Actually, I'd Rather Be the Chef
My young friends who work IT for a large corporation told me that a common interview question is “What sort of a kitchen appliance would you be?”.
I laughed. “Clearly dreamed up by someone who doesn’t cook.”
“Huh?”
“The quality of a chef isn’t decided by her appliances. In fact, there are major chefs who use very few. Machinery does not make an award-winning meal.”
“Anyway, which would you be?” asked the husband of the team.
“A chef’s knife.”
“That’s not an appliance.”
“Reference my last statement.”
“Why a chef’s knife?” she said.
“A good chef’s knife is never bought cheaply. It’s properly forged with a well-balanced handle that must fit the hand of the chef. You don’t choose the first one in the store. Some are custom-made.
“It’s a formidable-looking tool, but it’s as versatile as the skill of its user. It can handle heavy cutting or subtle slicing. The more skilled the cook, the more useful the knife - although I wouldn’t try to bone a chicken with one. It doesn’t do absolutely everything, but then, neither do I.
“Furthermore, no matter how skilled the chef, the knife still commands respect. Use it wrong, you will bleed.”
I shrugged. “If your metaphor is a workplace that is under the utter control of one so-called chef, then I’m the chef’s knife.”
“Well,” she said. “That would be considered the wrong answer.”
“It’s a blender,” he said. “You have to say you’re someone who brings everyone together.”
“And removes their identity to make a pulverized mass.”
He winced.
“I don’t work in that kind of environment,” I said. “One person may be the top dog, and the buck stops there, so to speak, and that person’s me. But every member of my team has a skilled job that he or she knows well and problem-solves independently. Not a feudal system. A lot of people don’t realize that. I won’t put up with such a system.”
They shared a rueful glance. “Good thing you don’t work there,” she said.
“There’s a reason I don’t.” I grinned.
“Wish I didn’t,” she muttered.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re extensively trained and essential to whatever those Blenders there do. You can be a chef’s knife. I’d recommend it. Command the respect.”
They looked at me blankly, clearly wondering how they’d dare do such a thing. I wondered the same. Would I have been that brave at their age?
I laughed. “Clearly dreamed up by someone who doesn’t cook.”
“Huh?”
“The quality of a chef isn’t decided by her appliances. In fact, there are major chefs who use very few. Machinery does not make an award-winning meal.”
“Anyway, which would you be?” asked the husband of the team.
“A chef’s knife.”
“That’s not an appliance.”
“Reference my last statement.”
“Why a chef’s knife?” she said.
“A good chef’s knife is never bought cheaply. It’s properly forged with a well-balanced handle that must fit the hand of the chef. You don’t choose the first one in the store. Some are custom-made.
“It’s a formidable-looking tool, but it’s as versatile as the skill of its user. It can handle heavy cutting or subtle slicing. The more skilled the cook, the more useful the knife - although I wouldn’t try to bone a chicken with one. It doesn’t do absolutely everything, but then, neither do I.
“Furthermore, no matter how skilled the chef, the knife still commands respect. Use it wrong, you will bleed.”
I shrugged. “If your metaphor is a workplace that is under the utter control of one so-called chef, then I’m the chef’s knife.”
“Well,” she said. “That would be considered the wrong answer.”
“It’s a blender,” he said. “You have to say you’re someone who brings everyone together.”
“And removes their identity to make a pulverized mass.”
He winced.
“I don’t work in that kind of environment,” I said. “One person may be the top dog, and the buck stops there, so to speak, and that person’s me. But every member of my team has a skilled job that he or she knows well and problem-solves independently. Not a feudal system. A lot of people don’t realize that. I won’t put up with such a system.”
They shared a rueful glance. “Good thing you don’t work there,” she said.
“There’s a reason I don’t.” I grinned.
“Wish I didn’t,” she muttered.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re extensively trained and essential to whatever those Blenders there do. You can be a chef’s knife. I’d recommend it. Command the respect.”
They looked at me blankly, clearly wondering how they’d dare do such a thing. I wondered the same. Would I have been that brave at their age?