The chain smoking, meth-pippin’ chef-opath of yesteryear has been replaced with a newer model. Thanks to Masterchefs like the 3 pigsman of the foodpocolypse, the cookery scene has been elevated to rockstar status.
Roy opted against the rotted teeth and sweaty bacon-belly look of his predecessors. He needed an original and trendy look. Naturally, he opted to look like ever other haute-boy: dual arm sleeves, a beard and hair so greasy it resembles a BP environmental disaster.
After his apprenticeship, Roy found it difficult to sustain employment. None of the other chefs recognised his sustainable cooking-noir philosophy. Roy isn’t just a preparer of food, he is Leonardo da Cuntci: a culinary artist that grows his own fucking heirloom tomatoes fertilised with the pure bullshit he spouts on the daily.
Given his artistic sensitivities, it was necessary for Roy’s father to buy him a little space to start up his own vision: The Compost Heap. He always felt the need to one-up Matt Stone’s old pot plant plastered eatery and figured decaying matter would create a wonderful ambiance.
He views his menu as more of a seminal piece or literary than a food list. The showcase item is the “deconstructed fairtrade Ravioli with half ripened Peruvian mango puree and a drizzle of lithuanian gooseberry sous-vide jus – $45”. Bargain.
Before his opening night a local culture rag interviews him for an article. He strikes a serious pose with crossed arms, like he’s about to drop the hottest organic vege-patch tip of 2018. Every thing that comes out of his mouth is pure pretentious verbal masturbation. “I guess I’m a bit like the Heston of sustainable cooking, ya know?”
Opening night is somewhat of a disaster. He is too busy trying to chat up nose-ringed hair-dyettes to focus on his kitchen. While on swoon-patrol, a bloated Zomato’er yelps for his attention. “Mate, could I grab some salt for my Risotto thanks?”
The red mist clouds his eyes as he storms off towards the kitchen. He dives his hand into the Risotto and examines his artistry carefully. Yep, salted to fucking perfection! How could this Sizzler salad bar-barian not realise that? Roy returns and smugly tells the man, “ya know mate, I think I saw some salt down at the local McDonalds. I cook well balanced and healthy food here”.
Well, turns out Roy’s arrogance left the man saltier than the lick in Sarah Jessica Parker’s stable. He leaves a scathing 1 star review on The Compost Heap’s Facebook, Zomato and Yelp page. A wiser man would have let it go. Roy isn’t that kind of man.
He launches a filthy tirade on his business page. He suggest the man should stop marching to the dia-beat-e of his own fat faced drum. Roy is the genius, and the half-chewing shitbag is a culinary pleb.
Predictably, the viciousness of his attack goes down like deconstructed ravioli and the Compost Heap is sentenced to death by the Court of public opinion.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?