The restaurant analogy is good. Let's see how it would really work.
It's mid-evening Friday, and the chefs are all as busy as one-handed potato-peelers; the waiters are scurrying around filling CUSTOMERS' orders as fast as possible. The kitchen staff is carting in pallet-loads of produce. Suddenly a salesman bursts through the door, knocks down the porter (sneering "elitist lackey of the drone classes"), and stumbles through the tables toward what he presumes is the kitchen. (The porter mumbles unheeded, "all salesmen wait in the large conference room.") Eventually, after bumping into with several waiters, knocking their trays of food onto the floor (necessitating immediate extra work for the chef as well as the cleaning crew), he finds his way to the kitchen door. There he's met by a small sous-chef with a large butcher knife.
"Where's the chef?" he demands. "I have to see the chef RIGHT NOW! I NEED to see the chef. I won't make my sales quota if I don't sell 500 pounds of rancid irradiated beef per week to this restaurant starting today. And I need to know, right NOW, how much you're going to buy. I don't care what the chef is doing, he couldn't be doing anything without food producers, so his most important mission is buying food. So why isn't he buying my food! This restaurant is too economically important to worry about cooking food, all that matters economically is that they buy it. From Me. Now. So why can't you tell me when you are going to pick up the food from my warehouse?"
What's reality here? This was the hundred and thirty seventh salesman to crash the door -- that evening. Ninety-seven of them are from the same three warehouses. (And, by the way, all three warehouses are well known to be completely vermin-free, because rats are picky about what they eat.) Ninety-two of the ninety-seven claim that they offer unique combinations of blasts, molds, blight, and mildew; the other five really don't know that the warehouses hired all the inmates when the local asylum closed down, and don't realize there's a possibility that they might not be offering unique goods.
Three of the salesmen really don't realize that in this hemisphere of planet earth, Friday evening is a busy time for restaurants. On their home planet, Tuesday morning is the socially approved gluttony hour. The rest really don't care -- they got fired from their part-time dinner-hour telemarketing jobs for being too pushy -- and they figure the one time the chef is sure to be in the restaurant is Friday evening.
So, I give up. You make the call. You volunteered to be a sous-chef to learn how to make biscuits. You don't want to be a bouncer, and you don't have the physique for it. In fact, the restaurant doesn't have bouncers. All you have is a big knife and the positional advantage.
What do you tell this disruptive peremptorily importunate salesman for a potential supplier, who seems to be operating under the delusion that he is not only your customer, but in fact your only customer?
"The chef has a long list of suppliers to investigate. In fact, we can't guess when we'll next need a supplier for radioactive beef. In fact, the last ten potential broccoli suppliers were really selling radioactive beef spray-painted green. No, we don't actually know your beef is radioactive, do we? We won't know until we assay it. And we won't assay it until we need possibly-radioactive beef. No, the chef won't talk to you more quickly if you claim to be selling broccoli spray-painted gray. No, the chef won't talk you more quickly if you bring in another half-dozen disruptive salesman next Friday night. No, I don't know how many pounds of beef we'll need next Friday night. The chef won't select the menu until Wednesday. No, there's no way to strong-arm the chef to get him to put more beef on the menu."
All of which is true and relevant, but ... so long as he doesn't hear what he wants to hear, and doesn't see an immediate risk to his body parts from the knife, it's not going to get any biscuits made.
I don't know what you'd do. We sometimes use the knife. We keep hoping that if the first hundred and thirty-six salesmen are seen leaving the restaurant with carry-out bags filled with bits of themselves, the others will get the message: just send your price list to our business office and we'll check out your produce when we need it.
We call that being mission-oriented. You can call it being careless with knives; but there's more than one way to use a knife on a mission, and the way not to get cleft is not to look like a cleavable impediment. Is that so hard to figure out?