“The prince is getting married, and there’s a ton of work to
do.” There was a tangible pause in our IM conversation.
“I can’t tell whether you’re kidding…” I wasn’t.
This has been possibly the most stressful week in the restaurant’s
history, with me at the helm. There has been sweat, there have been
tears, and there have even been shingles. All that’s left is the blood,
and I don’t know whether I’m hoping it’s not mine, or hoping it’s not shed
because I stabbed someone.
I have been told, on occasion, that I’m a bit
intimidating. Looking back on some of the great chefs of all time, I feel
I’m pretty calm, comparatively. To date I have never thrown something at
an employee, never sworn at them, never called them names. The best I’ve
done is tell my dishwasher I could grow potatoes faster than he’s peeling them,
but that is merely stating what is fact.
This week has tested my
patience, however. The restaurant is less than a year old, so everything
is trial and error. This Friday, the royal wedding, (and, unfortunately,
my birthday) will be no exception. We’re booked to the max, maybe even
over-max; I’m cracking the prep whip on the man who signs my paychecks, and our
pastry chef has developed a stress-induced condition. Every news team in
the area has been by to schmooze with the owner. The phone will not stop
ringing. Every person I know with the ability to hold a knife or potato
peeler has been assigned a task in the kitchen, and I am praying for the gift
of a virtue I never possessed with which to make it through the night (at least
mostly) unscathed.
My back aches. I can feel the onset of carpal
tunnel settling into the wrist attached to the hand I need for, oh, nearly
everything. When I thought I had paid a portion of my dues, I did not
take into account the physical toll this career path would take on a body that
is not yet thirty. I remind myself that I did not choose this; it chose
me (but that is a story for another time). So I will silently curse the
prince’s choice of wedding date (oh, who are we kidding…his grandmother
probably chose it for him) as I hang out in the dungeon chained to a deep-fryer,
praying someone, anyone at all, remembers I’m turning one year older.
Oh,
yes, and loudly praying for it to be over.
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