The orders are arriving non-stop. My left hand grabs tickets, separates white ones for the grill man, yellow ones for the sauté man, and pink master copies, which I use to time and generally oversee the production. My right hand wipes plates, inserts rosemary sprigs into mashed potatoes. I’m yelling full time, trying to hold it all together. If there is an unforeseeable mishap—say, one of the big tables’ orders was prematurely sent out, only to be returned—the whole process could come to a full stop. “Where’s that fucking confit?” I yell at Angel, who’s struggling to make blinis for smoked salmon, to brown ravioli under the salamander, to lay out plates of pâté, and to do five endive salads, all more or less at once. A hot escargot explodes in front of me, spattering me with boiling garlic butter and snail guts.

— Anthony Bourdain, One Day—and One Night—in the Kitchen at Les Halles (via)