Int. Restaurant Kitchen
A waiter goes to pick up a plate of food. A chef approaches.
Chef:
No, no, Antoine. This one is for The Times food critic. I will serve it personally.
CUT TO: Int. Restaurant
A fat man in a suit is sat at a table. The chef approaches with a plate of food.
Chef:
Sauteed lambs kidneys in a mustard and dill sauce - my signature dish.
Man:
Looks like weasel vomit. (TAKES A BITE) IT IS WEASEL VOMIT! (SPITS OUT FOOD)
The man starts scribbling in his notepad.
Chef:
Would you like to try the foie gras stuffed spatchcock?
Man:
Have you got any of those chicken kievs?
Chef:
Chicken kievs? No...
Man:
A three star Michelin restaurant and you can't rustle up a chicken kiev?!
Chef:
Is there anything else you would like?
Man:
Yes, how about that waitress over there? Could I bang her? Here and now? On the table?
Chef:
You mean my daughter?
Man:
Can she do the splits?
Chef:
How about we send the sous chef out to get some chicken kievs?
Man:
Are you not even going to offer yourself as a replacement?
Chef:
You, sir, are the most rude, disgusting and arrogant person I have ever met.
Man:
So, you're saying I've done pretty well?
Chef:
Pretty well? Let's just say you're the finest bastard food critic we've ever had in here. I'll be awarding you five wankers out of five!
Man:
Excellent! I'll celebrate with another plate of weasel vomit, please!
ENDS