Chefs Rule!
If you can't stand the sight of lopped-off digits and the smell of your own flesh burning, get out of the kitchen
You'll soon learn that keeping your mouth shut, your eyes down and your nose to the grindstone is just the bit of sugar you need to make that inevitable spoonful of disciplinary medicine go down easier. Swallowing a bit of pride will help, too. Learn it here and now, or learn it the hard way.
Like me. I've been choked by a chef for running out of Caesar dressing on a busy weekend. His frothy, panicked words -- "This is not a joke to me, motherfucker!" -- still ring in my ears at night when all goes quiet and I'm left alone in thought.
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