There is definitely something wrong with me...

I haven't mentioned it yet, but I have a new job. Again, it's not the most exciting gig in the world, but the pros outweigh the cons I suppose. Everyone knows I'd prefer to avoid the corporate restaurants, but alas, here I am. That's OK though. The pay is fair, it's a new experience, and I'm learning a lot of Spanish. And at least I'm not in that damn cafeteria anymore.

So far, it's been fairly slow. Nothing too crazy. Until today.

I went in at eight, and performed three hours of prep before the doors opened for lunch at 11. As is usual, people began trickling into the restaurant very slowly. By 11:30, about a half dozen tables had been sat, and my two amigos and I were casually preparing sandwiches, salads, and wraps. Smooth sailing.

Around this time I noticed the hostess walking around briskly out on the floor. Looking towards the door from the service window, I saw a party of about 20 standing there. OK, that's a big table. Yet again, this is no cause for panic.

Then I saw an eight-top come in. And then a 12. And then just a thick stream of people. In a 25 minute time period, the entire floor was filled. An entire 200 seat restaurant had just filled up as fast as the hostess could sit people down. A sense of urgency suddenly took over the entire Wednesday morning staff. The servers kicked it into a higher gear and started really hustling. Around me, on the line, the Spanish became quicker, louder, and sharper. I began to struggle to understand it. The sense of urgency soon passed, and was replaced by sheer chaos.

The next hour and a half passed by in an instant. It was wild, and stressful, and confusing. I'm surprised the ticket printers didn't catch fire or explode. The tickets just kept coming and coming, showing no mercy on a kitchen which was already deeply in the weeds. On the other side, tensions ran high as servers implored about the whereabouts of their food, while the boss tried to quiet everyone and expedite. On my side there was heat, and Spanglish, and great suffering. I briefly considered chopping my own finger off in order to escape, but just when I picked up the knife, the printers stopped their diabolical clicking and screeching. As quickly as the carnage had began, it also ended.

So it goes. And we all lived to serve the dumb-ass populace another day....

Every time I'm part of a rush like the one today, I'm always reminded of those TV commercials that the culinary schools put out. Clean, non-sweaty Anglos slowly and carefully placing basil micro greens on top of some composed tuna carpaccio; Smiling young men who's teeth gleam as they toss mirpoix around in a pan; Chefs who look like Santa Claus caringly instructing some youngster in a large, clean, well lit kitchen. "Do you love to cook? Get ready for an exciting career in the world of culinary arts!"

What a load of bullshit. Trust me on this: If you're thinking of going to culinary school, go get a kitchen job first. The picture they paint with the advertising is far from reality. I advise anyone even remotely interested to be well informed about the industry they are thinking about entering. Do you love to cook? Yeah? Great. Stay in your kitchen at home. Going to culinary school or working in a professional kitchen because you "like to cook" is equivalent to joining the Army because you "like to jog". That shit you see on the Food Network is bogus.

I'd like to start my own culinary school. Here are some things I'd show in my commercials...

I'd show a line, three feet wide and 14 feet long, with five people working on it. Everyone would be yelling and running into one another. They would all be leaning backward slightly as they worked, in an attempt to not drip sweat on the plates. Everyone's arms and hands would be covered in cuts and burns. There would be a close-up of a thermometer, which shows the temperature as being 118 degrees Fahrenheit. I'd play ranchero music throughout the entire commercial. At the end of the commercial, I'd show the exhausted kitchen staff wandering out of the door at Midnight onto a loading dock, where some would drink vodka, some would smoke weed, and some would snort coke. Some would do all three.

These would be the words you would hear spoken... "Are you looking for a new career? Do you enjoy keeping strange hours and working every weekend? Do you work well with a wide variety of social misfits? Do you wish you could sweat more? Are you stuck in a dead end job where you aren't surrounded by madmen who all possess razor-sharp cutlery? Do you have a borderline or full-blown substance abuse problem? Are you ready to live like a modern-day pirate? (Something French) Culinary School could be perfect for you, contact us today and get ready for your exciting new future!"

As I type this, I'm reminded of something a chef told me while I was in culinary school. I'll call him "Chef H". He asked me if I really wanted to do this job. I told him I did and that I enjoyed it. He paused, and told me this... "If you are the type of person who really wants to do this for a living, then something is wrong with you."

I blew his comment off at the time, but now, looking back on it a couple years later, I realize that he was correct.

There is definitely something wrong with me.