A Day in the Life of a Private Chef in Wine Country

The first day is always about preparation. No flames. No plating. No guests. Just quiet rituals and the groundwork for something greater.

It starts early. Always does. A strong French Press coffee. Menu and prep list typed out in hand.

Tomorrow’s dinner is a private birthday celebration for ten, set in the rolling vineyards just outside St. Helena. The client asked for a relaxed but refined experience—something seasonal, rich in flavor, and quietly indulgent.

I sit with the courses again, making small adjustments and visualizing the flow of the evening:

- Baby Gem Lettuce with Crimson Pears, Crispy Prosciutto di Parma, Candied Pecans, Aged Balsamic Reduction, Parmesan, and D’Anjou Pear Vinaigrette

- Asparagus with Poached Egg, Hollandaise Sauce, and Grilled Ciabatta Bread

- Halibut with Saffron Velouté, Carrot Purée, and Baby Zucchini

- Cabernet-Braised Boneless Short Ribs with Sauce Vin Rouge, Garlic-Rosemary Pomme Purée, Baby French Carrots, and Confit Cipollini Onions

- Citrus Almond Cake with Honey-Thyme Poached Oranges, Raspberry Mousse, and Candied Almonds

Once the menu is locked, the run begins.

Day One – Market Day

Four stops. No shortcuts.

First stop is a small farmstand off Big Ranch Road in Napa, I pick up baby gem lettuce, bundles of spring asparagus, bunches of herbs, pears, and citrus for dessert. Everything is fresh-picked—still warm from the sun or cool with morning dew.

Second stop is Oxbow Market, where I source the good stuff: Burrata, a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano, Prosciutto di Parma sliced to order, and eggs so fresh they barely sit still in the carton.

Third stop is my fishmonger, who’s held a beautiful center-cut halibut loin for me—firm and fresh, with clean brine and no scent.

Fourth and final stop: the butcher in Calistoga. I’ve had the boneless short ribs reserved for a week. Thick, beautifully marbled, exactly what I need for a slow braise in Cabernet.

By the time I return to the kitchen, the back of the car smells like herbs, fruit, and proteins. I unpack everything, double-check the list, and lay it all out like a painter’s palette. Prep begins tomorrow—but the foundation is set.

Day Two – The Prep

It starts early again. A strong French Press coffee. Music low.

The short ribs go into a deep braise—seared hard, then nestled in a mixture of cabernet, beef stock, mire poix, and aromatics. They’ll go low and slow for hours.

Hollandaise base is prepped. Carrot purée is built with butter and a whisper of ginger. The saffron is bloomed in warm cream for the velouté.

The D’Anjou pears are peeled, sliced, and compressed. The vinaigrette is built around their natural sweetness and sharpened with a touch of Dijon and white balsamic. Pecans are candied. Prosciutto is crisped. The cake is baked—almond-forward and fragrant with orange zest.

I poach the oranges in honey-thyme syrup. Pipe the raspberry mousse. Blanch the baby zucchini. The eggs are marked and labeled for precise poaching. Everything is chilled, sealed, and packed in order of service.

The only thing left to pick up? Bread. That comes tomorrow.

Day Three – The Event

Afternoon comes around. Gear loaded. Checklist reviewed. I make one last stop on the way to the estate: Model Bakery. Their ciabatta is the only choice—crusty, smoky, with a structure that can handle grilled marks without collapsing under hollandaise.

The estate is quiet when I arrive. Olive trees rustle in the breeze. The kitchen is bright, clean, and wide open to the view.

I unpack, reset, and move through my paces. By golden hour, the table is dressed in linen, candles lit, music tuned. The host pours wine. I give the nod.

The first course goes out—a crisp baby gem salad with compressed pears, aged balsamic, and crispy prosciutto. A balance of sweet, salty, sharp, and fresh. A perfect opener.

Next: asparagus with soft poached egg, a generous spoonful of hollandaise, and grilled ciabatta toast. Guests drag bread through the yolk and sauce. One of them asks me if I bake the bread myself. I tell them no—but I do know where to get the best.

Then the halibut: pan-seared, rested, plated with velouté, carrot purée, and baby zucchini. Light, clean, and comforting.

Next, the main course. The short ribs are tender and richly glazed, nestled over pomme purée laced with garlic and rosemary. The chipoline onions are confit’d to near caramel. The carrots give just enough bite. It’s a hit.

Finally, dessert. The almond cake is moist and golden. The raspberry mousse is tart and airy. The poached oranges are silky, sweet, and floral from the thyme.

There’s a long pause after dessert. Everyone leans back. Glasses are raised. Someone jokes about needing a nap. That’s how I know it worked.

After the Fire

I clean quietly. Reset the kitchen. Pack my knives.

On the drive home, windows cracked, I let the air clear my head. The smell of thyme and roasted garlic still clings to my hands. There’s something deeply satisfying about the silence after a night like this—when the only thing left is the memory of a good meal shared.

They won’t remember every garnish. But they’ll remember how they felt—nourished, celebrated, cared for.

That’s what I cook for.