My name’s Cole Harrington, and I’m a 42-year-old executive chef based out of Charleston, South Carolina. If you’ve spent enough time on the line, you probably know my story before I even tell it. Long nights. Burned hands. The kind of pressure that can make or break a soul. But for me? That pressure was always the forge.

I didn’t grow up with family recipes passed down from generations or a French copper pot set in the kitchen. My mother worked doubles at the hospital, and dinner was often boxed mac and cheese with frozen peas stirred in if we were lucky. But I remember being six years old, watching Jacques Pépin on a tiny kitchen TV, mesmerized—not by the dishes, but by the way he respected every movement, every ingredient. That man peeled an onion like it was art. I knew then I didn’t just want to cook—I wanted to master the language of food.

I got my start like many of us do: dish pit, 16, no clue what I was doing. But I watched. I studied. I volunteered to prep, to close, to clean fryer oil just for a chance to be near the heat. Culinary school came later, at the CIA in Hyde Park. But the real education? That came from being thrown into the weeds during Saturday night service at a seafood bistro in New Orleans, where my sous chef once screamed at me in three languages before throwing a sauté pan that missed me by an inch. I still thank him for that—he taught me timing is everything, but composure is king.

I’ve helmed four kitchens since then. My current home is Steel Magnolia, a high-concept Southern-American tasting menu spot with a love for charred stone fruit, tallow-aged duck, and bourbon-smoked anything. We don’t chase Michelin stars here—but we damn well cook like we deserve one.

What drives me today isn’t just crafting the perfect dish. It’s mentoring. It’s seeing that new line cook—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, maybe a little cocky—start to slow down and feel the rhythm of the kitchen. I’ve made it my mission to demystify “fine dining” without compromising its rigor. I believe in high standards, sharp knives, and cleaner walk-ins than operating rooms. But I also believe that food should mean something—should carry a story, a memory, even a failure or two.

Failures? I’ve had plenty. The salt-crusted branzino that shattered on plating. The venison tartare we tried to smoke under glass (looked like a magic trick, tasted like regret). But I stand by every swing we took. Because pushing boundaries is how you find the edge—and sometimes, how you fall off it. Either way, you learn.

This isn’t a job for people who want comfort. It’s for people who chase fire—literally and metaphorically. And if you’re one of those people, I’m always down to talk shop, trade war stories, or share a bourbon after close.

Just don’t ask me to put truffle oil on anything. That’s where I draw the line.