too many cooks

There's a place I know. A diner, Paco's, New York, sits out of the way off the street, where natural light never shines. Green sided brick front, not painted, green from moss. Small lemon-yellow sign. Paco's. I'll take you there. The place is cockroach clean. I went through a wrong door once and found myself in the kitchen. I don't know - should short-tempered, short order cooks have access to a sharp knife in a 107º Fahrenheit room? Three men wielding cleavers in an oven could get messy, yes. Maybe the cockroaches are anxious and go elsewhere. Yes, I was back there, briefly, long enough to see the rage in those wild magpie-black eyes.
It's pot luck. But the food's the best. And with all that screaming. 'I'll show you, you pork chop!' They take on the names of what they are preparing. Must be a trade secret, yes, it's funny. 'Hey, salmon, I show you who's boss!' Or, 'You! You stay away from me, stuffed eggplant! Or, 'What you want, Tournedos Rossini, heh!? Well, you get the picture.
Yet, there's never an empty seat, place is always packed, but I'll show you, my little lomo saltado. Once saw Joe Pesci there. Stayed clear from telling him he was funny. But get this - to meet any one of those three cooks on the street - like the one, the owner, Paco, white bible carrier with a sweet, gentle, old dog disposition. Saw him once in deep conversation with a pigeon half-way across a crosswalk oblivious to a horn-honking finger-flipping old woman. But at work, geez, how close with those clinched razor-sharp implements these three are from big block letters glaring angrily up from bound stacks at the newsstand screaming Berserk Bloody Broth?