Each morning I start my job at this glamorous three-star Parisian restaurant by climbing 100 stairs to the locker rooms. There I strip down to next to nothing in front of a bunch of 20-something men who incidentally have no fat on their bodies. I have plenty – enough for each of them to have a nice little beer belly. I know casual glances are thrown my way in secret as I stand there in my bra, but now I’ve come not to care. Perhaps I’m even bringing an ounce of joy to their lives since it’s impossible to have relationships with these hours.

I race down the stairs, put on my apron and towel, and head to the basement kitchen. My first real task of the day is to replenish the dish stock in the kitchen. I lug stacks and stacks of very valuable plates (made especially for the restaurant by famous companies like Limoge) up a flight of stairs. The whole process takes about 20 minutes, and by the end, I’m sweating. Now I’m not talking about a nice, feminine perspiration here. No, I’m talking about a full on downpour of sweat from every pore on my body. And it’s only 9:00 AM. I’ll do the whole ritual again at 6:30 that night, right before dinner service begins. I usually don’t shower until 12:30 AM, so by the time the hot water hits me, there are layers and layers of sweat to erase from my skin.

At roughly 10:30 every morning, the executive chef yells the word poubelle at the top of his lungs several times, and all the interns immediately start running. The garbage truck is about to arrive, and it’s out glamorous task to haul sacks and sacks of leaky, drippy garbage up a flight of stairs to the outside world. Some sacks way more than I do. Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little. We tirelessly swing the heavy sacks of animal carcasses, scallop shells, vegetable peels, and egg shells on our backs and climb the stairs. If I were planning to climb a mountain, this would be the perfect training exercise. But ironically, I do enjoy this part of the day. It’s a brief time when I can actually breathe fresh air and see the sky. However I always notice I smell just a bit more when I walk back through the door of the restaurant.

After lunch service, we get a quick two-hour break. I scramble back up the stairs to my locker – which doesn’t lock by the way – throw on my clothes and head for the metro. I have just enough time to go back home and take an hour power nap. When working 13 hours a day, it has become essential. As I stand waiting for the metro, I attempt to clean what’s left of my fingernails. Even though they’re unbelievably short, I still manage to get all matter of things known and unknown trapped under them. My hands also permanently smell like onions. This remains a bit of a mystery to me since I rare touch one. On several occasions, I’ve noticed people actually move away from me on the metro. Evidently I smell, but I don’t notice it anymore.

A day doesn’t pass where I don’t burn or cut myself. The best part was when I gave myself a second-degree burn over an old third-degree burn. Yeah, that was my idea of fun. My hands look like they’ve been through a battle that the rest of my body managed to avoid. A nasty heat rash is spread across my chest, looking like someone has taken a magic market and made small tiny circles. Yes, I’m a joy to look at right now.

In France, sexual harassment is legal and often encouraged. Since I’m a woman working in a dominantly male environment, I’m fresh meat. Each day I endure a barrage of comments, looks, casual brushes with the hand, and suggestions – mostly from one of the executive chefs. At first I was rather put off, but now it’s become sort of a game. It’s woven into the fabric of our work, so now it’s like wearing a comfortable shirt. I’ve even learned how to give crap back in French and surprisingly the chefs respect me more. But not all women have been able to take it. One intern from Le Cordon Bleu prefers to work downstairs because she despises the treatment and the constant touching.

Then there’s the yelling. I’ve lost a lot of respect for THE Chef in recent weeks. Yes, he’s accomplished a lot and is well regarded in French society. But those people who admire him haven’t had to work for him. He treats his employees as items rather than humans – something expendable and if you can’t take the heat, leave. He’ll find someone to replace you faster than you can say, “Oui Chef!” This past week, he celebrated the 20th anniversary of his restaurant. We were all called into the dining room for a glass of champagne. A nice gesture, but the look of arrogance and smugness on his face led me to set down my full glass and return to work.

On my days off, I sleep, do laundry, go grocery shopping, and catch up on email. I have no life to speak of.

But on some level, I suppose my friend is right about it being glamorous. I am living out my dream in a fabulous foreign city. It’s the chance of a lifetime, and I’m creating memories I’ll never forget. Just don’t expect to see me on the cover of the next issue of Glamour!

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