too many numbers on your prosthetic poopshoot

My Wednesday's leave more than a little to be desired. I'm usually prepped to the teeth and gearing up for the rest of week, all to be quickly dismissed by a horribly slow night and a waste of my time. I am, however, extra prepped for Thursday through Saturday and proverbial cake with rhubarb-strawberry foam allows me to literally saunter in at two and still manage to meticulously produce my food without neglecting Facebook.
To-night had a much different tune and I have to say that I didn't enjoy it. We had a ten-top and ten-tops breed walk-in ten-tops for reasons that I will never understand. Without sounding petty, I can't handle ten-tops on the daily like most saute "masters." A ten-top that is all saute probably requires fifteen to eighteen pans, all my patience and more than a splash of vodka. The issue isn't even cooking the food, likely a twenty-minute stand-alone process, but the actual plating of the food. VT and I are pretty fast on average, but reading the tickets is like transcribing Arabic sometimes. Every sauce is mounted and I don't have a heat lamp and SUB VEG on every grouper special makes me forget why I remembered to fill the vodka. Yet, I work in a ghetto restaurant that doesn't hold a candle to KE or TT and my servers have dragons tattooed on their necks and wouldn't get me a glass of ice water if I was on the mats seizing on my vodka-infused tongue. I have to guess that it is to be expected when I work with a bunch of part-time amateurs. I have lost control of my servers and that makes me want to stop caring. I serve the best high end Italian (French) food in my shitty little city, but I pay for it with my soul. I know my limitations as a chef, but I also know my clientele limitations and a 25% COGS shouldn't be worth one's soul. I may just be bitter about the whole motherfucking procedure, this newfound malaise or the fact that I have to stir risotto to-morrow.