Okay God,
How can you be a size 2 and be a successful chef? If you won’t eat your own food, why should I? I want chefs to have some meat on their bones. Emeril LaGassee and G. Garvin are my boyz. They enjoy food and I can hang out with them. Paula Dean, love her. Rachael Ray and Nigella Lawson, hello, love them too.
Common denominator: They eat their own cooking!
My friend Jessica and I went to a restaurant in a trendy section of Los Angeles. The buzz on the restaurant was fantastic, so we were both excited about checking it out. Let me preface something about Jessica: She’s a straight shooter and does not mince words if something is awry, especially as it pertains to food and the customer service. She also bears a likeness to Jennifer Aniston and is a sweet but tough broad. Put it to you this way—she doesn’t like wire hangers.
The first course resembled something our parents told us not to touch. Adding to our inability to identify the appetizer, our waiter, a very hot Guatemalan gentleman, kept repeating over and over, “But Robert De Niro is over dare.” Jessica told him, “Don’t come over here again without telling us what this is because it’s not tuna tartare.” He responded, “Okay, but Robert De Niro is over dare.”
After our third request for help, the bouncy hostess, fresh from a reality dating show (don’t ask me how I know), came over and asked us how she could be of service. Jessica said she would give the hostess $50 if she could identify the appetizer. Our sweet hostess broke down in tears and said, “No one told me the job would be so demanding.” The manager of the restaurant came over and asked us what happened. Having the cooler head between the two of us, I told the manager that whatever was on the plate could not seriously be called food. He looked at “it” and began to sweat and ordered the staff to count their fingers just in case someone was missing a digit.
After hearing that comment, a hush fell over the restaurant. Table by table, only “Check, please” could be heard. The chef came out of the kitchen hoping to stop the mass exodus of her heavily leveraged restaurant and was about to pull a diva-like stunt when Jessica showed her the plate and asked, “Boo, what is this? I’m not spending money on therapy because you cooked someone’s finger.”
The chef looked at me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know. I never eat my cooking.”
This was not a good thing to say. Jessica turned to me, handed me her Gucci bag, and started taking off her jewelry. I knew that the next person who spoke to her was going to the hospital. Unfortunately, the Guatemalan waiter returned and said, “Okay, but Robert De Niro is over dare.” I yelled, “Run, Forest, Run!” All of a sudden, the waiter’s comprehension was golden, and he ran out of the restaurant like a hungry pit bull was chasing him.
At this juncture, all I wanted was my parking validated. All Jessica wanted was a fight with the chef and asked, “Where do you eat, and why are you charging us three hundred dollars for a finger?”
The hostess, returning from her break, saw Jessica and started crying again. Apparently, this was not the first time an appetizer went most foul. It seemed part of her job was to be the official taster. The chef took a fork, picked up the “appetizer,” and told the hostess to “open wide.” Our teary hostess passed out, and now Chef Finger was faced with tasting her own appetizer. Jessica gave her the if-you-don’t-taste-it-you’ll-be-missing-nine-other-fingers look.
This time she ate her own meal. Two weeks later, the restaurant closed.
God: Sounds like a balanced meal.
No comments:
Post a Comment