up along the way, in the US and Ireland.
“She likes to do it all herself,” says Agusto. “She just says, ‘I got it.’ I’ll occasionally help. I didn’t work as a professional chef like her, but I did work in kitchens before. So sometimes I’ll cut something, you know, to contribute somehow.”
Agusto says Dullius is a tidy chef, who cleans as she goes and the mess is minimal. But she doesn’t stick around. “Whatever she cooks, I do the dishes. We don’t have a dishwasher, so it’s me. I am the dishwasher.”
And then there are the nights where none of it happens. When Dullius walks in the door, drops her bag, and doesn’t want to look at a pan. That’s when the takeaway routine kicks in. Deliveroo on speed dial – spice bags, Chinese, Indian – anything that shows up fast and doesn’t require effort.
‘I am the kitchen porter’
Ciara Donnelly on Eric Matthews, executive chef and co-owner of Kicky’s
“He told me early on, ‘I’m going to cook for you because it’s just going to taste better,’” says Ciara Donnelly. Her mother, a former chef, was delighted. “You’ll never have to cook again.” And she was right – Donnelly hasn’t lifted a spatula since.
What she does lift is every pot in the kitchen. “He forgets he doesn’t have a kitchen porter – I am the kitchen porter.” He trashes the place, then gets annoyed it’s messy. “He’s militant at work, clean-as-you-go. But at home it’s mess everywhere and he’s the one who made it.”
Technology winds him up. He hates induction hobs. “He just can’t use them.” Same goes for ovens, especially when he’s baking. “If something’s not right, it’s always, ‘It’s not me – it’s the oven.’”
He’s particular. Very. If she buys dried herbs, she’s in trouble. “He’s all about fresh, fresh, fresh. We go foraging for wild garlic. Normal people go to the shop.”
There are no tantrums, but he does need total control. “Even if it’s just a Sunday roast, he becomes the most important person in the room. You just get out of the way.”
He’s made her eat some questionable things. “Sea urchin pasta – neither of us liked it.” She’s drawn the line at kangaroo, which Eric’s had on his travels. “I’m not fussy, but I don’t want to be freaked out.” Once he brought home live spider crabs, then left to get ingredients. “They tried to escape while I was on a team call.”
When he cooks, it’s slow stuff – roasts, ragù, Thai. “Things he doesn’t make at work.” Sometimes he preps the sauce at the restaurant and brings it home. If he’s too tired, they order takeaway from Sam Sab Thai.
It’s a relaxed dinner. “We eat in front of the TV. We talk to people all day. We just want to sit down.”
‘I clean as she goes. It’s a full-time job’
Michael Giolla Mhuire on Gráinne Mullins, pastry chef and owner of Grá Chocolates
“She wants to control the entire kitchen, everything that’s going on,” says Giolla Mhuire. “If I try to get involved too much or suggest something – like how she’s cooking a steak or charring broccoli – I’m told to go sit in the livingroom.”
This isn’t a one-off performance – it’s every night. “She rings me every morning on the way to work to ask what cuisine I fancy. Asian? Right. She’ll spend all day thinking about it. Maybe pop into the Asian store on her lunch break. It could be noodles. Duck and gratin. Sweet and sour with rice. Lentil curry with home-made chutney, coriander, yoghurt sauce – and she bakes the naan herself.”
He loves it. But sometimes he just wants goujons and chips. “She’s like, ‘No. That’s unhealthy.’”
Takeaway? Doesn’t happen. “I’m from the city – I love a Chinese, a proper Indian. If she’s away on a work trip, I go all out. Six dishes. She says, ‘But Mikey, mine would be nicer.’ And I’m like, ‘I want it in a silver foil container, in a brown paper bag, and I want to eat it on the couch.’”
There are no shortcuts. “It’s extravagant. The amount of food she buys, the quality, the prep. All of it from scratch. Honestly, it’s like being in a fine dining restaurant every night. Sometimes it’s too much – because we never get to sit down. She’s still cooking.”
And it’s not just the food. It’s the mess. “The amount of utensils, jars, sauces, condiments, microplanes – it’s all over the place. I clean as she goes, constantly. It’s a full-time job. I’m the KP. Just not officially.”
