“So you want to open a restaurant? No you don’t”… continues with a break down of the hours and work restaurant owners have to do.
Hours break down
Did I mention the super long hours?–60 a week at a minimum, usually more like 80 to 100. So you will have between 12 and 32 hours for yourself after sleep–assuming you sleep 8 hours a night (that would be nice). And by yourself I mean this is the time you have to commute to the stupid restaurant you opened, shower, shave, shit, piss, clean your house, do the laundry, water the plants, eat, do the dishes (from plating take out because you have no time or desire to cook at home), worry about the restaurant, talk to your family and loved ones on the phone, go to the doctor/dentist (you are getting older and are starting to fall the fuck apart), shopping, getting a haircut, wondering what the fuck you have done to yourself, popping zits in the mirror, tweezing nose hair, checking out other restaurants, surfing the internet, reading, writing, listening to music, watching tv, staring into space, making love, drinking after work (sometimes before and during work as well), thinking about new menu items, waking in a panic and staying up in bed going over and over and over stuff until you finally fall asleep for an hour before the alarm wakes you in a panic over something else, napping most of your one day off and then by the end of those things you are left with next to no time–maybe a couple of hours to do something nice so enjoy your 2 hours a week of “free time” you dumb ass…… Oh well, you will probably be too fucking tired to want to do anything anyway.
All the Shit you will have to do
Unless you are using someone else’s money, which you should, you have to do a lot of shit that you would rather pay someone else to do or just don’t want to do but must. You are no longer just a chef. Instead you are a carpenter, painter, builder, novice electrician and plumber, fix-it guy, stove and refrigerator repairman, first aide administrator, counselor, boss man/woman, celebrity of sorts (but not enough of one to really benefit from it), stock boy, dented can inspector, secretary, fish-chicken-beef-pork sniffer/feeler, hard ass, the guy who returns produce-meat-fish because it sucks, taster taster taster taster, story listener (everyone has got one and most are fucking long, pointless and boring), story teller, dj, host, accountant, bookkeeper, number cruncher, data enterer, payroll person, check writer/signer (you will do a shit load of this), bug exterminator, rat catcher, fly swatter, recipe writer, food cost figure-outer, shopper, talk to stupid people on the phone person, yes man/no man, burnt/cut hands/arms person, hirer, firer, excuse listener, bitch, asshole, cleaner, mopper, sweeper, water bailer, garbage man, chain smoker, teetering on the edge of alcoholism person, talking to strangers in the dining room who wanted to meet the chef guy….clog wearer, fucking clog wearer. Dude those things are for old ladies who have gardens, what are you gay or something?
All the things you will be or become
And you will be hot–constantly hot, ass sweat hot, you must always be hot, greasy, sweaty, stinky, unwashed, unshaven, hands smell like fish/garlic/onions/unknown foul odor that is reminiscent of the monkey house at the zoo (which you would like to visit but don’t have time). You will always be either over-eating or under-eating depending upon the level of stress and panic and how you deal with it. You will have burns and cuts on your hands which you will be constantly reminded of by salt and citrus. Your back will ache and will probably totally go out some day when you are picking up a case of Idaho 90’s or 50 pounds of heritage pork butt. Your legs and feet will also be sore from standing all the time and you will most likely spill scalding hot braising liquid into your clogs at some point–those stupid fucking clogs which are supposed to be so good for you and yeah I guess they are, but dude….you are a clog wearer, a fucking clog wearer…….tbc
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