The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a

Cook

Hey kid--you're lookin' a little tired. Close up the pizza place again last night? That sucks. Yeah--I do hear you're pretty good at it. Still, there's a difference between a high school job for gas money, and a life sentence.

You'll stick at the pizza place--or go to another similar dive--once you're finished here. Once you no longer have to go to school, you can take the day shifts that keep your evenings free. Of course, you understand by "day shift" they mean 11:00 a.m. 'til whenever the hell the tyrannical manager tells you you're free to drag your grease-coated carcass home. Most likely it will be just after the girl you promised to see has given up and gone out dancing with some other guy.

Probably just as well--as you can already tell, until you outgrow your teenage skin, the greasy kitchen air helps make your pores a fertile home for acne.

You'll work hard--it's hot, constant work--and you hate the fact that when your food is quick and well-prepared, the waiters get the tips, but when something screws up, you're the one who wears it. Like all cooks, you become master of the "hidden lugee"--that blog of saliva and plegm that hides so well in most cream sauces. It's only for the truly difficult customers, of course. Unfortunately for your restaurant's clientele, as you become increasingly bitter, more and more customers bear the brunt of your frustration, even if they are unaware of the bonus DNA you include with the daily special.

You decide to take some college courses--your grades here are pathetic due to the brutal work schedule you already keep, so you'll only be able to get into those overpriced private business and computer colleges--don't be surprised when you're the only one in the class who actually has a good command of the English language.

The "diploma" they give you doesn't make anyone more convinced you'd make a good restaurant manager, so you quit your job and go to work on a cruise ship. It's a big change--when they're in the U.S. or Canada, there is a qualified, conscientious kitchen staff working in completely hygenic surroundings--once they get your first foreign port, however, the "show staff" hops a plane to another ship that might be subject to inspection back home, while you find yourself surrounded by a motley collection of dubiously-qualified refugees from a variety of nations.

You soon tire of the constant pressure of your day--unlike the greasy dives you worked before, the clientele of the cruise ship is used to haute cuisine and won't hesitate to complain if they feel your pretentious preparations aren't up to their standards.

Meanwhile, you learn to look the other way as the staff around you neglects the basic practices of safe food handling and personal hygiene. It is only a matter of time before another one of those "mysterious" outbreaks of disease spreads through the cruise ship population like wildfire, and unlike the baffled passengers and media, you are fully aware of the source of the intestinal plague.

The virus forces the ship back to port where a number of passengers are sent to hospital, and you resign your post as soon as the three-day quarantine is lifted. You head back here, to your home town, and empty your bank account to make a down payment on a hot dog stand. The annual permit costs twice what the stand is worth, but you figure it's mindless, simple work compared to your other cooking jobs, and soon you're pulling in a sizeable weekly income.

Unfortunately, your lungs were damaged by the cruise ship virus, and the constant exposure to damp, exhaust-filled downtown air gives you a nagging cough that eventually develops into pneumonia. When you are released from the hospital, you sell the cart and go looking for a cooking job that includes health and prescription coverage.

Such jobs, for those without actual chef's papers, are few and far between. You are offered a job at the hospital, but you know enough about the "superbugs" that strike every year or so in the wards which house the most weakened to turn that opporunity down. Then, you receive another offer--you are recruited to cook for the state prison down the highway.

It's a job that includes full benefits, and you work relatively normal hours and even get decent holiday breaks. You begin relaxing into the job after a few months, and aside from the sometimes awkward interactions you have with the few inmates assigned to kitchen duty, you rarely come into contact with any of the prisoners.

You even buy an engagement ring for your girlfriend and feel secure enough to put a down payment on a new condo development under construction a mere 15 minute drive from the prison.

Then, in a bid to save money, the government contracts out the food service operation of the prison. You fear you will lose your benefits and see your pay cut in half, but fortunately your union negotiates a deal that grandfathers your old wages and benefits into your new contract--it's only the newly hired staff who will be paid poorly and denied the benefit package.

The new regime cuts corners wherever possible, and their first act is to impose a new set of rules regarding food purchase. Soon the prisoners become agitated as the quality of their meals begins to suffer from the shoddy meat and overripe vegetables you are forced use in all your recipes. Some of the prisoners who work with you begin passing along death threats from the angry cons.

The riot is unexpected, and it takes place when liver is substituted for a planned sparerib dinner. The prisoners take you hostage, along with two guards, but when the swat team storms the building, it is only you who are found dead--a sprig of parsley covering each eye.