After a bout of flu, I telephoned my new head chef to say that I wasn't returning. In truth, my heart had not really been in it this time round. I had begun to see that the sublime, where it exists at all, is to be found in restaurant dining rooms, not in their kitchens. But kitchens are brutal places. There, one learns the cost of refinement.
Professional cooking is about technical expertise instilled through hierarchy and discipline.
There is no flexibility and precious little creativity. Surviving in such an environment takes its toll. Chefs have a distinctively pallid appearance. The histrionics of popular legend do take place, but in their proper context they seem more desperate than amusing. Frank may have relished what he did, but he seemed to be an exception.