Look, we know how it looks. During service we're screaming at you. "Move faster!" "Where's my fucking protein?!" "I said FIRE, not stand there thinking about it!" We're intense, we're harsh, and yeah.. We're kind of assholes.Then the last ticket drops and suddenly we're asking if you're okay. Offering to buy you a drink. Cracking jokes like the last four hours didn't happen. Like we weren't just barking orders at you with zero patience.People think we're two-faced. That we're control freaks who relax when we get our way. That the nice version is fake and the harsh version is who we really are. They're all wrong. Both versions are real. And if you've never worked a real service, you'll never understand why the switch happens. But it's not what you think.
What's Actually Happening During Service
Let us paint you a picture of what's running through our heads during a Saturday night rush.We've got 200 covers on the books. Twelve tables just got sat simultaneously. We're tracking thirty-six different items across five stations. Every dish has different cook times. Every table expects their food to arrive together, hot, perfect.We're calculating timing in real-time while also:
- Watching quality on every plate
- Checking temps
- Adjusting for the new guy who's slower than our regular
- Compensating for the oven running hot tonight
- Fixing mistakes before they leave the kitchen
- Making micro-decisions every fifteen seconds
In that state, our brain doesn't have bandwidth for:
- Explaining why something needs to change
- Softening corrections with kindness
- Checking in on your feelings
- Using complete sentences
- Saying "please" and "thank you"
It's not that we don't care. It's that caring requires mental space we literally don't have. Every available processor in our brain is maxed out just keeping the machine running.So when we yell "BEHIND!" instead of "Excuse me, I'm passing behind you with a hot pan," it's not rudeness. It's efficiency. It's the only thing that works when every second counts and every mistake compounds.
Photo by: Nguyễn Du
We're Not People. We're Processors
During service, we're not operating as humans. We're processors running at 100% capacity.You know that feeling when your computer is maxed out and everything slows down? That's what happens if we try to be nice during service. The politeness takes up bandwidth. The gentleness slows us down. The emotional awareness creates lag.And in a kitchen, lag kills. It turns one mistake into five. It makes you lose timing. It creates chaos that spreads across every station.So we strip everything down to the absolute essentials:
- Commands are short
- Corrections are immediate
- Communication is direct
- There's no room for feelings
"Fire table seven" is clearer and faster than "When you have a moment, could you please start the items for table seven?" "Remake this, protein's over" is more efficient than "I'm sorry but this is slightly overcooked and our standards require us to redo it, would you mind?" The kitchen doesn't allow time for the second version. So we default to the first. Not because we're mean. Because it's what works when you're drowning and every second matters.
The Adrenaline Factor Nobody Talks About
Here's what people outside kitchens don't get: service is a sustained adrenaline spike that lasts hours.Our heart rate is elevated for three to four hours straight. Our senses are heightened. Our brain is in legitimate fight-or-flight mode. We're operating in a state of controlled emergency from the first ticket until the last one fires.In that state, we're not our normal selves. We're our survival selves. The version optimized for threat response and rapid decision-making. The version that cuts through everything non-essential to focus on what matters.Politeness? Non-essential. Tone of voice? Non-essential. Your feelings? Non-essential.Getting food out perfect? Essential. Maintaining timing? Essential. Fixing problems instantly? Essential.So that's where all our energy goes. Everything else gets stripped away because our nervous system is in emergency mode and it doesn't have room for anything that doesn't help us survive the rush.Then service ends. The tickets stop. The dining room empties. And our adrenaline starts to crash.That's when we shift from survival mode back to human mode. And that's when we remember you're not just "the guy on sauté" you're a person who just took our shit for four hours without walking out.
Photo by: Nick Souza
Why We Check On You After
After service, when we ask "You good?" it's not performative. It's real.We saw you struggling during the rush. We saw the mistake you made and how you reacted. We saw you get overwhelmed when we were three tickets deep. We registered all of it.We just didn't have the capacity to address it in the moment.But we didn't forget. And now that our brain has bandwidth again, we circle back. We check in. We make sure the intensity didn't break something.Because we know what we just put you through. We know how we were. We know that four hours of us in survival mode is brutal to be around.We saw you hold it together. We saw you push through when you wanted to quit. We saw you maintain standards even when we were on your ass.And now that we're human again, we want you to know we noticed. That we appreciate it. That the harsh version during service wasn't personal. It was just what the situation demanded. "You did good tonight" isn't a throwaway line. We mean it. Because we saw what it took for you to get through that service, and we respect it.
Both Versions Are Real
Here's what matters: both versions are authentic.The harsh chef during service isn't an act. That's real. That's what extreme pressure does to us. That's who we become when our brain is maxed out and our nervous system is in emergency mode.The kind chef after service isn't fake either. That's also real. That's who we are when we have the capacity to connect as humans instead of just processors executing tasks.Neither version is the "true" self. They're both true. Humans adapt to circumstances. During service, circumstances demand intensity. After service, we have room for humanity.People who've never experienced sustained high-pressure work don't understand this. They think there's one "real you" and everything else is pretending. But anyone who's worked a brutal service knows: you become what the situation requires. And when the situation changes, you change with it.We're not two different people. We're the same person in two different states. Survival mode during battle. Human mode during peace.
The Shift Drinks Ritual
There's a reason kitchens have post-service rituals. Shift drinks. Staff meal. Standing in the alley decompressing. Sitting on milk crates in the back smoking and bullshitting.It's not just about unwinding. It's about reconnecting. It's the bridge back to being human together.This is where the harsh chef becomes a person again. Where we remember names instead of just stations. Where we see individuals instead of functions. Where we can actually hear what people are saying instead of just processing commands. This is when real relationships form. Because the people who survive service with us become our people. We've been through something together that civilians don't understand. We've operated in survival mode as a unit. That creates bonds.But those bonds don't form during service. They form after, when we can connect as humans rather than cogs in a machine.When we buy you that beer, we're not trying to make up for being harsh. We're acknowledging what we went through together. We're saying "that was brutal and you held it down." We're cementing the bond that only forms when you've survived something hard with someone.
Photo by: Samir
For Everyone in the Kitchen
If you're new to kitchens, understand this: don't take the service intensity personally. We're not mad at you specifically. We're in a state where being gentle literally doesn't compute. The real test is how we treat you after service. That's when you see who we actually are.If we ignore you after service? If we stay in asshole mode when the pressure's off? That's a problem. That's when you know the harsh version isn't just surviva, it's who they are. But if we check on you, if we acknowledge the work you did, if we shift back to being decent humans? Then you know the harsh version was just what the situation created, not who we are. And if you're a chef reading this: remember to make the switch back. Don't stay in intensity mode after the last ticket. Your team needs to see your human side. They need to know the harsh version isn't all there is. They need the post-service connection to balance the mid-service intensity.
The Bottom Line
We're not assholes who turn nice when it suits us. We're humans operating in extreme conditions who adapt to survive those conditions, then return to baseline when the pressure releases.During service, we're what the kitchen demands: fast, direct, harsh, intense.After service, we're what humans need: present, caring, real, connected.Both are necessary. Both are us.The harsh version gets us through service without everything falling apart. The human version reminds everyone why we do this together.If you've only seen one version, you don't know us. You need both to understand what this work does to people. How it shapes us. How we learn to switch between modes because survival requires it.We're not different people. We're the same person in different states. And both states are real. Both are necessary. Both are who we are.So yeah, we're assholes during service. And yeah, we buy you beers after. Both are genuine. Both matter. Both are part of what it means to be a chef.That's the deal. That's the life. That's us.
Now you know.
