One huge step in my journey to humanity was being required to read Carnegie: when I joined the local sales group that hustled "Great Books of the Western World", I knew how to pick out a cigar, but very little about how human society worked. Dale Carnegie's classic ("How to Win Friends and Influence People", for those still unlearned) not only told me how to avoid being shot as an alien invader, but how to persuade strangers that enduring my presence could prove enjoyable.

I'm pretty sure Ms Hamilton has not yet made Mr Carnegie's acquaintance, and hope that she will. "A." will not be the only one to approve; family, friends, and customers will also applaud.

I wish her half the luck in the world - the good half!

Ms. Child was indeed routinely mistaken for a chef, as ChefColeman indicates above. In that cheery, modest, honest way of hers, she was quick to disclaim the honor: "From the beginning I've tried to be a teacher, a teacher of cooking classes. That's all I am."

Funny to think that Ms. Hamilton had such civilized ideas of the scenes behind a restaurant line. In my limited experience the line was a place more akin to forging steel than a cocktail hour with cooking.

Mistakes were never treated lightly. In every night the full range of expletive language was regularly exhausted about every ten minutes. The description of the angry sous chef seems par for the course... on a day when things are fine. It's much much darker when the real trouble begins.

Of course all is well at eleven p.m. when the bar sends the first pitchers of beer downstairs.

David Kosy

Pittsburgh

George Orwell decribes working in a tiny, startup, undercapitalized restaurant in Paris for people who had no idea what they were doing. He was the plongeur (dishwasher), not the owner, and his deadpan prose style is the polar opposite of this writer's, but it's funny and revealing in much the same way.

As for Gabrielle Hamilton, whatever her mistakes, at least she has the courage to own up to them and laugh at herself.

"I have seen a lot of chefs refuse to be humbled by their staffs, refuse to learn from their mistakes, refuse even to consider that they are mistaken, but I do not count myself among them."

Bull. Your article reeks of condescension towards the pro who was keeping your hapless act alive. I'm sure she'll be moving on before you fold--which will be quite soon.

You couldn't run a restaurant to save yourself so you thought to try your hand at writing? Although this piece has some witty moments, the flow is altogether bizarre and not in an artistic way. I really expect a bit more quality from writing in Salon - what is up with pieces like this?

I think if Ms Hamilton finds the restaurant business too taxing, she has a great future career as a writer! I loved this essay! And I especially loved it having worked as a waitress for years. It was hilarious. The letter writers here need to get a sense of humor. Hamilton clearly respects her sous-chef and is taking all the potshots at herself. Very funny.

And within the space of 6 months I had suffered the following injuries:

Burns (too many to keep count, except one in particular in which my entire index finger on the left hand was a solid blister)

Cuts (including losing about 6 mm of my middle finger on the left hand in a slicer)

Scrapes (including a nasty cheese grating accident)

Punctures (including an incident in which I dropped a knife while in a frenzy of cooking, and it happened to fall handle-down and wedge in the burner grate of the stove, and in my hand, which was following it down, was skewered like a shish kebab)

That was when I realized that I was not enough of a masochist to be a chef. But I appreciate those who are, because good food is a true pleasure. But just remember: there is blood in your food.

Just don't marry one, even if he or she is who you love. I learned that lesson the hard way. 90 hour weeks, almost all of tjem nights and weekends to start, and then pretty much all the time once they're at the executive chef level. It's a really lonely life.

I once had a meal at a new, fake "southern" restaurant in Boston. They made out pretty well with most of their food by following a cookbook, but they followed the best yuppie wisdom rather than tradition with their greens. They served kale lightly steamed with its pretty florets still intact. It did look much more attractive than it does when cooked the real southern way, which means boiled hard and then simmered for hours and hours on a hot stove until it submits. Mostly-raw kale would give a horse colic and put a human being in great digestive distress. I hope it tasted bad enough to dissuade those not in the know.

I admire anyone with the figurative balls to open a restaurant. The only thing more exhausting would be a day care.

No, I don't think the author has any intention of making amends with her chef, whom she condescendingly describes as a dog from the overly cautious Midwest, on all fours with a wet nose, raised hackles and bared teeth. It must be a nightmare to work for this self righteous author. I wouldn't consider dining at her restaurant. I can't see the point of allowing her to flaunt her New York City superiority complex before me, a well traveled, educated, food loving rube from somewhere that's not New York City.

The chef profession is a calling.

I wanted to be a chef because I love to cook. I worked my way up to the point that I was subbing on the line and I was miserable. I worked with chefs, noted their obsession with food and realized that I didn't have the calling. Now I work in a completely non-food related industry and I'm as happy as can be. I still love to cook and am told that I cook very well, but making a nice dinner for your friends is not at all the same as developing a menu and cranking out dozens of perfect dishes a night.

If you aren't a chef (or have never worked in a professional kitchen) you will never understand why anyone would do it. If you are a chef, you know that you have no choice.