Why we eat at home, when we can afford not to.

Restaurants are for performance. You dress differently, you speak differently, you order the wine you would not have ordered at home. That is the whole appeal — you get to be, for two hours, a slightly more elegant version of yourself.

Your kitchen is for confession. It is where you stand in socks and eat off the counter and say the sentence you were not planning to say. It is where the actual conversations of your life happen.

A private chef closes the distance between the two. The food is restaurant-grade. The room is yours. The candle is the one you already like. The music is the record you were listening to that morning. And when the last plate is cleared, nobody puts on their coat. You are already home.

This, we think, is the quiet argument for the whole thing.