Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, Series Two

Gordon:
Slap-bang in the middle of Letchworth is La Lanterna. It's run by British-born-and-bred Alexander Scott. From an early age, Alex dreamt of being a chef. Then, childhood holidays in Italy turned him into a self-confessed Italophile. So much so, he's taken to calling himself "Alessandro".

Gordon:
D-Place cafe bar is in D-Shit.

[Gordon is leaving the restaurant having been disappointed by the food and service]

Gordon:
Definitely not D-Place for me!

[Gordon checks the potatoes, which head chef Philippe claims are roasted]

Gordon:
Listen, let me have a quick word with you. This man [Israel] is paying your salary. His business is about to close. Do you understand how critical the situation is?

Philippe:
I do.

Gordon:
So pay the man fucking respect, and tell the truth. You have deep-fried those potatoes.

Philippe:
These ones haven't been deep-fried.

Gordon:
They are wrinkled, dehydrated, and they have been in the deep-fat fryer.

Philippe:
That's not dehydrated, is it?

Gordon:
You're talking to a chef, and for as long as I got a hole in my butt, big boy, those fucking potatoes have been in the deep-fat fryer. Don't fucking lie.

Philippe:
I know what I did.

Gordon:
You know the oven's not hot enough to roast a potato! We can't even cook a fucking burger in there! They've been in the fryer. Tell the fucking truth!

Philippe:
It went in the oven.

Gordon:
Tell him the fucking truth... (voiceover) He's so adamant, I'm even starting to doubt my own judgement - until I tracked down Alsamh. (To sous-chef Alsamh) How many trays of potatoes did you fry this morning?

Alsamh:
I fried everything here.

Gordon:
You fried all four?

Alsamh:
Yes.

Gordon:
And who told you to fry them?

Alsamh:
My chef.

Gordon:
Your chef, yes. (to Philippe) Why did you deep-fry the potatoes?

Philippe:
You've said it earlier. The oven is nowhere near hot enough.

Gordon:
Right. Can we get back to basics now, and cut the fucking crap? (to Israel) Sorry. But I fucking hate liars.

Gordon:
(voiceover) I've never seen so much food come back. Something fishy is going on here.

[Gordon picks up a glass of what appears to be fruit juice.]

Gordon:
What's that in there?

Lenin:
Blackcurrant.

Gordon:
[tastes the juice and winces] What's in there?

Lenin:
I don't know. I got Kathy to make it for me.

Gordon:
No, no! Tell me the truth. You said you were going to be honest this morning.

Lenin:
Ribena, water and, uh... a vodka in the bottom.

Gordon:
When you started off service at seven o'clock tonight, yeah, it was going well, you know that. Now it's nine o'clock and they're starting to complain. Is that because of that [the vodka]?

Lenin:
No! That's the first one that's come in the kitchen, and that IS the truth.

Gordon:
But why did you tell me you weren't going to drink?

Lenin:
Because I'm absolutely knackered, I've been here since all day, and I just wanted one drink, so I got Kat to... I do apologise for that. Fair enough, I'm sorry.

[Gordon pours the vodka down the sink]

Gordon:
Service!

Lenin:
(trying to read the tickets) Um... fuck. I don't know. I don't.

Gordon:
(voiceover) It's all becoming seriously clear. This is not just about Lenin's lack of confidence.

[After service, Gordon and Lenin are stood outside the restaurant]

Gordon:
You let me down fucking big time. Half past eight, inside that fucking cup, you're sneaking vodka in. And I don't mind you having a beer after fucking service. I don't fucking care what you do after service. But in service, from seven o'clock to eleven, you fucking stay away from that. And you put your pressures on me. You give me the pressure. And it's not just the kitchen you're fucking, you know that. You're screwing your mum. It's gone beyond food now.

Lenin:
One lamb, medium-to-well. One chicken and ribs, one portion of chips...

Gordon:
(voiceover) Lenin gets off to a good start, but he sounds a bit more stressed, and sounds less confident. (to Lenin) You alright, Lenny? You gone quiet on me?

Lenin:
No... no, I'm fine.

Gordon:
(voiceover) But evidently, he wasn't. Later that evening, events took a terrible turn.

[Gordon is shown standing outside the restaurant, and an ambulance siren can be heard in the background]

Gordon:
Lenin collapsed. He's been rushed to hospital in an ambulance, and I hope to hell he's okay. It was a fucking shock.

Gordon:
(voiceover) Using alcohol as a crutch in the kitchen is a problem that cannot be ignored. To better understand Lenin's problems, I've contacted pioneering chef Michael Quinn. Michael set up the Ark Foundation to tackle the industry-wide problem of drug and alcohol abuse, after he himself was toppled by the demon drink.

[Gordon sits down with Michael in a garden]

Gordon:
You had the perfect job, for fuck's sake. The first-ever British chef to be crowned the chef de cuisine at The Ritz Hotel.

Michael:
Absolutely. When I left The Ritz I was at the top of the tree, and alcohol just completely took over my life. I went from The Ritz, eventually, to living on the streets. I slept under bridges, in doorways. I was in hospital with liver failure, and I had the last rites from a Catholic priest.

Gordon:
That close?

Michael:
Yeah.

Gordon:
Why do chefs today think it's part of a fucking rock-and-roll image to drink?

Michael:
Our business as chefs is a very tough business. The immensely long hours we do, the heat, and also that, you know, you're part of an SAS squad in the kitchen. It's "work hard, play hard, we'll show the rest of the bastards how good we are." But one in ten cross that line. And if you've crossed that line into addiction, into being an alcoholic, you can never go back to social drinking.

Gordon:
Can this guy continue to cook and deal with the problem at the same time?

Michael:
No. He needs to be separated. Willpower doesn't get you well. In order to recover, you need to surrender and admit defeat, and that is the step forward to freedom.

Gordon:
Have you cooked mussels before?

Dave:
No.

Gordon:
You're pulling my plonker, now aren't you? You've never cooked a mussel?

Dave:
Right, we can shout or you can fucking help. I don't mind.

Gordon:
What you mean I can help?

Dave:
Eh?

Gordon:
What did we do for the last...

Dave:
Yeah, okay, fine. You're right. Sorry.

Gordon:
What did we do for the last two hours?

Dave:
Fine, so what do we want in here?

Gordon:
I'm just amazed you've never cooked a mussel.

Dave:
I haven't! Don't take the piss out of me for it, though.

Gordon:
Who's taking the piss?

Dave:
You are!

Gordon:
I don't think you can actually cook!

Dave:
If you'd have fucking talked to me...

Gordon:
If you can't cook a fucking mussel...! Yerse!

Dave:
No, if you had fucking talked to - YOUEGH! ERGH!

Gordon:
Go on!

Dave:
Eh?

Gordon:
Go on!

Dave:
Yeah! Erngh!

Gordon:
Finish it, then.

Dave:
Finish what?

Gordon:
What are you about to say?

Dave:
Are you--What am I about to say?

Gordon:
Cook a mussel.

Dave:
No! I haven't cooked one.

Gordon:
Right. Okay. So shall I show you how to cook a mussel?

Dave:
Oh, at last. Thank you. Yes, please.

Gordon:
Right. Are you going to tone your voice down, or are you going to shout like some dick?

Dave:
I'll shout like some dick, and then I'll calm down.

Gordon:
Right. Well, why don't you fuck off to the book shop, read how to cook a mussel and come back and see me, and I'll run your fucking restaurant.

Dave:
Thank you!

Gordon:
Plonker.

Dave:
Twat.

Gordon:
Fucking hell, what's all that about? Jesus Christ! Well, at least, he broke the ice now, we know where we stand. "Yeah!?"