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DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.
Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.
A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.
I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.
Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.
In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.
It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”
Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?
  • a)
    You have to don several hats at the same time.
  • b)
    You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.
  • c)
    You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrect
  • d)
    You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.
Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?
Verified Answer
DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a...
Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster.' The second part of the line explains the analogy. An air-traffic controller is constantly dealing with the threat of disaster.
Option A: The author does talk about donning several hats after this analogy but not before he talks about averting disaster. An air-traffic controller wouldn’t don several hats and is only responsible for thinking constantly about and preventing disaster. After that, the author goes on to elaborate how the chef is responsible for his crew. Hence, A is not the answer.
Option B: As explained for the previous option, the author does talk about a chef being responsible for his crew, protecting his crew. However, that was after he talks about the analogy. Hence, B is not the answer.
Option C: This line refers to demanding hotel owners, angry purveyors, and inconsistent paymasters. It is not related to the analogy of the air-traffic controller used to discuss a different angle - that of the chef being on top of the situation. Hence, C is not the answer.
Option D: This line is a rephrasing of constantly dealing with the threat of disaster" explaining the real reason why the author used the analogy of the air-traffic controller. Hence, D is the answer.
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Most Upvoted Answer
DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a...
Understanding the Analogy: Chef vs. Air Traffic Controller
The analogy of being a chef likened to an air traffic controller emphasizes the high-stress, high-stakes environment in which both professionals operate. Here’s a detailed breakdown of why option 'D' is the correct interpretation:
Constant Threat of Disaster
- Both chefs and air traffic controllers manage situations where a single mistake can lead to disastrous outcomes.
- In a kitchen, the chaos of orders and food preparation mirrors the complexities of air traffic, where timing and accuracy are crucial.
Problem-Solving Under Pressure
- Chefs must quickly address unexpected issues, such as equipment failure or staffing shortages, similar to how air traffic controllers must reroute flights or manage emergencies.
- This constant need for vigilance and quick decision-making is central to both roles, highlighting the necessity of plotting strategies to mitigate risks.
Multifaceted Responsibilities
- Just as air traffic controllers juggle various responsibilities, chefs must also handle a myriad of tasks, from managing kitchen staff to ensuring food quality and safety.
- This multifaceted role requires foresight and adaptability, further underscoring the analogy.
Conclusion
- The analogy emphasizes the proactive nature required in both professions to navigate challenges and avoid disasters.
- Thus, option 'D' encapsulates the essence of the analogy by focusing on the ongoing need to strategize against potential crises, making it the best summary of the author's intent.
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DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following explains the author’s purpose in mentioning humours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook”?

DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following possibly explains the relationship the author seemed to have shared with ‘his crew’?

DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following is the author least likely to agree with about the professional cooking industry?

DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following can be understood from the passage?

DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following can be inferred as a difference between chefs of the present age and chefs when the author had just entered the profession?

DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?
Question Description
DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? for CAT 2024 is part of CAT preparation. The Question and answers have been prepared according to the CAT exam syllabus. Information about DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? covers all topics & solutions for CAT 2024 Exam. Find important definitions, questions, meanings, examples, exercises and tests below for DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?.
Solutions for DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? in English & in Hindi are available as part of our courses for CAT. Download more important topics, notes, lectures and mock test series for CAT Exam by signing up for free.
Here you can find the meaning of DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? defined & explained in the simplest way possible. Besides giving the explanation of DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer?, a detailed solution for DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? has been provided alongside types of DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? theory, EduRev gives you an ample number of questions to practice DIRECTIONS for questions: The passage given below is accompanied by a set of six questions. Choose the best answer to each question.Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness, while being confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders.A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher. Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen – free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing pay checks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills.In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family.It’s a haven for foreigners – Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumours of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavoury side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humour, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom – doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”Q. Which of the following best summarises the usage of the analogy by the author: ‘Being a chef is a lot like being an air traffic controller’?a)You have to don several hats at the same time.b)You have to be responsible for the actions of your crew as parents usually are.c)You have to deal with a wide array of problems brought by people you deal with. Your answer is incorrectd)You have to plot constantly on how to avoid unexpectedly bad results.Correct answer is option 'D'. Can you explain this answer? tests, examples and also practice CAT tests.
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