I've been writing these for a while now, so it feels like a reasonable point to explain why — and to be straight with you about how they get made, because I don't think enough people are.
Nobody told me any of this
I started in kitchens at sixteen, in Pescara. Since then: London, eleven years of it, a stage at L'Enclume, five years running Barge East with two AA Rosettes, and now a workwear brand I built because I couldn't find what I wanted to wear.
And across all of that, the thing that strikes me looking back is how much I had to find out by accident.
Nobody sat me down and explained which four knives I actually needed, or why the cheap bread knife would outlast half the expensive kit in my roll. Nobody mentioned that serving foraged food on a paying menu is legally a completely different thing from picking it for yourself. Nobody warned me what a dead Tuesday does to a business, or how the maths of staffing a quiet week quietly breaks you.
I learned all of it the hard way, or from good mentors who took the time — and I was lucky to have a few of those. Not everyone does.
So that's what this is. The stuff nobody tells you when you start. Practical things, industry realities, the bits I wish someone had written down for me at nineteen.
The commercial bit, said out loud
Here's the part most brands dance around, so I'll just say it: I also write this to bring people to my site.
Edit Studio London is a small independent business. I don't have a marketing budget. What I have is sixteen years in kitchens and some opinions, and writing them down means people find us who otherwise never would — searching for how to sharpen a knife, or what the drought means for their order sheet, and ending up somewhere they can also buy a shirt.
I don't think that's a problem, as long as the writing actually gives you something. If a piece is just an advert with a headline on it, you'd spot it immediately and you'd be right to stop reading. So the deal I've made with myself is simple: every post has to be worth your ten minutes whether or not you ever buy anything. If I stop meeting that bar, tell me.
How these actually get written
I use AI to help me write them. I'd rather say that than have you wonder.
Here's what that means in practice. Every opinion in these pieces is mine. Every story is something that happened to me. What AI does is help me shape a pile of rough notes into something you can read without wincing.
I'm a chef, not a writer. I work full time, I run this brand, and there are weeks where the honest choice is between publishing something with help or publishing nothing at all.
Some people will think that's cheating. I understand the argument.
Is it working?
Slowly. No big moment, no post that took off, nothing dramatic. Just more people reading each one than the last, which I'll take.
It's also a lot more work than it looks. Every piece starts with me sitting down and actually thinking about what I know and whether it's worth anyone's time — and that part can't be outsourced to anything. I enjoy it. I also occasionally resent it at eleven at night when I've got an early start.
But I keep going, for a straightforward reason. This industry gave me a career I love, and it's in a rough patch — closures, margins, people leaving. The least I can do is put back the things I picked up along the way, so the next person has to learn slightly less of it the hard way than I did.
What's coming
More of the same. Kit and how to look after it. The business realities nobody explains until you're living them. Sourcing, seasonality, the things that affect what you can actually put on a plate. Whatever I know that seems worth passing on.
If there's something you want covered, tell me. I'd rather write about what you actually need than guess.
Stefano Camplone is a chef and the founder of Edit Studio London, making sustainable workwear for professional kitchens. He writes From the Pass, a weekly newsletter for chefs — kitchen news, industry stories and one thing worth your time, every Thursday at 7am. Join here.
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