I’ve had a lot of physical and mental challenges in my life. When I ran the world’s largest relay race for the first time, Hood to Coast, I faced the biggest physical challenge that had ever come across my path. Running 16 miles over a period of 28 hours required a lot of training and physical strength, but it was pretty mindless. I didn’t have to think about it too much. I’ve also faced many mental challenges. My jobs in marketing have been numerous over the last 12 years and have required a sharply honed mind. But in terms of physical strength, sitting at a desk 8 to 10 hours a day didn’t require much training.

In my third week as an intern for a three star Parisian restaurant, I need both. I am facing the biggest challenge of my life and it not only requires mental agility but physical prowess as well. Each day I must be able to translate instructions given to me from French to English and then perform them. By the time I crawl into bed at night, I’ve climbed 800 stairs – just in one day. This job is taking everything I have and all the faith and endurance I can possibly muster.

My favorite times are before service. Each one of us is busy preparing our mis en place – cutting potatoes, de-boning chickens, filleting fish, slicing truffles, and peeling baby carrots. There’s not much time dawdle and chat, and the work is almost mesmerizing, passing quickly.

But when service begins, our world changes. Usually the restaurant is booked, meaning we’ll serve about 60 people for lunch and slightly more for dinner. With 25 chefs in the kitchen, you’d think it was a simple task. But it’s far from that.

As the orders roll in, each course is called out to the chefs at the precise moment. As soon as I hear an order that belongs to me – artichoke soup for example – I begin the preparations. I grab a tray, set a plate down, toast the brioche, wipe of the small pot of truffle butter, heat a bowl, and wipe off all the fingerprints from the plates. A small pinch of grated Parmesan is placed in the bottom of each bowl, and the thick soup is ladled on top. It’s rich with cream, truffle oil, truffle juice, and chopped truffles. On top we place three thin slices of black truffle and four transparent slices of Parmesan. The boarders of the plates are wiped again, and a server appears to whisk the tray away.

It’s a simple process really. But when it’s crunch time and you have an order for 11 soups with another four and another six to follow, it’s a mad house. Every moment must be precise and ever step well thought out. Throw someone yelling at you on top of it, and you have my day in a nutshell.

I don’t understand why it’s so common in French kitchens for chefs to yell. I don’t mean simple get-moving-you’re-behind kind of stuff. No, this is more you’re-an-idiot-how-can-you-possibly-believe-you-can-work-here yelling. It’s not kind, and if even if it’s not directed at you, working in that kind of environment can be disconcerting.

Take last Saturday for example. THE Chef (the one who’s name is on the door) works almost ever lunch and dinner service. I say hello to each him every time he walks in and have even had the pleasure of being hit on by him. (I’m being sarcastic here.) Most of the time, he just stands and watches service. He rarely says a thing but observes with a keen eye everything that happens. He also greets clients in his perfectly white whites. Hey, he can do what ever he wants – it’s his restaurant. But last Saturday, I saw a whole new side of him.

THE Chef graciously gave one of the executive chefs the night off. THE Chef worked in his place, calling out the orders as they came in. But his French was so rapid fire, I could barely understand a word he was saying. The pace suddenly was ten times faster, and I’m still a little slow. He began to yell at people for tiny mistakes at the top of his lungs. They weren’t kind remarks either. Since I’m rather sensitive to lots of yelling, I started making mistakes. That’s when he ripped into me. Yes, they were mistakes that shouldn’t have been made – a drip on a plate or a scatter of brioche crumbs on a soup bowl – but I was being yelled like I was a complete idiot. You’d think someone’s life was on the line the way he yelled. But I guess it was even more important – it’s his reputation.

For the first time in my three weeks, I lost it during service. I felt so humiliated for making some tiny mistakes that I began to cry. Hot, shameful tears slowly ran down my cheeks. But I couldn’t stop and wipe them away. I had three orders of amuse bouche stacked up and waiting. I plowed forward, my cheeks burning in disgrace, saying nothing. It was painful, and worst of all, I was taking it personally. How can I not? That’s just the way I am. Thankfully I haven’t spent a lot of time in an environment where someone’s always yelling. But I have to work on seeing things from their perspective and not let it affect me. That’s another blog entry for another time.

Each night when I crawl back home on the metro, I’m physically exhausted. My mind is still racing with adrenaline, my feet aching with the pressure of standing for 13 hours. I peel off my clothes as I enter my apartment and head for the warm, soothing water of the shower. 15 minutes later, I’m burying myself beneath my avalanche of covers and pillows. But my mind is still racing. Physically I’m a wreck. Mentally I could keep going. With only six hours left before I have to return to work, sleep is a precious commodity. By Friday I can barely function, and that’s the hardest day of all.

I keep wondering why I’m doing this to myself. Last Saturday, I wanted so badly to quit. But I didn’t. Everyone at the restaurant has a motivation for being there, except me. I don’t really need it for my resume, I don’t really need to see what it’s like to work in a traditional French kitchen, I don’t even want to work in a restaurant after I’m done. So for now, my motivation is a mystery but one that I need to solve quickly. If I don’t, I fear I won’t survive the coming weeks.

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