Chef!

[an article about Everton has appeared in a prestigious gastronomic magazine]

Crispin:
Show it to him, Everton.

Everton Stonehead:
Well, I...

Crispin:
Look, he's bound to see it sooner or later. It's much better to have courtesy on your side.

Everton Stonehead:
I was afraid he might be a bit pissed off.

Crispin:
Oh no, he won't be pissed off.

Everton Stonehead:
Oh, good...

Crispin:
He'll be incandescent with blind and barbaric fury. Next to Chef, Mount Pinatubo will be an irritating, unripe zit. The killing fields of Kampuchea will be as a bouncy castle.

[Watching Savanna practice Tai Chi]

Cyril Bryson:
Savanna Concord, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope to high heaven I come back as your underwear drawer.

[a customer just asked for extra salt]

Gareth:
I hate you more than you can possibly imagine!

Lucinda:
Everton, I'm the sous chef, do you know what that means?

Everton Stonehead:
It means you're the second in command, sorta thing.

Lucinda:
It means I'm the second in command in the finest restaurant in England. Now the head chef leaves me in charge for an hour and suddenly we're serving fricassee of used Elast-O-Plast! I hate you Everton. I want you to die.

Gareth:
[to Piers] Let me explain the order of things to you. There's the aristocracy, the upper class, the middle class, working class, dumb animals, waiters, creeping things, head lice, people who eat packet soup, then you.

[Gareth is wearing his chef's hat]

Gareth:
Lucinda, I have adorned myself with the culinary condom.

Gareth:
Everton, please remove the maggots, rat carcasses, and corpses of shocked health inspectors and make the place fit for the preparation of sodding food!

[Everton applies for a position Gareth's wife just asked him to create]

Gareth:
Well, you've got two things going for you. One, we're old school chums. And two, your timing is absolutely, totally, marriage-ruiningly perfect.

Everton Stonehead:
[reading an article about a documentary on Chef] BBC bosses boycott bollocking Blackstock.

Gareth:
[while preparing vegetables] Somebody bring me a knife, very long and razor sharp. I need to castrate the person who made this sauce and I don't want to cause any unecessary suffering. I'm not a vindictive man, I'm not out to cause pain, but with this man's DNA in the gene pool, humanity is doomed.

Janice Blackstock:
And you're a man...

Gareth:
Janice, I can hardly deny that with you holding the evidence.

Gareth:
You have as much chance of becoming a top chef as John Major has of becoming a stand-up comedian.

Gareth:
You are a pea-brained, prat-faced, pompous, pillock-headed cretin. If you took an intensive course of intelligence injections and studied till you drop, then one day you might make it to moron third class failed.

Janice Blackstock:
I consequently have a sex life slightly less active than the Singing Nun.

Janice Blackstock:
You've been fighting with the customers?

Gareth:
Well, somebody's got to do it.

Gareth:
So please go away... and please re-arrange the contents of this plate so that someone in the latest stages of malnutrition will at least take a passing interest in it.

Gareth:
Everton, let me explain things to you. In the world of cooking, I am Einstein. Lucinda is Isaac Newton. And you are a mud-dwelling unicellular bit of jelly with a predilection for consuming its own excrement.

Everton Stonehead:
You don't like the way I cook?

Gareth:
I feel it's important to be frank.

[to Everton]

Gareth:
I pay you what you're worth. How could you possibly afford a flat?

Janice:
I consequently have a sex life slightly less active than the Singing Nun.

Gareth:
God I love fishing. Well, obviously what I actually love is standing in cold water up to my goolies. That must be the appeal because I never see a fish, neverless catch one.

Gareth:
No need to worry about the health inspector coming, the shock would kill him on the spot. The bacteria under Everton's section would consume him in seconds.

Gareth:
Get me a large knife sharp like a razor. I have to castrate the person who made this sauce and I want to avoid any unnecessary suffering. It is imperative that the author of this atrocity is not allowed to breed any more.

Gareth:
Please remove the maggots, rat carcasses, and corpses of shocked health inspectors and make the place fit for the preparation of sodding food.

Gareth:
Let me explain the order of things for you. There's the aristocracy, the upper class, middle class, working class, dumb animals, waiters, creeping things, head lice, people who eat packet soup, and then you.

Gareth:
The partridge I want is one which has eaten wild food and lived a wild life, has struggled, hoped and dreamed, has sown wild oats, has tasted the bitter disappointment of middle age, and knows what it is to eyeball The Grim Reaper in the watches of the night; the partridge sunk in the veil of years, with all the flavors of its rich eventful life captured in its texture, it's juice, its very flesh. I do not want this callow, milk-fed, adolescent, uncouth, undeveloped wodge of protein. I don't believe in eating virgins.

Janice:
Out?

Gareth:
Yes, out. You remember out. You go through this door, the temperature drops suddenly and the scenery changes.

[to Janice, about Everton]

Gareth:
I must see his blood outside his body.

Gareth:
I want to cook the best, that's it. I'm not a nice man; I don't do loyalty or helping out friends or being reasonable. I'm a sh*t who likes to cook. Obviously you've misled thinking otherwise by the warmth and charm of my personality.

Gareth:
Steve, what I'm doing here is putting out bad vibes. What can be discerned from my social behavior, body language and general demeanor is that I have very little interest in prolonging this encounter. Should there be a point, I'd like to get to it quickly in order to terminate this interview as soon as possible. Most people with a full set of frontal lobes would have clocked this by now.

Gareth:
Isn't Lesley that blonde geezer with a mustache?

Janice:
Close. Very close. Lesley is black, entirely without facial hair, and a woman.

Janice:
We haven't seen them since our wedding night. You remember our wedding night - it's when you vowed to be celibate with me til death us do part.

Janice:
Oh, Joe and Lesley phoned.

Gareth:
Oh, good. How are they?

Janice:
Fine.

Gareth:
Wonderful. [pauses] Who are Joe and Lesley?

Janice:
We're fully booked for lunch tomorrow: ninety-six covers.

Gareth:
The restaurant only holds ninety.

Janice:
We'll put a table on the terrace.

Gareth:
It's going to rain.

Janice:
How do you know?

Gareth:
You're putting a table on the terrace.

Gareth:
Everton, Debra's crying and I haven't shouted at her yet.

[to Crispin, who's late]

Gareth:
Where the astonishingly rude word beginning with the sixth letter of the alphabet have you been?

Gareth:
People have offered me money, sexual favors, a Blue Peter badge, and, on one memorable occasion, a place at the lowest reaches of the New Year's Honors list just for a job in this kitchen.

[to a distressed Debra]

Gareth:
See, I'm married, so I don't know very much about love and romance.

Alphonse:
Madame says 'Can you shout at your staff very quietly and ask them not to scream when you hit them?'

Gareth:
That's what cheese is - gone-off milk with bugs and mold! That's why it tastes so good! Look, cows and bugs together have a good deal going down. Why can't people grasp this?