A wave of panic ripples across the normally placid face of Rudy Speckamp.

It may be the evening's biggest surprise. The German-born master chef is generally as imperturbable as a frozen Alpine lake.

But he has just been informed that he has 49 customers to feed and 48 servings of his exquisite stuffed Cornish game hen with which to feed them. The news stops him in his tracks.

Oh, and did I mention? All the guests have just been seated. They expect to eat in about 10 minutes or so.

So how are you going to perform this miracle, Chef? With fishes and loaves?

"I guess I'll just have to jump up and down," he deadpans, slipping back to his stoic self.

Quickly, he orders an assistant to remove the contents of a chicken he has just used for his cooking class minutes earlier, refilling the bird with the properly seasoned stuffing he made the day before.

It is promptly readied for the oven. But the problem remains clear: Roasting takes time and he doesn't have any.

The clock continues to tick.

Cook dinner for company -- at least with a menu more ambitious than hot dogs on the grill -- and you will face an age-old problem.

You can read all the cookbooks. You can own every time-saving gadget. But when entree, vegetables, salad, bread and all the rest have to hit the table at the same exact moment either steaming hot or icy cold, that's a strain on the chef.

Yet, if it's so tough to feed a handful, how do restaurant kitchens produce so many dinners, not even knowing what patrons might order?

Thus began an expedition beyond the swinging doors.

The mission: Spend 12 hours in a restaurant kitchen.

The goal: Discover the secrets of cooking great food for legions.

The destination: Rudys' 2900 in Finksburg, a restaurant that has won acclaim for its melding of American cuisine and regional European specialties.

11:20 a.m. Cheryl steams shrimp for shrimp cocktail, David transfers sauces to steam table, Rudy argues on the phone with produce supplier over the price of asparagus.

Even in the early morning, the kitchen at Rudys' 2900 is a sultry 80 degrees.

Exhaust fans are humming. The kitchen door is wide open. A breeze filters in through the screen.

A caldron of dark brown veal stock is bubbling on the back of a stainless-steel Vulcan range. Sauces are being made and the distinctive odor of wine and sauteed shallots fill the room.

Chef Rudy is working on the special dinner for the night. While his staff is serving the regular customers upstairs, he will be in the downstairs banquet room offering a cooking demonstration for 40 people.

The menu features courses he learned as a member of the U.S. Culinary Olympic team in 1988, the culinary equivalent of the athletic competition. Afterward, the customers will all get to eat the dishes they've learned how to prepare.

Everyone on staff calls Mr. Speckamp "Chef." It is a title he has earned as a master chef, a designation bestowed on fewer than 50 people by the American Culinary Federation. Chefs are certified as masters only if they can pass a grueling 10-day test of cooking skill.

Eight people work in Rudys' kitchen. Tonight, six will be on duty including the boss: David Hamme, Cheryl Wingate, John Fisher, Chris Ichniowski and Kaui Stryhn.

The work is parceled out along the lines of a traditional commercial kitchen. Rudy is the executive chef, the big cheese, the kingfish. His second in command would normally be the sous-chef, but the position is temporarily vacant.

That makes David, 24, the saucier, next highest in the pecking order. He is quiet but confident, having worked for Rudy two years and three months, a veteran by restaurant standards. His job preparing sauces is considered of critical importance.

The remaining stations of the kitchen are of more or less equal status. Cheryl, 31, is garde-manger, the chef of the "cold kitchen" responsible for cold foods such as appetizers, desserts and salads.

John, 36, will also be assigned the cold kitchen this day and will be responsible for fried foods. He is outgoing and good-natured about the work, having survived an earlier career as a hotel manager.

Free-spirited Kaui, 22, is entremettier, the vegetable chef, but he will also run the broiler and help David with the sauteing and finishing of dishes. Chris, 23, a strapping Dundalk native and recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, N.Y., is an apprentice and will float around the stations as a prep cook.

In a large hotel kitchen, these titles would be rigidly enforced and there would be other designations such as a patissier (pastry chef) or poisonnier (fish chef). But Rudys' is too small for such rigid definitions, and through the course of an evening the jobs will be obscured and chefs jump around to assist each other.

"Everyone starts in the cold kitchen because that's the least amount of pressure," Rudy says. "If someone can prove to me he can make 100 salads, making sure they are nice and crisp, always served on a cold plate, not too much dressing, if they can give a simple task like that a lot of care I know they can handle work that is more complicated."

12:50 p.m. The turnout for lunch is modest. A seafood cassoulet in puff pastry proves to be the best seller. Meanwhile, Chris skins Dover sole, John wraps salmon appetizer in phyllo dough, Cheryl pours batter for cheesecake into four springform molds.

In this kitchen, the work never ends.

The secret to cooking at Rudys' -- as with most fine restaurants -- is a concept called "mise en place" or literally "putting in place." The majority of the chefs' day is spent preparing the ingredients they will need during those critical minutes when the dinner orders finally arrive.

The work on tonight's dinner, for instance, really began days earlier when quarters of beef or veal were "broken down" or cut up into serving portions. Stocks used in soups and sauces were made from bones and vegetable trimmings. Little is wasted.

The upstairs walk-in cooler (there's an even larger refrigerator and freezer compartment in the basement) is filled with serving-size portions, about "three or four days" of supplies, according to Rudy.

Downstairs, there's a storeroom brimming with nonperishables from cornstarch to walnut oil. Next door are bins filled with wine and other liquors kept under lock and key.

Throughout the day, the chefs will chop, slice, dredge, bake, steam and otherwise prepare the things they will need for each station.

They will dice potatoes like a private on KP duty. They will cut vegetables into artistic shapes. Veal will be butchered. Fish filleted. Chicken boned.

In the hours leading up to dinner, foods like rice or pasta will be cooked to the verge of being ready. When needed, they can be finished in a few minutes.

"It's a lot like playing chess," says Rudy. "You always have to be ready for the next move."

Indeed, there is much energy devoted to the next day's efforts as well. Shrimp shells are saved for a future shrimp bisque. A whole salmon is filleted, packed in salt, sugar, cracked pepper and mounds of fresh dill for gravlax needed in three days.

2:30 p.m. Rudy fillets salmon, Chris and Cheryl check a produce order (sending back bruised spaghetti squash), Kaui blanches baby carrots and green beans, David stirs a huge pot of corn chowder, the soup of the day.

Next to preparation, you need stamina and discipline to work in a restaurant kitchen.

Only stamina can allow the young chefs to work in the oppressive heat with only occasional 10-minute breaks. By the time the dinner hour arrives, the heat from the row of Vulcan ovens, the stove tops, the broiler, the dishwasher and the steam table will raise temperatures above 90 degrees. The chefs become so sopping wet they must change uniforms midway through their shift.

Seventeen-hour days are not unknown here, particularly for the restaurant's co-owners, Chef Rudy and Rudi Paul, who also serves as maitre d'hotel. There are no chairs in the kitchen. The chefs stand. They sip ice water to combat dehydration.

The need for discipline is obvious. Besides food preparation, there is almost a constant cleaning process. Before the evening's dishwashers arrive, chefs clean their own tools. They also sweep and scrub, wipe and mop.

Rudy rarely raises his voice but he commands firmly, particularly on the matter of cleanliness. "A man's home is his castle -- Chef likes his castle clean," John says as he slaps a mop to the tile floor.

Like carpenters, the chefs own their own sets of tools and treat them well. They wear a standard uniform -- white jacket, white apron, and black and white houndstooth checked pants with comfortable shoes.

Shortly after 5 p.m., Rudi briefs the five members of the wait staff on the dinner specials which generally feature seafood. Tonight, the appetizers include the corn chowder (with or without seared scallops) and smoked shrimp with field greens and mustard sauce. The entrees include grouper in potato crust with red wine sauce, and marinated salmon with papaya relish and mango sauce.

Altogether, there are four appetizers and six entree specials. The specials are changed weekly depending on the seasons and the availability of fresh ingredients. The regular menu items -- 10 appetizers, three soups, four salads, five pastas and 16 entrees (plus 11 "lite fare" selections) are updated yearly.

You will rarely see a recipe in the kitchen. The chefs not only have all 59 recipes memorized, they have learned each dish's presentation -- the artful arrangements of vegetables, sauce and garnish.

The star of tonight's show, however, are the four dishes he will demonstrate in a cooking class in the banquet room. The stuffed game hen, goat cheese souffle, the salmon appetizer wrapped in phyllo, and an almond praline dessert cup filled with fruit will first be taught and later served to the class.

5:20 p.m. Chris quarters artichoke hearts, Cheryl whips cream, David sorts fresh herbs, Kaui slices baked polenta into quarter-moons, John sets aside egg wash, flour and potato shavings for grouper special.

5:55 p.m. The first dinner guests arrive.

The moment of truth arrives at 7:30 p.m.

That's when Rudy orders Cheryl to restuff the chicken. He has just spent the last 90 minutes with the cooking class and all 49 people will be served simultaneously.

A busy afternoon has evolved into a frenzied evening. The pace is picking up. The pressure intensifies.

When customers arrive, their waiter or waitress asks for the appropriate number of rolls to be warmed in the oven. That gives the kitchen the first sense of the demand that's about to be placed on them.

After a waitress writes up an order, she hands it to the chefs. When the salads are served, she announces, "Salads out," and the orders are clipped to a clothesline strung at eye level. It's the signal to have the food ready in 10 minutes.

Rudy's chicken crisis is over minutes after it began. Recounting his supply, he realizes he prepared 52 servings (26 chickens) instead of the feared 48. The extras become snacks for the staff.

Meanwhile, the kitchen has taken on a truly frantic pace. Pans and plates clatter. Arms are in constant motion. A dozen or more lTC orders must be prepared simultaneously -- not counting the cooking class meals.

The assigned roles blur as chefs help each other at critical moments. For the first time, there is shouting and a sense of agitation in the kitchen. Aluminum tongs (to maneuver hot plates and pans) stay glued to hands.

David tells Chris to make a Caesar salad while he finishes a pheasant breast. John boils pasta. Kaui broils veal chops.

Rudi runs into the kitchen asking for a 15-inch knife. A guest is so fascinated by the O. J. Simpson case he wants to know what one looks like and the eager-to-please maitre d' is holding a ruler to the cutlery.

"A guest asked for a 15-inch knife. Can you believe that?" He says.

Much of the attention focuses on the "line," the stainless-steel platform that runs the length of the kitchen and contains the steam table. Vegetables, soups, sauces and plates are kept warm along the table within reach of the chefs.

In the midst of the uproar, John carefully skins an orange, cutting it into eighths.

"What is that for?" he is asked.

"It's my own concoction, a little something I do when it gets hot," John replies and then pops the sections in his mouth.

Rudy, John and Chris form an assembly line, scooping vegetables by hand, sauces by ladle. The salmon leaves the kitchen at 7:47 p.m. The chicken is served at 8:17 p.m., the souffle at 8:55. Dessert is assembled downstairs in the cool of the banquet room and hits the tables at 9:15.

Are the guests enjoying themselves? Who knows? Aside from Rudy, chefs never leave the kitchen during a meal. Even the back door is kept closed. Rudy doesn't want his patrons to have any idea of how hard his staff is working.

Just as quickly as the kitchen became busy, the activity recedes. By 9:25, it's practically tranquil. The only equipment still humming is the credit card machine.

On this night, 107 customers have been served dinner, a good crowd for a weekday. There are still two hours of work left, wrapping up leftovers, cleaning the kitchen, beginning tomorrow's preparations.

For 12 hours, the chefs have remained surprisingly good-natured. They are tired, but satisfied. Just another day at the office.

"There's no miracle going on back there and I don't walk on water," says Rudy. "The good restaurants just take a little care to do things right."

For a free copy of the recipes featured in the Rudys' cooking class, call SunFax at (410) 332-6123. After the greeting, punch 5665.