Lee dreamed of becoming a chef since they were a child. Practising obsessively at home for family and friends, they went to culinary school and slowly climbed the ranks, eventually becoming sous chef at one of Hong Kongโs top kitchens. On paper, itโs everything they dreamed of. But they never imagined that this achievement would come at the cost of being openly queer. In a world still ruled by old-school kitchen machismo, they donโt remain silent for the sake of privacy, but out of fear. (Theyโve also asked to use a pseudonym for this article.)
โItโs painful to admit, but I have nothing to gain by coming out,โ the chef says. โMy colleagues have their guesses, but keeping things unspoken feels safer. At best, nothing would change. At worst, everything would.โ
Anthony Bourdain once called the professional kitchen โthe last refuge of the misfitsโ: a place for those sidelined by traditional norms to belong, so long as they can cook. But it turns out that even holding a senior position in one of the 76 Michelin-star restaurants in the city doesnโt protect you from prejudice. As a matter of fact, since 2020, Hong Kong has lagged behind other Asian countries in promoting LGBTQ diversity and inclusion in the workplace, according to a study by The Economist Intelligence Unit.
Queer in the kitchen: what visibility really costs
Hong Kong currently doesnโt have comprehensive legislation to protect against discrimination based on sexuality, gender or intersex status in the workplace. Without strong labour rights, anti-discrimination laws or marriage equality, being openly LGBTQ in the industry can feel risky โ especially in professional kitchens shaped by heteronormative values, says Iris Sham, a travelling cook and queer artist exploring social justice through food and photography.
โBeing my full and open self โฆ hasnโt come without its consequences,โ the Little Bao founder says. โIโve absolutely been stereotyped or passed over for certain jobs I probably would have gotten otherwise.โ