I assume one becomes a chef because they have a love for cooking and food and the artistry involved, but I can’t think of anything more eroding to that love of the craft than the kind of working day I see chefs and other kitchen staff go through. It seems to an outsider like me that it’s basically a shift-length panic attack, every day. But that can’t be the case, or no one would do the job!
Imagine straddling the line between performing at your absolute best, pushed to the limit of your abilities, and living in a complete horror show of a shift. All your cylinders are firing, your brain is running 110%, your body is alive. It is up to you, and the crew you trained, to impose order onto chaos by performing a complex symphony of actions in a tightly coordinated team.
Yes, tensions are high, but everyone is digging in, summoning their grit, and working together to tackle any upset in the highly demanding flow of food. There is laughing, cursing, anger, worry, joy, comradery. It’s a high drama marathon that challenges you, makes you perform at your best every day. You know the complete despair and panic when it falls apart and you know the sweet satisfaction as the rush dies down and you and your team did it, against all odds, once again.
When you look out the window and see the hordes of people eagerly awaiting to enjoy a great meal with their friends and family and you look over at the people already served and see the absolute bliss on their faces as they dig in…
You. You made that happen.
you forgot to mention all the cocaine a/o weed
You just described literal hell.
Oh it is. But there’s drugs and trauma-bonding, so that helps. Plus, it pays a few more bucks than minimum wage.
It also conveys a permanent +10 bonus to your rizz so you can sleep with the slutty front of house.
Somewhere between the borders of desperation and total burnout there is a sweet spot where you realize you are performing at a higher level than you ever have, higher than most ever will, and the satisfaction compensates for the lack of pay and the life destroying vices you need to employ in order to cope with the constant stress.
Good times.
Sounds like mental illness
It is, but it’s the functional kind. And the landlord doesn’t give a fuck about your problems so you got turn life’s lemons into lemon pepper chicken to pay that rent.