I Visited Rikers Jail Kitchen: Here’s What Surprised Me Most

After traversing the mile-long bridge, we passed through three security gates. I was surprised to learn that many chefs rely solely on public transportation to get to work, often traveling two or more hours each way.

Once inside AMKC, we went through metal detectors. This building hasn’t held detainees since 2023. It was an eerie 10-minute walk down the silent, seemingly endless hallways.

People in custody wash dishes, push carts, and serve food.

They can’t have any infraction tickets. They must be serving time for nonviolent offenses and be approved by custody management to work here.

There are no open fires here. They cook chicken in rotisserie ovens.

I was shocked to see how many dishes chefs made from scratch. Tartar sauce started as mayo and pickles. Pepper steak, a favorite among detainees, started as blocks of frozen beef.

Inside the kitchen, it still felt like a jail. I felt the cameras everywhere.

Guards watched over the detainees and checked every incoming shipment of food for contraband. They frisked down detainees before they entered the kitchen, and again before they left.

Knives are kept on chains for their protection. When a chef needs the knife at a different location, they have to get a guard from the office to come unlock it and move it.

The chefs told me it felt awkward at first, the chain brushing against their hands, but they eventually got used to it.

Still, they say it can be tricky. I watched one chef wrestle the chain into position before cutting into a large frozen block of beef.

Even things I wouldn’t normally consider dangerous — like cans of green beans — are treated as potential threats. Chefs are required to throw them away immediately.

Cans go into wagons, and lids go into a caged trash can. Officers told us they have to be cautious about everything. Even small pieces of plastic, wood, and metal can be turned into weapons. That goes for spoons and ladles, too.

Whenever a chef needs a ladle or whisk, they have to get a guard to unlock a box in the office.

I couldn’t help but think how tedious that must be. “It’s for security,” the chefs reminded me.

Chef Ageda was cracking jokes and laughing with me. He didn’t seem phased by the detainees in the kitchen. He said he can’t be friends with the people in custody because he knows why they’re here. But he said he treats them all with respect.

In an email statement to Business Insider, the Department of Corrections said, “violent incidents that occur in our kitchens are extremely rare.”

Nadine Leach was a chef before serving time at Rikers. She’s one of the detainees approved to push food carts to the housing units.

At the time of filming, Leach earned $1.45 an hour. She’s saving money for her grandkids, she told me.

Leach has worked in the kitchen longer than any other person in custody, clocking 56 hours a week by choice, she said. She calls the kitchen her “sanctuary” because she doesn’t feel like she’s in jail while working there.

But even in her sanctuary, officers pat her down, along with all the other people in custody, before they deliver food to the housing units.

One moment, Leach is telling me about her grandkids and her goals when she gets out. Then reality sinks in, and she’s up against the wall.

She says she understands the officers are doing their jobs and that she’s doing her time. They’re living in two different worlds.

A dinner might include grilled chicken or pepper steak, which smelled delicious.

The day I visited, pasta salad and tuna were on the lunch menu. It didn’t look particularly appetizing, but it was way better than I expected. There were multiple veggies, from coleslaw to the beets.

In 2024, a Department of Corrections representative told the City Council that each meal costs about $9.

In October 2019, NYC’s city council voted to close Rikers for good, citing years of violence and unmanageable conditions. The deadline to cease all jail operations on the island was 2027.

However, a 2025 report from the Independent Rikers Commission found that the city likely won’t meet that deadline. One criminal justice reporter I spoke to said 2031 was more likely.

Obviously, this is jail. I knew it was going to be tough to see life inside Rikers. On one hand, the chef and officers’ ease helped me relax. But it was clear — simmering just beneath the surface — that there was a constant readiness for the worst-case scenario.

It was like this huge elephant in the room. We were laughing with the chefs, talking with Leach about her grandkids — but I never forgot where we were. I could feel the cameras. I could always spot an officer in the corner of my eye.

I left Rikers wondering how chefs and officers return to their normal lives every night. Are they able to shake that alertness?

I left thinking about Leach, and my heart sank. Every second she’s watched. Every time she leaves a room, she’s patted down.

Even so, she maintains a positive outlook, telling me she plans to open up a restaurant when she gets out. A goal I hope she achieves.