Going down.

Your hands plunge into the water, grabbing mussel by mussel, swiftly removing their beards, whilst continuously checking on the paste noisily blending beside you. 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.

The braising liquor still needs to go on, garlic still needs to get blitzed, you need to get at least four litres of sauce cooked out before the first orders come in, and you try to remind yourself of the list of mise still needed on your section. Further down in the back of your mind, you can feel the other worries flowing in and out, poking your already troubled consciousness – ingredients that are going to run out, the proteins that need to be portioned, not to forget the staff food you’re in charge of today, today of all days! You would have asked your colleagues for help, but they, too, are swimming – the brutal weekend left the fridges empty and the prep lists overflowing.

When you look again, the bright red numbers on the clock have jumped up by an absurd amount – the ruthless relativity of time before service – and your normal walking pace (usually brisk but controlled) has turned into a nervous jog. With sweat building on your forehead, your cheeks red, you rush to complete the set up of your section, clean down the surfaces, gather the little mise you have, and collect the prep that you will have to complete during service.

By now, the doors have opened, and as you set up your green board to breeze through some chopping jobs, you notice the first few customers getting seated – it’s going to be busy. The bank holiday crowds have no mercy.

The first checks come in, forcing you to abandon the prep which, at this point, feels more urgent than feeding those bright and early customers. But the orders continue. You are aware of your prep station taking up valuable space for plating, but maybe after this round of checks, you’ll get a minute to finish up the task; maybe after you put on this round of dishes, you can get some good work done in the minute that it takes to cook them. How stupidly optimistic you always are.

And so, the already feeble fundament begins to crumble. With each new check, you count down the few portions you have left. An order gets called out and you’re aware that the beef required for this dish is still currently braising away in the oven. Another check requires you to run to the fridge and prep ingredients to order. Sauces and garnishes are running dangerously low. The chef next to you is struggling too. The pass chef does their best to maintain patience, but the check rail is filling up and dishes are getting sent out at a pace that leaves much to be desired.

“New check, this is for the table of 10, nut and shellfish allergy!”

You’re staring at your section and take a deep breath. The small talk you had with an acquaintance the day before passes through your head.

So what do you like about being a chef?

Oh I just love the adrenaline and team spirit, and it’s the only place where I truly feel challenged.

A bemused grunt escapes from your chest. That adrenaline sure is hitting a little too hard right now. You close your eyes for a brief two seconds.

Right now, you have absolutely no clue how you’re going to get through the day. You know you will eventually leave at the end of your shift. But until then, there is an inexhaustible list of jobs and hurdles to get past.

And fuck knows how you’re going to make it to the other side.

So you open your eyes again, top up your charcoal (if nothing else, at least your fire won’t run out!), and run downstairs to get the beef out of the oven. Once you accept that you’re going down like a sack of shit, things tend to look up.