Everton. This is a restaurant in which we serve the finest food that can be prepared by man. If you can think of anything more appalling to find on your plate than a used Elast-o-plast, then I don't want to know what it is. Search the pies, and when you are finished, take your sharpest knife, point it at your chest, and hurl yourself violently forward.
Is there no one else interested? Oh, Mrs Rather Nasty Smell, Mrs Fortis-Perkins. Jolly good. Nice lady. I liked her. SNOTTY COW, what's wrong with it?
RReporter
I expect you microwave a lot of this stuff, do you?
(visibly contains his rage) Strange to relate, no.
RReporter
Oh come on. You buy things in bags and boil them up. My friend told me.
No, actually, we don't. You see this is what we call a kitchen. We are chefs. We prepare the food from scratch!
RReporter
Don't worry, I'm not going to print anything about the cooking!
Please don't print that picture. I was being wordlessly sarcastic. Marcel Marceau would have been proud.
Following Everton's thorough search for his missing plaster
All the pies ruined?
Yes, Chef.
All the pasta re-wrapped?
Yes, Chef.
D'you find it?
Yes, Chef.
Good.
It was under the soap in the toilet.
(beat) What an entirely charming interlude. (beat) You're a PRAT, Stonehead!
These quotes come from Wikiquote's Chef! pages and are available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License.