Anyway, my chef runs a charity and they were having a meeting/party tonight. There were to be about a dozen people, and then a few ressies on the side. But with that party scheduled for the time that a rush would come if did, I kinda just got "the feeling." I was ready for insanity, and so felt prepared as we all-of-a-sudden filled up.
Still, as the ticket board filled and I was working sauté on my own, I couldn't help but get a little anxious. And more. Beyond a "little anxious" was "straight-up nervous." And once we got really busy and the adrenaline kicked in, I reached "fuck-it mode," where I just grabbed my ankles every once in a while.
Very occasionally, I've reached a LeBron James-esque level of competition, when I realize that this is a personal challenge from God, and I have to accept. It's simply "business time." (Anyone who watches Flight of the Choncords knows what I mean.) Last night I flew into "business time" and stayed there for around two and a half hours, which may be close to a new record (we'll have to go to the judges).
Here's the weirdest thing: For the first time, I felt I was the only person to go to this level. Broken plates, forgotten fries, salty scallops and miscued firings cued anyone who was paying attention to the fact that it wasn't a great night. The front and the back had issues, but it seemed like I was on my game for close to five hours.
I could be sitting here now in my cushy foie gras and boob-filled beanbag of self-aggrandizing distinction, but once I settled down and settled in, I realized that no one gives a fuck about what I did. Because when the blame goes around, it still lands on me. Or, as my chef half-jokingly said as she left, "Hmm, I'll yell at you tomorrow. Or I won't. But I might."
At least I asked if I should come in early. *Sigh*
Now, what was that "L" word?
Now, what was that "L" word?
