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.