I receive a tersely written letter demanding the entire class’ presence at a meeting four days before the start of Skills II. After years of reading emails in the corporate world, I can sense the subtext in this letter. The subtext is: YOUR ASS IS MINE FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS.
I instantly feel sorry for those who can’t smell it coming. Newbies are blood in the water for our shark of a chef.
At my last job I worked for a demanding, slightly (verging on full blown) neurotic beast of a woman who was far more demanding than any other boss I’d had in the nitpicky world of technical editing. She was (ironically or not, I haven’t a clue) a chef in her former life. We’d butted heads more than once in the six months I’d worked for her and still goes down in history as the only person I’ve actually yelled at in my career. It’s pretty damn easy to say I am anxious about this new chef I have to slave under.
I show up, and true to history repeating itself and all that, she looks exactly like my previous boss. A short, stout, silver-haired, steely-eyed dragon readied with her alpha female superpowers to tell exactly what she demands from us. She’s the type of person who tells you exactly what she expects of you. I respect her. Straight talk gets the point around. It’s much better than the touchy feely crap I endured in Art School
I’m a little wary of all the rules she has set up for us. I’ll be the first person to admit that I am stubborn as hell and have just the teensiest problem with authority. I’ll just have to see if I can stick it out without throwing a tantrum or one of those 20 gallon stock pots across the room.
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