This is Not a Knife.

There are a few things in a kitchen that tell you everything you need to know about a cook: the way they brunoise an onion; how they break down their station at the end of the night; whether they show up thirty minutes early or three minutes late with a Red Bull and a hangover that would put Sean Brock to shame.

And then, there’s the knife.

If I see a serrated knife in a cook’s roll, especially one not meant for bread, I get this quiet wave of disgust, as if I were watching someone blow their nose into a kitchen rag and fold it back into their apron. It’s not hate. It’s resignation. Like, damn, everything you could have been just flew out the window.

A serrated blade is what people use when they don’t trust themselves. When they haven’t put in the time to learn how to care for an edge. When they’ve never stood at the whetstone, hands wet, sweat beading along their brow while focusing on the right angle at which to sharpen, working their way toward a real bevel. Serrated knives don’t slice—they saw. They tear. They rip through tomatoes like leatherface going at a ribcage: messy, excessive, and lacking any form of decency. They’re the culinary equivalent of someone who claps when the plane lands. 

I’ve seen cooks use them for slicing shallots, trimming cake, even carving steak. Steak. Just think of that. If you need teeth on your knife to cut through protein, the problem isn’t the meat—it’s you. It’s a clear sign that you haven’t taken the time to understand what a sharp blade really is, or what it means to take pride in your tools. You’re showing up to a gunfight with a plastic spoon and acting like you’re some kind of underground weaponry genius.

Let me be clear. This isn’t about gatekeeping–it’s about standards. I don’t care if your blade cost a hundred bucks or if itcame from a flea market in Diagon alley. But, I do care if you care. A knife is the extension of your hand. It’s your handshake, your signature, your love letter to the food you prepare. If you can’t respect that, what the hell else are you cutting corners on?

I carry a damascus steel classic western. It’s nothing crazy, just something that needs to be sharpened every now and then–something that’ll rust if you don’t pay attention. That’s the point. It holds you accountable. That knife will slice paper-thin without effort, but it’ll also bite you if you get sloppy. I’ve bled for that damascus more times than I can count. That’s part of the deal.

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You start to recognize that the tools you trust are a reflection of how you work. The cook who always borrows knives is probably also the guy who forgets to wipe down his low-boy at the night's end. That cook with a $300 Japanese blade and no idea how to hone it is the same one plating sloppy. And that cocksucker with the serrated knife always, without fail, belongs to someone who doesn’t sharpen, doesn’t care, or doesn’t know any better, and isn’t trying to.

The truth is, there’s no room in good kitchens for shortcuts. Not in your knifework, not in your prep, not in how you carry yourself when the printer won’t stop spitting tickets. We all crack sometimes, but the difference between a cook and a great cook is what they do when shit breaks down–when a fryer stops working, when a steak over-rests, when chef looks at you like you're the reason the sun set wrong that night. If you’re going to fall apart, don’t let your knife be the first piece to crack.

I’ve lived out of a van. I’ve worked doubles off three hours of sleep. I’ve eaten nothing but end-of-night scraps and family meal rice just to stretch my week. In all of that, I’ve never skipped sharpening my knife. It's not that I want to impress anyone. It's because it gives me something to control. When your whole life feels like it’s falling off the bone, it’s nice to know that one thing, just one, will still hold an edge if you treat it right.

Maybe that sounds dramatic. Maybe it is dramatic, but the kitchen isn’t subtle. The heat is real. The hours are real. The pain in your knees, the ringing in your ears after Saturday night service, the silence after a plate drops–none of it is subtle. So, forgive me if I get passionate about something as stupid as a knife. It’s not just a tool. It’s a symbol of standards and of self-respect. It's a symbol of the chaotic industry we choose to show up for every damn day.

I’ve seen cooks turn their lives around because someone handed them a good blade and said, here, take care of this. That’s all it takes sometimes. One small decision to do better. To take pride in something. To stop pretending you’re not responsible for your own damn hands.

So yeah, if you’re still rocking that jagged-edge garbage, maybe it’s time to retire it. Get yourself a proper knife. Learn to sharpen. Learn to hone. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll start seeing the rest of the kitchen in a similar light: Not as something to survive, but something to master.

And if not? Well, just keep your saw-toothed toy away from my fucking cutting board.