One month. One restaurant. A lifetime of amateur cooking put to the test.
When I was waiting tables in Pittsburgh, one of my tasks was to slice a small loaf of bread for each table's bread basket. One day, the near-psychotic owner (and "head chef," though he didn't work the line and was rarely even in the kitchen) decided that it would be a good idea to replace our knife with an electric bread knife. It was a vicious double-bladed thing, and the blades were set in motion by squeezing the handle. The other server and I took one look at it and informed him that it would undoubtedly result in mutilation, but he insisted. For the first few days, all was well. Then came the Friday night rush. I'd come directly from school to start my shift, and they were not so generous as to provide a family meal, so by 8:30 I was so hungry that my hands were shaking when I went to cut the bread for my twentieth table of the night. I stabilized the loaf with my left hand, and had sliced nearly all of it before the knife hit my ring finger. I yanked it away, gripping it even harder as I did so - so the blades were still in motion when it bounced off my thumb. I think I was probably bleeding and cursing in equal profusion, and the owner caught a few rather choice words when he rushed into the kitchen to see what had happened. Suffice it to say, that was the last evening that the electric bread knife made an appearance. (And, I'm thankful to report that despite the serrated blades, the cuts healed quite cleanly.)