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     For those of you who have never had to earn your living by working in a restaurant, I'd like to describe what the typical kitchen looks like. Don't let anyone else tell you different.

     First, over in that corner, you'd see a hairy little Italian man excitedly stuffing hot dogs down the tight jeans of a sloppy-sleazy teenage girl as she sits disinterestedly on the edge of the prep counter. Located close by, there's typically a mop boy named "Eddie," who dwells on determining the precise age when it becomes creepy for a young man to kiss his own father. Next, there's always one occasion per night-- typically during the heart of the first big rush-- when one of the assistant chefs takes a pent-up dump in a white plastic bucket, and when it hits the water, it fizzes like Alka-Seltzer. Also, in most of the kitchens where I've worked, there was always at least one guy who spent the better part of the evening organizing his photo collection of Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, Flea, apeing it up for the camera. And finally, the best head chefs were always those who wore eyeglasses which were so thick with dust, the chefs could barely ever see out of them. These culinary geniuses were careful-- VERY careful-- never to allow the dust to blow off, though no one knew why.

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