Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that I got a kick ass stage. After calling the restaurant twice to fix my meeting with the chef, I was able to make an appointment through some guy who assured me that the chef would be able to meet me Friday between 3 and 3:30.

I show up at 3 to find the chef in street clothes standing the doorway of an empty restaurant chatting with the bartender. I introduce myself and she says, “No one told me you were coming! It’s a good thing you caught me.” I couldn’t be annoyed with the telephone guy, however, because the chef is awesome. She quickly signed my papers and then took me on a tour of the kitchen. It didn’t take long and it won’t be hard for me to remember where things are because it is a teeny-tiny, little space. Very small. I will become really close with these people, whether I want to or not. Still, the chef rocked. She said there is a locker room, but since it will be all guys, her and me, I should change in the bathroom and leave my stuff in her office. I am kind of grateful for that, since I am not quite ready to change in front of strange French men. Not that I am a prude (I totally am, who am I kidding?) but the least they could do is buy me a drink first. So the real reason the chef rocks is that she is putting my hands in the pudding straight away. She said, “So you’ll be here three months? Okay, here’s how it will go: one month in each section: cold stuff (desserts and appetizers), meat, and then fish. The first fifteen days of each month, we’ll ease you into the menu by having you do day prep (9-6) and then the last fifteen days you’ll do service.” How awesome is that? I expected to spend some time obligatorily peeling vegetables, but, no, I’ll be right in there with ‘em from the beginning! Plus, I won’t be working the normal, ungodly restaurant hours. They’ll only have me on about eight hours a day, and no work on weekends. Hey, I’m not getting paid, so…

Despite my excitement, there is something bothering me. My shoulder. I pinched a nerve in it (I think) when I was in London, and it is killing me. Literally, it hurts so bad I am going insane. Shannon gave me some pills she had that are 800 mg of Ibuprofen, and even that only slightly numbed the dull, incessant ache on my left side from my jaw to my fingertips. I know I should probably see a doctor (it’s been two weeks) but doctors in Paris are scary. Do you think I could get by in the kitchen if I just chopped the whole damn thing off?