“New York strip, wellington. Where are we?” – Gordon

New York strip, wellington. Where are we?

How long, Tommy?

Anybody helping him or what?

Hold on, I got it! I got it!

You gotta cut those too, man!

Hold on. I got a rhythm going.

Oh, fuck me. You three.

Cut it and bring them up.

Bring it up!

What's this one, normal or medium? Is that medium?

Tommy, which one's well?

I don't know which one's well!

Medium or well?

(interview) Tommy can cook, but Tommy doesn't communicate. Tommy's in his own fucking world.

Tommy, what's this one?

Where's the two medium? (to Tommy) Stop. Leave me alone. Leave me alone, Tommy.

That's the medium rare, chef.

Leave me alone. My fucking head hurts.

The last two are medium.

[to Blue Team] All of you. All of you, just touch that. Just touch that! Where's the two medium?

Here, chef. And that is the medium rare.

Oh, the cold one? (to Tommy) You made me look like a fucking arsehole in front of Wolfgang Puck today! Now, that's... that's hot, that's lukewarm, and that's cold. Are you done?

No, no, no!

Yeah, I'm done with you!

Tommy, heat them up! Get them back to the fucking pass!

How long?!

HOW LONG?!

Three minutes, chef.

You have another wellington you can use, or do I need to put this one in?

WHY CAN'T WE JUST FUCKING REHEAT THEM?! [slams fist on workstation]

IT'S FALLING APART! IT LOOKS LIKE SHIT, I'M NOT SENDING IT OUT LIKE THAT!