What do we like about this chef?

The Instagram chef, yes, adds way more pepper than he should, as if he were sprinkling an abstract painting. He does it like a juggler: he cuts the eggplant in two and shows them off. When he needs to make the cuts, the resulting diamond shapes, so the oil penetrates, he takes the knife and pretends to use a saber. He puts on a show.

He throws cherry tomatoes onto the tray. He and all his colleagues love using cherry tomatoes because they're red. Then he grates cheese with all the ceremony and ostentation. He has a coarse grater, a triangle of thick cheese. With all his fingers, he picks up the volvas and pours them over the tomatoes. He looks at the camera and shows a half-full wine glass and sniffs it. Now he puts the tray in the oven and immediately takes it out (advantages of video editing tools).

Everything is exaggerated, everything is extroverted, everything is big. He uses ladles, huge peppers. And it contrasts, of course, with the minimalism of the cook, also on Instagram, who uses tongs and coffee spoons, very focused, like someone putting pieces under a microscope. Unwittingly, we like a quality that's perceptible in this exaggerated cook. He's happy to be cooking, no matter how he does it. He laughs all the time, open and happy to do the job he's been given. It's often said, when talking about home cooking, that there must be love. I'd say maybe it's the other way around. It's not that there has to be love. It's that there can't not be love. We like these cooks because they're cheerful and happy. Unwittingly, we seek out cooks who don't do us any favors—on the contrary. We expect the magic of home from them: it doesn't seem to be for money or fame, it seems for love. That's why we're in awe of the ones on Instagram. Because they laugh.