Ramsay’s one weak spot, the chink in his mental armature? Silence. He can’t bear it. Chefs must always be badgering, exhorting, browbeating, insulting. Noise in the kitchen, at all times. Nothing unique here: Ramsay is a true modern man, living in dread that two seconds of silence will suck him beyond retrieval into the cold hell of himself. We all need the chatter, do we not? The twitter, the flutter. But Ramsay is particularly loud and naked in his fearfulness. At the Juniper Hill Inn, the executive chef reacts to familiar waves of Ramsay pressure (“Come on!”) by going half-catatonic: his eyes are dead, he won’t say anything. A terrible quiet descends over the kitchen. Ramsay crouches and raises his hands to his head. “It’s … so bleeping painful now!” he moans. Silently, sullenly, the chef works his skillet. Ramsay is close to panic. “Open up!” he begs. An abyss yawns and stretches: here comes emptiness. The brain-hum sharpens to a whine. So escalate, quickly. Fill the void with imprecations, boost the language until that robot locust squawks again. Hurry! Bleep.