To Be a Chef: Full Femininity, No Apologies. Interview With Sara Aqel

by Alexandra Mansilla

To Be a Chef: Full Femininity, No Apologies. Interview With Sara Aqel

10 Apr 2025

She has been recognised with the prestigious Lavazza Award from the 50 Best MENA Restaurants for Dara Dining, received One Knife in the World’s Best Chef Awards, and helped bring Fi’lia — a female-led restaurant — to a Michelin Bib Gourmand in the 2022 guide.

The moment you meet her and start chatting, you are hit with this electric energy — the sort that makes you feel like absolutely anything is possible. You leave the conversation buzzing, ready to create, build, and do more.

This is Sara Aqel, a Palestinian chef born and raised in Jordan.

Her story really stays with you. It is a testament to what happens when you work relentlessly hard, believe in what you are doing, and stick to your principles — extraordinary things follow.

— Hi Sara! You once said you knew you wanted to be a chef the moment you first cooked for your family and friends — around the age of 14. Can you take me back to that moment?

— Sure! We are five girls, and we always had a lot of my sisters’ friends over. My mum was always cooking, and she had this one line that everyone still remembers: “If you’re ever hungry, or just want real food — come over. There’s always enough for one more.”

We were a family of seven, but the table often turned into twelve or more. Our house was always full.

As a kid, I thought I had favourite dishes — things my mum made on Fridays, our big family day in Jordan. But growing up, I realised it was never really about the food. It was about the moment. About the people. What I loved wasn’t the dish itself — it was the feeling of the house being full, the table stretching longer, the laughter, the movement. We had this extendable dining table my dad built himself — it could seat up to eighteen. I used to just sit and watch the whole thing unfold.

And then one day, my mum let me take over. I cooked, I served, I stood there and said, “Hi, I made the food today — enjoy!” And that was it. That is when I knew. It wasn’t about the recipe. It was about being the host. Creating that atmosphere. Seeing people happy around a table. It all just made sense.

— And your dad bakes a lot too, right? What kind of things does he make?

— Oh yes, he is amazing at it. He bakes bread, sweets, and all kinds of traditional things from Jordan and Palestine. He comes from a really modest background — he is a displaced Palestinian, and when he was young, he had to work in a bakery. So he has carried that skill with him all his life. Even now, he bakes every weekend.

Photo: Arthur du Peuty

— Also, I might be wrong, but someone told me you left school and didn’t finish it — is that true?

— Haha, don’t tell anyone! I’m joking. This is probably the first time I’m actually talking about this in interviews. I only started mentioning it this year because I think it is important to break the stereotype.

In our culture, if a woman doesn’t go to university, it is assumed she will just become a housewife — or worse, that she will just stay home forever because “no one wants to marry a girl without a degree.” Even though they are not going to let her work anyway! It’s just about the idea that she must study anything to be seen as “complete.”

So I went to high school, and in Jordan, we have this national exam called Tawjihi. It is intense. You don’t just need to pass all your subjects — you also need a high enough overall score to get into university. And here’s the thing: your final grade doesn’t just decide if you go to university — it decides what you can study.

So, even if you pass everything, you don’t actually get to choose your major. Your score chooses it for you. If you want to study engineering, for example, you need an 88 or higher. Each field has its own range. It is a very rigid system.

I passed all my subjects… except physics. I scored 54 out of 110. You need 55 to pass. One point off. They give you a second chance — three months later, you retake the exam. I did. And guess what? I got 54 again. Same score. One point off. Again.

Now, my dad — he is incredibly supportive but also very traditional. He said, “No problem, just take it one more time. You’ll get it on the third try.” But I was 17, and I had had enough. I told him, “I can’t keep doing this over and over. And for physics? Come on.”

Then I said something they really didn’t want to hear: “I don’t want to go to university. I want to study culinary arts. And to get into a school in Switzerland, I don’t need physics.”

It was hard for them. I get it — no one in the family had ever done anything like that. But I was sure. I wanted to study hospitality. That was the plan.

So I made them a deal: “If I take the exam a third time, and I get the same exact score — 54 — will you let it go?”

They agreed, mostly because they didn’t think it would happen.

But it did.

I took it again. I got 54. Again.

So I went to my dad and said, “Looks like I’m going to be the first daughter out of five to drop out of school.”

He looked so disappointed. But I stood my ground.

“I’m not doing it just to tick a box. I want to do something I actually care about.”

So I left.

— So you never got the certificate for finishing school, right?

— Right!

And here is where it gets funny. I signed up for culinary school — and guess what? I had to take another exam. This was a Swiss culinary school, and they are strict. They want people who choose to be there. People who are serious, focused, and not just floating around because they have nothing else to do.

So I took the exam — and passed.

But I didn’t tell my parents right away. Instead, I let the show play out. Picture it: full Arab-family drama. Aunties visited every day to convince me to retake physics. Some begged me to change majors; others pushed me to repeat the whole year. My dad’s friends, my mum’s friends — everyone got involved. It turned into society vs. me.

They’d say, “Your sisters all graduated with honours — what happened to you?” And I’d be like, “Yeah, I know. Watch me disappoint everyone.”

Meanwhile, I’d already been accepted to culinary school. I just didn’t tell anyone. I was enjoying the drama. I kept the visits coming — the tears, the speeches, the little gifts. It was great. I let everyone have their moment.

Because really — what were they trying to save me from? A life I actually wanted?

I heard it all:

“You’ll never get married.”

“You’ll never have a career.”

“No education — what will you do with your life? Play piano? Be a dental secretary?”

Someone even said, “You can’t be the only failure in the family.”

And I was like — Honestly? I think I’m just the first one who actually knows what she wants!

— Oh my God. Wow!

— And here is something important — my sisters supported me completely. They paid for my entire culinary education. They believed in me when no one else did.

They paid a huge amount of money so I could study something I loved. Because to most people in the family, it wasn’t a smart investment. But they didn’t care. They made it happen. Every award I’ve won, every restaurant I’ve opened — it all started with that one step they helped me take. I owe them everything.

I got a job at the Four Seasons before I even graduated. My culinary school was intense — seven hours a day of practical, technical and theory classes. They wanted us to get used to real kitchen life, so it felt more like a shift than school. After that, I worked another nine hours at a French restaurant inside the Four Seasons. Every day. That was my life.

After I graduated, I got an opportunity in Hong Kong. The school had a partnership with a hotel group — top students could apply for internships, and each year, they would pick two. The year I applied, forty people went for it. They picked one. Me.

So, I moved to Hong Kong when I was 19. Stayed there for almost a year and then moved to Dubai.

Instagram: @chef_sara.aqel

— How was it in Hong Kong, in a completely different environment?

— It was an eye-opener.

When you study in your own country, you think you’ve seen the world — but you haven’t. You think you know how life works until you leave your comfort zone: your language, your people, your food, your rhythm. And suddenly, you are in a place that doesn’t look, sound or smell like anything you are used to — and something in your mind just shifts.

The hunger kicks in. You want to see more and learn more. And that is exactly what happened to me.

I loved every bit of it — even the hard days. I was just starting out, and I had no money, living off instant noodle cups every day. I used to stack them in my kitchen like they were part of the design.

— And after everything you had been through, Fi’lia, under your lead, got a Michelin Bib Gourmand in 2022. That is huge. What was that moment like for you?

— I remember talking to my team. I told them two things. First — the obvious: this award isn’t mine; it is ours.

Second, I reminded them that success doesn’t start when you get the award. It starts after it. This isn’t a happy ending. It is a happy beginning. Everything we went through, every long shift, every late night, all the tears — that was preparation. This moment just confirms that we are on the right path. Now the work really begins.

— Is there a motto or rule you and your team always come back to?

— Yes. We have one thing we always say: 99% of your performance means you have the 100.

Whatever is stopping you from giving that last 1% is in your head. So we say: Get rid of it. Do the 100. 99 is not enough. 95 is not enough. If you have 95 in you, it means you have 100 in you. So push. Always push.

The second one: no waste. No waste — because we are lucky to be doing what we are doing. Because it makes you smarter. It forces you to think differently. What can you do with this leftover ingredient? This skin, this peel, this water? You can do something. Waste makes you lazy. Reuse makes you sharp.

Also, don’t just “love each other.” I don’t believe in fake family language at work. I believe in working like a team that respects each other deeply. Like a marriage from the 60s that somehow still works. You grow used to each other and then become best friends. Just like we recycle ingredients, we also learn how to adjust to each other and move together. That is how a kitchen works. That is how a team survives.

And one more thing we always say: Every day ends. Whether it was a disaster or a win, it ends. And with every sunrise, something new grows somewhere. Every sunrise is a chance to start again.

Instagram: @chef_sara.aqel

— Now, Dara Dining! Can you tell me the story of how it was created?

— Sure. It started about two years ago, during the 50 Best event in Abu Dhabi. That is when I first started talking to my partners about opening something in Jordan. Not just a restaurant that offers what is already out there but a space that gives us what we are always looking for when we travel. Something personal, intentional, and rooted in the place.

Before opening Dara, I had only worked in big cities — Miami, the Bahamas, Dubai — where I always had to deal with salespeople in suits just to buy vegetables. You don’t get to talk to a farmer or fisherman or butcher. It is all done through a middleman. And honestly, that disconnect is something I never got used to.

I missed seasonality. I missed nature. I missed conversations with the people who actually produce what I cook with.

So we decided to open something that wasn’t just about food or hospitality — but about building community. Supporting the people around us in every way possible. And we built everything with that in mind.

The restaurant is housed in a building from 1958 — it has been in the same family for nearly five generations. When we renovated it, we reused everything we could: old stones were turned into the bar, and leftover wood became new furniture. It wasn’t just about being sustainable — it was about honouring the story of the place.

And, of course, we work with a lot of local producers. I had been away from Jordan for nine years, so I didn’t have a base when I came back. But this restaurant helped me reconnect. I talk directly to the people who supply us — the cheesemakers, farmers, bakers. If we don’t make it in-house, it is made by someone in Jordan, by someone we know.

Everything we do — the fresh pasta, the fermented breads — it all happens in the restaurant. And everything else is sourced from the community. It is this beautiful chain: someone we work with knows someone else we now work with. And that web just keeps growing. It is like the restaurant built itself into the fabric of the place.

And here is something important: when we opened, we decided not to hire a marketing team. No PR agency, no one writing emails or pitching for us. I still handle everything myself!

Instagram: @dara.dining

— You are a female chef working in the Middle East — and many women I’ve spoken to have shared how tough it has been for them to carve out their path in such a male-dominated industry. Was it the same for you?

— I’ve never — not for a single day — felt the need to prove myself to any man in this industry.

I’ve worked. I’ve done what I know how to do. And when I didn’t know something, I asked to learn. If I didn’t want to do something, I just didn’t. It is as simple as that.

What does make me angry is the entitlement that comes with being a man in the kitchen. This quiet assumption that they deserve more — more recognition, more success, more respect — just by default. And that entitlement is toxic. It doesn’t matter whether it is coming from a man or a woman — it is still damaging.

And then there is the bullying. Of women. In this industry. It has become so normalised that people don’t even notice it anymore. Mocking, belittling, undermining — some people genuinely get pleasure out of it. It became trendy. And that pissed me off.

I’ve had people make fun of how I walk, how I talk, my accent, my height, where I come from — and of course, that I’m a woman in the kitchen. I’ve been asked, “Do they even teach you English where you’re from?” I’ve faced sexism, racism, ageism — all of it.

I’ve been invited to interviews I didn’t even apply for, just based on my CV — and twice in one year, I got rejected after showing up. They looked at me and said, “You’re too young for this position.” But they were the ones who reached out.

So yeah, I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And my answer has always been the same: I will do what I love. I will do what aligns with my values. And I will do it well.

I cook because it brings me joy. Deep, real joy. Running a restaurant, seeing people eat, laugh, talk, enjoy the space — that is what it is about. That is why I do this.

And honestly? I think women are naturally good at that. We build communities. We bring people together. Whether it is a WhatsApp group, a breakfast table, or a restaurant — it is in our DNA. It is how we are wired. And for me, that has always been at the heart of what I do.

I don’t need outside validation to know it matters.

And here is what I really believe: When you stop trying to prove yourself, that is when the good stuff actually happens. That is when you focus fully on the work. And when the work gets better, the rest tends to follow — the awards, the recognition, all of it. But by then, it doesn’t define you. Because by then, you already know who you are.

— Time for the classic question every chef gets! It might sound obvious to someone like you, but for those of us outside the industry, we are genuinely curious. How do you create a menu? Are you the only one responsible for it?

— Yes — it is all me. I let my team create and help them put everything together to make the final dish. Let me explain everything.

I never want to offend a traditional dish or any culture. Sometimes, I take something familiar — from Levantine cuisine or the region in general — and reinterpret it. I might play with texture, structure, or temperature, but I always try to keep the soul of the dish intact. And when I do that, I never use the original name — I give it a new one. That is really important to me. It is about respect.

For example, if I’m inspired by fattoush, but I present it differently, I will use the same ingredients in a new way — and call it something else. Same with bulgur: I might reshape how it is used, but I will rename the dish so no one feels like I’m trying to “fix” something that doesn’t need fixing.

That is one part of the process. The other is making sure the entire menu works as a system. Everything has to connect.

If I peel tomatoes for one dish, the tomato skins will go into another. If I ferment tomatoes and get tomato water as a byproduct, that water becomes part of something else. If we make tzatziki for the bar and end up with leftover cucumber juice, I freeze it and use it as ice cubes in drinks.

Nothing goes to waste — not time, not ingredients, not effort. Every single element has to serve a purpose somewhere else. We never bring in an ingredient just for one random dish. It has to make sense in the bigger picture. It is like an ecosystem — everything is connected.

A few dishes from the menu curated by Sara Aqel for Miu Miu Villa 515

— For this Ramadan, you created a special à la carte menu at Miu Miu Villa 515 (a pop-up café produced by VCA for the occasion of Ramadan). As I understood it, the menu reflects your personal journey. Can you tell me more about that?

— Absolutely. The menu I created for Miu Miu isn’t just a reflection of my journey — it is also a reflection of how my food has evolved over the years. The ingredients I use and the techniques I’ve developed have all changed. But at the core of every dish is home. My region. The Levant. The Sham.

I have so much love and respect for where I come from. For Palestine — my home country. For Jordan — where I grew up and still live. And for Lebanon, Syria, and our neighbouring countries. Even places like Saudi Arabia and the UAE — which has been home since I was 20 — they’ve all played a role in shaping me.

I value everything that grows there — and everything those flavours carry with them. Memories from our mums, our aunties, our neighbours. Dishes we’ve shared with friends, meals from tiny restaurants in side streets. That is the kind of food that stays with you.

When I cook, I’m not trying to reinvent or “elevate” traditional dishes — I actually don’t believe in that kind of language. I’m not interested in transforming something just for the sake of it.

What I do is this: I take one ingredient from a dish we all know — something that carries emotional weight, something that unlocks a memory — and I use it in a new way. I’m not changing the dish. I’m carrying the feeling of it into something else.

Miu Miu Villa 515. Instagram: @villa515

— Food is an expression of who we are. So I would love to ask: What would you be if you were a dish?

— Grilled baby gem lettuce with Dijon mustard dressing, white anchovies, salted capers, and charred rice crisps.

Because when you are a lettuce — people take you for granted. They think: It is just lettuce. But then they taste it — and it surprises them. That is me.

— You are a fan of good pizza! What kind of pizza do you love the most?

— Okay, you can laugh at me all you want, but honestly? My favourite pizza is just a really good margherita. And if I’m adding something — some proper pepperoni with hot honey.

— Great. And last question — there are a lot of movies about chefs, especially women chefs. Do you have a favourite one? Or maybe one that really shows the industry the way it is?

— To be honest, no movie really shows what this industry is actually like. But I do love watching anything about Julia Child.

She was an American chef — and I don’t admire her for where she came from or even for her exact cooking style. I admire how she showed up. She would be on TV wearing pearls — real pearls — lipstick, a skirt, an apron. Full femininity. No apologies.

And I love that. I respect women who walk into the kitchen without trying to tone anything down.

There was a time when women were told that if they looked too “girly,” too feminine, no one would take them seriously in a professional kitchen. So they hid it.

And I say — absolutely not. You can look however you want. You can show up exactly as yourself. And cook like hell.

by Alexandra Mansilla