I sleep little that night. My subconscious drags me out of my sleep every other hour, telling me that it is high time to get up now, that I am going to be late for my first day, how embarrassing (it is 2am). Inbetween those bursts of anxious wakefulness, my dreams regale me with scenarios of my inevitable delayed arrival, and highly imaginative and richly embellished episodes of gut-wrenching humiliations.

It's easy to look to chefs as restaurant critics. We know the ins and outs, the new top spots, the up-and-coming openings, the who’s who and what’s what of the industry.

But there are a few factors to consider when taking a chef’s recommendation: Overfamiliarity. Pride. Competition. Jealousy. Or pretending that we know more than we actually do.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, looking at the digital clock behind you. Twenty-one minutes to open. You turn around again to focus on your tasks, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest and internal monologue (“fuck, fuck, fuck!”) and remembering the things still left to do, rearranging the order of priority at a minute’s interval.