A CHEF'S LIFE

I've spent my past, and I'll spend the days before me,
the one profession that doesn't bore me.
I've chosen the life of a wandering cook,
d lived enough tales to fill many a book,
And worked more restaurants than I can number;
th the best share of my time unencumbered,
By sweet little wife, children, dog or kitten.
Though, once or twice, I sure thought I'd been smitten
cupids arrow, I escaped just in time,
I'd barely missed hearing the wedding bells chime.
It's mostly a good way for a man to be.
The money is fine, there's new places to see,
The work is hard, but then most jobs are the same,
And I could never play the corporate game.
There are lots of women, if a man's not choosy,
Doesn't mind if one's a bit of a floozy.
And sometimes you work a sixteen hour day;
Ten hours, six days, is the usual way.
In the resorts, though, seven days is required,
At end of the season, even your soul is tired.
And those big kitchens are a sight to behold,
Every nation of man, black, brown, red and gold.
And each man must be fed his accustomed dish,
Whether ham hocks, boiled chicken or uncooked fish.
A lot of them can't eat American food,
If not fed, they won't work, and language gets crude.
Many of them only speak alien tongues;
You must be a linguist to get some work done,
But they sure do pick up American ways,

When the secretary comes on pay check day.

Two black cooks, who work the sauté' station,
hate the broiler men from a Spanish nation.
Who, in turn, think the vegetable men are bums,
And they think the Italian line cooks are dumb.
The Italians don't know anything is wrong -
The whole day, they're singing Tony Bennet songs.
The German chef, the resident banquet man,
Stays far away from everyone, if he can.
The worst pressure of all's on the chef, exec.,
Who is locked in his office, a nervous wreck.
Now the big boss comes in for a little while,
A fat little man who's never known to smile.
Sees the Chinese dishwashers slamming the pots;
The Greeks and the German, tracking glares, red hot;
The Puerto Ricans, swearing Spanish, out loud;
The Haitians, with badges-I'm black and I'm proud;
The salad men keeping time with wooden spoons,
The boss nods his head, smiles at this normal play,
Glad everything's running the usual way.
This chaos is where I earn my daily bread,
And sometimes it boggles a weary man's head,
For in this confusion, the dinners go out,
The executive's orders carry some clout,
The customers are served in the fastest time,
This hodge-podge of men runs with reason and rhyme.
Underneath the surface, efficiency reigns;
Respect for their skills is the name of each game.
Whatever else, there is the satisfaction

Of not being bored with the workday action.