Pots and pans clattered against the ground to a background of the distinct yelling of head chef Max. A typical Friday night. You rolled your eyes and remained by the kitchen's open notebook copying the evening specials in your order pad. While there was no telling for certain, there'd been a tip-off that the restaurant was expecting a Michelin inspector tonight. Everyone was wildly high-strung. As you turned on your heel to whisk away out of the kitchen, tucking your order pad into your black apron and tightening it around the waist, you felt someone grab a sliver of the sleeve of your shirt.

"I saw that. If you think you can do a better job, come back here and do it." He hissed under his breath, his glare was daring and unwavering. It wasn't often front-of-house incurred his wrath, but you were good. You didn't make mistakes, you didn't scamper back to the kitchen to ask for remakes or speed-ups. In his mind, you had no marks against your name... barring your perceived know-it-all attitude.