Chef! · Season 1
See, in life, Piers, different people want different things. Some want large fortunes, some want carnal knowledge of vast number of the opposite, or indeed their own sex, and some want to write down the numbers of all the British rail diesel locomotives currently in service. Chacun à son goût. Me, my single aim in life is to send the finest, best presented food through that door there. That’s it! And if it’s at the cost of a few human lives, well, that’s fine by me.
Gareth, please…be reasonable!
Reasonable?! What are you talking about, reasonable? Since when am I reasonable? Do reasonable people produce eighty covers twice a day of the finest gastronomic experiences in England?! Do reasonable people get two Michelin stars? Do you think it’s reasonable to spend your life walking around dressed like this?! Reasonable?! I’m a raving bloody lunatic! If I wasn’t cooking I’d be out doing serial killing! You look at me, you see a personality problem under a silly white hat. Don’t talk to me about reasonable, I don’t do reasonable!!
I get the feeling that we’re in the general area of the topic of discussion now. Could we now get to the point? I mean, what has brought to you all this way that might interest your old school-extremely-slight-never-liked-you-anyway, probably-flush-your-head-down-the-toilet-as-soon-as-look-at-you-acquaintance?
Well, I’ve decided that I wanna work in a decent kitchen.
You are no doubt waiting for me to say to you 'It pains me to say this' or 'It gives me no pleasure' YOU WILL WAIT IN VAIN! I am Gareth Blackstock. I am seriously unpleasant. I am a bastard. What am I?
You're a bastard, Chef.
You got It!.
Ahh so you have a drreeeaamm, Everton. How unspeakably delightful for you.
Let me explain the order of things for you. There's the aristocracy, the upper class, middle class, working class, dumb animals, waiters, creeping things, head lice, people who eat packet soup, and then you.
Well I guess this is Crispin's Day. All we have is remaining stocks and what I'll buy today. We've lost two porters and a commis so the people in the room are IT. Piers and Everton whose duties once included keeping the kitchen clean will now concentrate solely on the preparation of food so no change there then. The morons will survive on tips alone, little babies. And it occurred to me that since you're all working for nothing you might think I'd be inclined to treat you all with greater caring, patience and understanding but then I realised that even in THIS kitchen no one could be THAT stupid,
[A customer has asked for salt]
Nothing else you wanted, was there?
What?
A splash of Lea & Perrins? A dollop of Daddies to stir into the artichoke and Hollandaise coulis? It really is no trouble, we could send someone into town. I can get you any thing you like to enhance the flavor of your food. Salad Cream, Newman's Own, Branston Pickle. You only have to ask. A little Tabasco perhaps, or barbecue sauce, a spoonful of sandwich spread maybe. A nice packet of cheese and onion flavor crisps to sprinkle over your monkfish and salmon gratin. We could even get you a prawn vindaloo, or family sized pack of chicken drumsticks or menu Beef for two persons with special fried rice and extra sweet and sour pork balls if you like, I mean we don't mind going to a bit of trouble to please the customers here, really. SALT!!! I'm going back to my kitchen now although GOD KNOWS WHY! I mean, do you have any idea of number of highly-skilled man hours over a three-day period have gone into producing this dish?! Which is brought to your table at the zenith of its powers? Its taste, flavors, texture and temperature at the peak of perfection, and WITHOUT TASTING IT YOU CALL FOR SALT?
Your salt, sir.
I hate you with a passion you can only dream of.... bon appétit.
[Gareth storms off. Lola is still hovering near the table]
Pardon me?
Yes?
Got any mustard?
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?
I expect you microwave a lot of this stuff, do you?
(visibly contains his rage) Strange to relate, no.
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!
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!
I'm very glad you made this, Piers. It's reminded me why we never have Vegetable Terrine on the menu. It does indeed look like a Tuscan Summer; it tastes like a Neapolitan compost heap.
These quotes come from Wikiquote's Chef! pages and are available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License.
