Welcome to Hell, Population: Me

There are many times when I'm in the restaurant alone. It's kind of nice except for one thing. The fucking phone. I have to answer it and get my ear chewed off by the most cretinous pack of dim witted fuckheads that god ever shoveled guts into. I'm talking about customers! Let me give you an example:
"(censored) Bistro, can I help you?"
"Um, yea! Ha ha! Um, I, um. Well, my uncle is coming to town from Atlanta, and he's really nice and, um , his wife is coming with him and she has three children from a previous marriage. Or is it two? Two or three. Anyway, he learned to speak German in the eighties when he was in the army and he's always telling jokes in German and he does a little dance and it's real cute. His wife told me her kids love it but I've never met them. Anyway, since they're in town I thought, heck! Why don't we all go out to eat together! So I thought maybe we'd go out for German food but my husband is allergic to wienerschnitzel so I thought...
...Three kids! It's three kids! I've seen pictures, they're darling. Anyway, um, I thought we'd come in there because I think she might like it and I was watching TV last night and I got in the mood for pasta and my shoes kind of look like the color of Marsala sauce so do you have room for four people at six o'clock tonight?"
I'm not even fucking joking. Consider yourself lucky, that was the condensed version. You don't need to tell me your life story to make a fucking reservation. That entire useless conversation could have been shortened to the last six words and it would have accomplished the same thing without tempting me to slam my head in a car door for an hour or two. Newsflash bitch! Restaurant workers act nice to you because we're paid to. Just because we act nice doesn't mean we're dying to hear every detail of your pointless life. State your business or fuck off!
Then there's one of my favorites. The ones who need directions. If you can dial a phone you can direct your browser to mapquest.com so fuck off and stop wasting my time. And no I can't tell you how to get to the freeway from that town you live in that I've never been to in my life so don't ask.
Then there's the fuckers that want to talk to the owner. If he's not in you can leave a message. If you fail to piss me off I might even consider giving it to him. But no, that's not good enough for these ass wipes.
"Is (censored) in?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not in at the moment."
Which is usually followed by:
"What do you mean, he's not in?"
I have no answer for that one. Is it really inconceivable that the owner might leave the premises on occasion? He has a family you know.
"Well, where is he?"
He got off his leash, he could be anywhere! Like I fucking know where he is! I'm his employee not his father. Strangely, he doesn't feel obligated to inform me of his whereabouts when he's not in the restaurant.
"When will he be in?"
I don't know! He'll be here when he fucking feels like it. One of the perks of being your own boss is setting your own schedule fuckhead!
"I'm a friend of his, can you give me his cell number?"
Sure, let me give you his social security number too you lying fuck. If you're really his friend you'd have his number already so blow me!
While all this bullshit is going on I usually have about 12 gallons of sauce scorching to shit on the burner because I can't get to it. Fuck you people!
There's more. People will call and want to know every detail about the place. Every ingredient in every dish, the price of every dish, everything down to the fucking decor. Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really have nothing else to do with your time? 'Cause I sure fucking do. If you're in for dinner and your food tastes a little off it was because you kept me on the phone for twenty minutes rambling on about stupid shit and prevented me from minding my kitchen. It's your own fault, FULL PRICE BITCH!
Unless the restaurant you are calling is huge or part of a hotel, they don't have a receptionist. Whoever answers the phone is usually busy and they don't have time to listen to you prattle on about stupid shit, so get to the fucking point already.
The chef hates you.

Stop e-mailing me you fuckers

It's the holidays for fuck's sake. I'm busier than a dyke in a hardware store. I'll resume my hateful rants in a couple days. Mellow the fuck out.

Disabuse Your Illusion

Ahh you poor suckers. You really believe all that food network crap don't you? Wolfgang Puck and all that shit. I hate to burst your bubble but real chefs are NOTHING like you see on TV. I'm so fucking amazed when customers request an audience with me. You don't want my sweaty hungover ass lingering over your table, trust me. I find it hilarious that some yuppie jackoff is eating his dinner and imagining some renaissance man in a spiffy white spotless chef coat waxing philosophically about sauces and herbs while lovingly garnishing his plate. Not the case pal. Usually I'm hungover as fuck, sweating whiskey or vodka out of every pore, completely covered in grease and tomato sauce and waxing philosophically about tits and ass. The level of discourse in a professional kitchen is extremely crude. When we're not making dick jokes, or altering the lyrics of whatever song is on the radio to involve our balls, we're cursing customers or threatening to castrate the male servers while shamelessly hitting on the female ones. On those rare days when I actually shave before work, I'll occasionally put on a clean coat and go wander the dining room. You may have seen this when you're out to eat, the chef roaming the dining room, smiling and asking how everything is. You may be tempted to think he gives a fuck about you. You would be wrong. The chef knows the food is good, that's how he pays his rent, dumbass. When the chef cruises the dining room it's because he felt claustrophobic after being cooped up in the kitchen for hours and decided to go on a cleavage reconnaissance mission. He will then report back to his crew with something like "you guys won't believe the tits on table 23!" while you're sitting there thinking what a swell guy he is. You poor saps. 99% of all chefs are drunken scumbags. The other 1% are fucking sissies who couldn't cook their way out of a paper bag with a lit match. We are not like you and we never will be. I could go on and on with tales of coke rails off the prep table or blowjobs in the walk-in but I think you get the picture. Don't worry, I'll wash my hands afterwards.
The chef hates you.

Hell week, then I'm out

The holiday season is here. which means large Christmas parties. I've got about 12 of them booked in the next few days. That means I'll be spending the next 48 hours getting raked over the coals. After that I'm off to Vegas for a couple days to get loaded and shoot dice. Posts will be slow in coming for about a week.
For the special tonight I'm doing veal osso bucco with saffron risotto and grilled zucchini. Osso bucco is the single greatest food item on planet fucking earth. If you've never had it, imagine doing a big shot of china white then lying on a marshmallow made of silk while god gently licks your asshole. That would be almost as good as osso bucco. If any customers try to fuck with it I'll have a fucking aneurysm. No you can't have the sauce on the side fuck-stick! It's braised in the sauce for about 5 fucking hours! I'm sure I'll have some gems for you when I get back. Ciao baby.

Well done? You sick fuck!

Improperly and overcooked proteins are disgusting. I can't believe people actually like that shit. Let's take steak for instance. A nice NY strip steak. It's a beautiful, tender cut with a nice fat strip along the back that melts in and gives it an amazing flavor. However, if it's cooked to anything beyond medium, it's ruined. Restaurants give you the option of choosing the temperature you'd like your steak because there are subtle differences in flavor and texture depending on how long it's cooked. In the rare to medium spectrum that is. Anything beyond that is garbage. You might as well eat your fucking shoes, there's really no difference. It fucking roils my blood when some jackass orders a well done steak. I do all the butchery in my restaurant myself. To see a gorgeous cut of meat I lovingly fabricated reduced to shriveled, shit colored hockey puck really pisses me off. Why don't you sick assholes quit bullshitting yourselves and go get a burger somewhere, 'cause that's what you really want. At least you can chew a well done burger. Then there's the fact that it takes about 800 years to get a steak to well done. Just what I need during the dinner rush. If any of you people are out to eat with family or friends and someone at the table orders a well done steak, slap the fuck. Because of him you all have to wait an eternity for your food. The fact that people are willing to pay top dollar and wait forever, just to eat a fucked up hunk of leather is astounding. Oh, and the next person to order a tenderloin filet well done is getting stabbed in the fucking dick. Overcooked filet mignon is an unforgivable crime against nature.
The same goes for fish. Overcooked fish is dry and nasty and gets stuck in your teeth. And any flavor it once had is off the plate and stuck to the filters in the vent hoods that my poor dishwasher has to clean. Thanks assholes. Medium rare to medium well is acceptable for most fish. Fresh tuna however will be served rare. If you don't like rare tuna you are irrevocably fucked in the head.
These creatures gave their lives so we can eat. The least you can do is show them the respect they deserve by allowing me to cook them properly. If you assholes insist on eating dry, flavorless, overcooked meat then do me a favor and go to McDonald's or get some fish sticks somewhere and stay the fuck out of my restaurant.

The chef hates your fucking guts.

Mess with your food? Me?

Let me put a little myth to rest right here and now. There is a widely held belief that a cook will fuck with and/or spit in your food when angered (not that it stops you people from angering us at every opportunity) but let me assure you it's not true. No matter how pissed off I am at you yuppie bastards, I'll never tamper with your food. For one I think it's a cowardly thing to do. I'll spit in your face long before I spit in your meal. Second, those meals are like my children. I take a lot of pride in the food I cook. I work my nuts off to make the best food I possibly can. I sweat bullets, get burned and cut up on a daily basis to make sure my food is the best it can be. I would never, EVER spit in one of my creations. Even though you may be some yuppie jerkoff who doesn't deserve the air you breath let alone one of my masterfully prepared meals, I'll never sabotage the food. Not that it doesn't cross my mind though. There are times when I'm tempted to tea-bag every dish that hits the window, but usually the worst I'll do to the food if the customer is an especially grievous asshole is not give it any love. I'll just whip it together as fast as I can to get it out of my way. The absolute worst thing I'll do is if a customer comes in just before closing time (not the first crime against humanity they've commited that day I'm sure). I will be visibly shaking with anger. I will curse you and your family. And I will "grill" your steak in the fucking microwave. No spit but no love either. Get it?

Until next time remember, The chef hates you.

Shove that special order up your ass!

Special orders. Fuck I hate 'em. If you don't like mushrooms then don't order a menu item with mushrooms in it OK? Seems like simple fucking logic to me. But no, every night I get a bunch of brainless pissants whose eyes seem to gravitate towards the menu items that contain ingredients they don't like, Just so they can special order and fuck up the flow of the kitchen. Those of you who don't special order, if your food seems like it's taking a long time it's because some jerkoff at another table made a ridiculous demand and screwed up the tempo of the cooks. Most of the time their instructions don't improve the dish any, it just makes them feel special or something. Pathetic cry-for-attention bullshit. Worse than the simple substitution crowd are the create-a-meal dip shits. These people are absolutely amazing. They pick and choose various ingredients from the spectrum of menu choices to have me create a dish that ends up being something akin to a steaming pile of rancid horseshit. Then they complain when it tastes bad. Some yuppie douchebag that couldn't tell a sauté pan from the crack of his ass wants to tell me how to cook. If you people know so much about food and cooking then why are you paying me to cook for you? Cook that sick shit yourselves and leave me out of it. Then you got the sauce on the side fuckers. WHY??? Most protiens (meat, fish, poultry) are cooked in the sauce, which gives the sauce and the protien it's flavor. You have no idea how badly you are fucking up a perfectly good meal when you order it like that. Puting the sauce on the side isn't as simple as you dumbasses seem to think. It involves completly reworking the recipe which is a pain in the ass and results in an inferior product. The menu in my restaurant presents dishes that are the best they can be. That's why they're on the menu the way they are. Don't go fucking them up! If you think you can do better, open your own restaurant or cook at home. The only people who have an excuse for special ordering are the ones with food allergies and even they piss me off sometimes. More on them later. In the meantime, if you don't like what's on the menu then eat somewhere else. Don't ruin the chef's creations.

Until next time, the chef hates you.

Edit:
I forgot to mention one of my favorites. Recovering alcoholics that don't want wine in the sauce. Give me a fucking break you whiny shit-bags! More pathetic cry-for-attention bullshit. There's no fucking alcohol in the sauce, dummy. It gets cooked out. The sauce won't taste anything like wine when it's done you dumb fucks! The wine is a tool that causes solids to dissolve and bind together with various liquids to form a good sauce. Leaving it out fucks the whole thing up. What gets me is these useless fucktards have no problem ordering a vinaigrette on their salad. What do you think vinegar is made out of? It's made out of wine dumbass! In fact vinegar tastes more like wine than my sauce will! Yet you'll eat it with out batting an eye. Get your head out of your ass you cry baby bitch. The chef REALLY hates you.

We close in five minutes ASSHOLE!

Anyone who would even consider walking into a restaurant anytime within a half hour of it's closing is an inconsiderate prick. God I hate you people. Usually I have the kitchen all cleaned up and am ready to walk out the door after a long, hard day and night of work when some arrogant yuppie cocksucker rolls in and expects the whole crew to work late for them. Fuck you! You have no idea how much it sucks to think you're off work in five minutes and then WHAM! you're on for another hour! Let me ask you people something. Are you employed? Do you like to work late? Do you like to work late due someone else's actions and not yours? Me either! When you walk into a restaurant to eat just before their closing time YOU ARE DOING THAT TO OTHER PEOPLE!!!!!
Now I know there are some of you who will say "quit whining, you're only doing your job!" to whom I say:
Fuck off you sociopathic asshole! If you have so little empathy for your fellow man you should be locked up, examined by psychiatrists and treated for your dangerous antisocial tendencies. Preferably by an extensive bout of anally induced electroshock therapy.
Let me explain it in a way even you pin-headed yuppies can understand. If you check into a hotel room and proceed to shit all over the floor, the housekeeping staff is going to be mighty pissed off when they have to clean it up, right? Why? they're just doing their jobs aren't they? They shouldn't be mad about it! WRONG! Just because it's their job to clean up your shit doesn't mean you are any less of an uncaring prick for doing that to them! Do you understand?!?! It's the same thing!
Oh well, if you come in that late your dinner's going in the microwave anyway. Suckers.

Until next time remember, The chef hates you.