Gordon quotes from Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares

(voiceover) An omelette is probably one of the first things at catering college. (to Tim) When was the last time you cooked an omelette?

I've never cooked one before. No, I've never cooked an omelette before.

Oh, don't be stupid.

I haven't.

(cuts the omelette open) Look inside. What does that tell you?

Uh...slightly overcooked.

Slightly? Tastes like fucking rubber. Both overcooked. That was shit by any standard. You're a head chef? You're taking the piss here, you know that? (silence) You are taking the piss, you know that?

Yes, Gordon.

(voiceover) Lets not forget: Tim is a head chef.

Fucking hell! [pulls out the croutons for the French onion soup and they are on fire; he blows out the fire and they are scorched] I burned them, yeah.

[laughing] Last thing I said was, "Don't forget your croutons!" He's managed to fuck them over at his Gran's house! [hits his head repeatedly]

Ladies first, this is some French onion soup.

(voiceover) Minus the croutons.

What are we going to do with this numb-fuck?

[Serving Chicken Kiev] Look at that, superb.

(voiceover) Torched on the outside and pink in the middle. As for the lemon meringue pie, he would've gotten a better reception if he threw it at them. Tim's family wouldn't dream of criticising him. But the paying customers on Valentine's night won't be as forgiving.

(to Tim) We've got 44 booked this Saturday night.

Mm-hmm.

And you fucked up for four. What chance have you got for 44? I'm now starting to shit myself.

When it's brown, it's cooked. When it's black, it's...

Fucked!

This is not right, this is fucking miles away! This is a fucking nightmare, you know that? Because it's more loss on top of more loss and more loss and more mould! And that's what worries me, because you need to touch that... [touches a mouldy tomato] ...rub your finger on that, you go a to chip, you need to season something, you put your finger in the tomato soup, and then they're all fucked! You've contaminated the whole place, and that's what really worries me. This kitchen is not fit to cook a fucking thing in, and that's YOUR problem!

I think I'd better just close, and put "Due to refurbishment".

And you should bow out gracefully, you know that?

(interview) I've been giving him another chance, and another chance, and another chance. That's just... I can't tolerate that, it's going to end up... well, it's professional suicide, isn't it? He's conned me, simple as that. I don't honestly think he did it deliberately. I don't think he's a nasty piece of work, I just think he lives in a Walter Mitty world. I think he just convinces himself, to be honest.

Listen, let me have a quick word with you. This man [Israel] is paying your salary. His business is about to close. Do you understand how critical the situation is?

I do.

So pay the man fucking respect, and tell the truth. You have deep-fried those potatoes.

These ones haven't been deep-fried.

They are wrinkled, dehydrated, and they have been in the deep-fat fryer.

That's not dehydrated, is it?

You're talking to a chef, and for as long as I got a hole in my butt, big boy, those fucking potatoes have been in the deep-fat fryer. Don't fucking lie.

I know what I did.

You know the oven's not hot enough to roast a potato! We can't even cook a fucking burger in there! They've been in the fryer. Tell the fucking truth!

It went in the oven.

Tell him the fucking truth... (voiceover) He's so adamant, I'm even starting to doubt my own judgement - until I tracked down Alsamh. (To sous-chef Alsamh) How many trays of potatoes did you fry this morning?

I fried everything here.

You fried all four?

Yes.

And who told you to fry them?

My chef.

Your chef, yes. (to Philippe) Why did you deep-fry the potatoes?

You've said it earlier. The oven is nowhere near hot enough.

Right. Can we get back to basics now, and cut the fucking crap? (to Israel) Sorry. But I fucking hate liars.

(voiceover) I've never seen so much food come back. Something fishy is going on here.

What's that in there?

Blackcurrant.

[tastes the juice and winces] What's in there?

I don't know. I got Kathy to make it for me.

No, no! Tell me the truth. You said you were going to be honest this morning.

Ribena, water and, uh... a vodka in the bottom.

When you started off service at seven o'clock tonight, yeah, it was going well, you know that. Now it's nine o'clock and they're starting to complain. Is that because of that [the vodka]?

No! That's the first one that's come in the kitchen, and that IS the truth.

But why did you tell me you weren't going to drink?

Because I'm absolutely knackered, I've been here since all day, and I just wanted one drink, so I got Kat to... I do apologise for that. Fair enough, I'm sorry.

Service!

(trying to read the tickets) Um... fuck. I don't know. I don't.

(voiceover) It's all becoming seriously clear. This is not just about Lenin's lack of confidence.

You let me down fucking big time. Half past eight, inside that fucking cup, you're sneaking vodka in. And I don't mind you having a beer after fucking service. I don't fucking care what you do after service. But in service, from seven o'clock to eleven, you fucking stay away from that. And you put your pressures on me. You give me the pressure. And it's not just the kitchen you're fucking, you know that. You're screwing your mum. It's gone beyond food now.

One lamb, medium-to-well. One chicken and ribs, one portion of chips...

(voiceover) Lenin gets off to a good start, but he sounds a bit more stressed, and sounds less confident. (to Lenin) You alright, Lenny? You gone quiet on me?

No... no, I'm fine.

(voiceover) But evidently, he wasn't. Later that evening, events took a terrible turn.

Lenin collapsed. He's been rushed to hospital in an ambulance, and I hope to hell he's okay. It was a fucking shock.

(voiceover) Using alcohol as a crutch in the kitchen is a problem that cannot be ignored. To better understand Lenin's problems, I've contacted pioneering chef Michael Quinn. Michael set up the Ark Foundation to tackle the industry-wide problem of drug and alcohol abuse, after he himself was toppled by the demon drink.

You had the perfect job, for fuck's sake. The first-ever British chef to be crowned the chef de cuisine at The Ritz Hotel.

Absolutely. When I left The Ritz I was at the top of the tree, and alcohol just completely took over my life. I went from The Ritz, eventually, to living on the streets. I slept under bridges, in doorways. I was in hospital with liver failure, and I had the last rites from a Catholic priest.

That close?

Yeah.

Why do chefs today think it's part of a fucking rock-and-roll image to drink?

Our business as chefs is a very tough business. The immensely long hours we do, the heat, and also that, you know, you're part of an SAS squad in the kitchen. It's "work hard, play hard, we'll show the rest of the bastards how good we are." But one in ten cross that line. And if you've crossed that line into addiction, into being an alcoholic, you can never go back to social drinking.

Can this guy continue to cook and deal with the problem at the same time?

No. He needs to be separated. Willpower doesn't get you well. In order to recover, you need to surrender and admit defeat, and that is the step forward to freedom.

Have you cooked mussels before?

No.

You're pulling my plonker, now aren't you? You've never cooked a mussel?

Right, we can shout or you can fucking help. I don't mind.

What you mean I can help?

Eh?

What did we do for the last...

Yeah, okay, fine. You're right. Sorry.

What did we do for the last two hours?

Fine, so what do we want in here?

I'm just amazed you've never cooked a mussel.

I haven't! Don't take the piss out of me for it, though.

Who's taking the piss?

You are!

I don't think you can actually cook!

If you'd have fucking talked to me...

If you can't cook a fucking mussel...! Yerse!

No, if you had fucking talked to - YOUEGH! ERGH!

Go on!

Eh?

Go on!

Yeah! Erngh!

Finish it, then.

Finish what?

What are you about to say?

Are you--What am I about to say?

Cook a mussel.

No! I haven't cooked one.

Right. Okay. So shall I show you how to cook a mussel?

Oh, at last. Thank you. Yes, please.

Right. Are you going to tone your voice down, or are you going to shout like some dick?

I'll shout like some dick, and then I'll calm down.

Right. Well, why don't you fuck off to the book shop, read how to cook a mussel and come back and see me, and I'll run your fucking restaurant.

Thank you!

Plonker.

Twat.

Fucking hell, what's all that about? Jesus Christ! Well, at least, he broke the ice now, we know where we stand. "Yeah!?"

The prawns? The flavour of the prawns was extraordinary. Fresh, vibrant. Why would you want to fuck around and put chocolate sauce on there?

Because I don't want to be boring. I want to be exciting.

I thought it was fucking hideous. Didn't work. And then I came to this fucking schlong, that kebab. Have you ever sat at a table and watched six customers with this fucking donkey's dick swinging around in front of their faces? It's hilarious.

Well, that… that's it. It's a talking point. It's a wow factor.

That's a wow factor? The fillet steak, it was tough as old boots.

Are you sure?

Yeah. Before you start mouthing off, let me just show you. A cube that big, and [indicating a smaller cube] a cube that big, [indicating an even smaller cube] and a cube that big are not going to cook at the same time.

That's my fault, then.

Oh, fuck me, here we go. Can I just finish my sentence first, Sinbad, and then you can fucking come back on me in a minute?

(voiceover) With customers worn out from waiting, meals being sent back, surely even Laurence can see that by sticking to his stupid menu, he's only got himself to blame. (To Laurence) I'm speechless. I don't know what to say. Let's get to the crux. Laurence?

I think Norm was put under far too much pressure tonight. Your menu made him plate up his own plates, and do the starters and the cold soups out there on the barbie, and he couldn't manage. It slowed him down too much.

You're telling me that my menu fucked him up on the grill?

He couldn't deal with it.

Couldn't deal with what?! Putting out a fucking bowl of soup that's already made for him?

Yeah, it was-

When are you guys going to stop fucking around with excuses?! When's one of you gonna step forward with a pair of bollocks and give me some fucking honesty?! Because I don't know where you were, cause that was fucking shocking! Let me tell you something. You made a fucking good decision. You pushed the button. Whether you like it or not, it was too fucking late. An hour-and-a-half late. So whose fucking fault is it now, chef? (Starts walking out) I'm fucking out of here. fuck yourself.

(voiceover) Junior sous-chef Emma is Phil's long-suffering sidekick. Her star turn is sticky toffee pudding, but Phil hates it.

Babe, you know my feelings on this fucking...

I know you don't like that part.

Day one, I've always said it should not be on our menu.

Trial and error.

Phil said an hour ago, "What is that? What? Is? That?" And he was told, "It's the Morgan classic, sticky toffee pudding!" [Raises his arms ridiculously] Yay!

[samples Emma's pudding] Smells nice. It's the first time this evening I'm glad to be here. This is nice, light, not too sticky. The person who made that dish doesn't put fucking apricot and mashed potatoes together in vanilla whisky.

(narration) Sentimental old actor Allan Love's posh seafood restaurant is about to fold. And he's harboring a dark secret.

(interview) One would think that if you open a seafood restaurant, you'd actually like to eat seafood...

I have a bit of an aversion to fish. Just because I had a bone in my throat for three days, and I had a real problem with it; and if I get a bone, I get physically sick.

How old were you when you got the bone stuck in your throat?

[chuckles] Oh, only about five.

Five? And how old are you now?

Sixty-nine.

[Looks uneasy] Sixty?

(narration) I've invited the Bishop of Sussex to head up a VIP table of fellow clergymen. If the kitchen stuffs up, at least they'll grant forgiveness.

I've asked them to bless this kitchen, and pray that we never see a broccoli soup made last week anywhere near the building.

Heavenly Father, we thank You for the gift of food, to delight us and to feed us, and we ask for Your blessing upon this kitchen and these guys working here. Give them serenity, in the pressures that they are under, and give a special blessing to Gordon; we know he needs it. We bless this kitchen in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

There's thirty people out there who do not want to pay for their dinner!

Well, I fucked up that one. What do you want me to say?

We're talking thirty out of fifty - we're talking thirty out of sixty. That's what I've got up there, telling me they're not going to pay for their dinner! Thirty people.

Ask the bishop to take the place over and help. Get him to hold a service here on Sunday. It'd be more fucking successful.