Scolding metal, boiling water, bubbling and burning oil, cutting and sawing and slicing and hacking, pressurized and electrified, slippery floors, stacked from top to bottom with glass, one drop away from exploding into thousands of invisible razor shards. All this is the dancefloor for the intricate and constant race against time to perform a precarious choreography, balancing three things with two hands, looking left and right at once. The mere fact that anyone escapes a professional kitchen alive is a logical contradiction.