Imagine you’re spinning a few plates. Add more. And more. And more. Spin them faster. Faster. Faster, goddamn it! Did I just hear one break? Just use this misshapen pottery that wobbles from side to side instead. I need hands on plate #28! Actually take the teacup off plate #7 and put it on plate #15. What do you mean what tea cup? Where’s my chef on bowl #13? I’ve got a table that’s been waiting six months for their risotto. And where’s that casserole dish I sent you? I think I might want to change it into an electric kettle.
This is the life of the poor, unfortunate souls promoted to management — those dedicated to their craft and resilient enough to eat the shit that comes along with it. Even the word “management” is so brutish and unbecoming that it should carry more shame when uttered in polite company.
On the bright side, you can always opt to have a stroke, develop a drug addiction, or manifest any number of negative coping mechanisms to deal with the stress.
But. There is a precious "but". You gain a level of control over how things are done. And the control-freak nature that brought you here is enticed by that. You get the privilege to set standards. To bring everything into beautiful consistency. To carve out your methodology across the heavens. To make decisions that have lasting impact. To be haunted by those decisions. To have nobody to blame but yourself. To explain why you want to change this component for the 5th time. Oh shit — why is my saucepan boiling over?
Plates and glasses and ductwork start crashing on your head. All the while the dinnerware you already forgot about is being served on. Dear god — people are going to eat off those! What idiot thought this was okay? And Christ the kitchen’s a horrid mess. What a stupid idea to organize utensils by handle length. Did my sous chef just pour rat poison in the broth? Why is the health inspector here? Maintain a simmer? HA! The restaurateur just turned the burner on high, tied my hands to my feet, and wants to maintain a simmer!?
This goes on until you have that second stroke or develop another drug addiction. Or wait. Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe you can just check out. “Job’s a job, man.”
But you can’t pretend. Your brain is already hard-wired and the electricians in your area seem to be booked up until the next generation — which might not be long if the pace keeps up.
Perhaps it’s a game of extremely long term strategy and patience. Or maybe some things just can’t be changed. Maybe you move on. The closer you are to how the sausage is made, the keener your interest in a vegetarian lifestyle.