"SIX OF THESE TICKETS ARE ON THE FLY AND I HAVE TO MAKE CHURROS!" I hear one of the cooks scream from the garde marger station. The printer keeps spitting and spitting out ticket after ticket as though mocking the fact that the entire kitchen is in the weeds.
Hmm...guess we ran out of the only dessert we have on offer tonight. Not sure how that happened, since we knew almost precisely how many people to expect because we're actually taking reservations this week.
All desserts are taking like 25 minutes, as well as any other food coming off the garde marger station, all cold food that usually takes just a few minutes to prepare. The older ladies at Table 51 (my second Table 51 of the night) are growing impatient. They've only had water to drink all night and are completely uninterested in a digestivo or a coffee as they wait for dessert. I'm dying to check in with the chef, just to make sure their food is coming, but I'm pretty sure he'll stab me or shoot me if I get in his way right now. So, I simply pace, back and forth between the cold line and Table 51, feeling simultaneously anxious and totally bored.
Man, I hate Restaurant Week.