The time has finally arrived: move over veggies, meat is here! After all the long days of working with ground grown things, phallic-shaped objects, and multi-colored visions of said phallic objects, my heterosexuality has stayed fully intact in anticipation of cooking real food. The mere thought of cooking for a vegetarian pop star from Britain gives me the crotch chills. Imagine a chef working with only items like cucumbers, bananas, eggplant, carrots, celery, squash, and zucchini. You're going to sit there and tell me that they haven't had that exceptionally long day prepping these long veggies in different ways and DIDN'T think about how one of those sexy things would feel in a butthole? It's a common thought for vegetarian chefs, and that's why I will never be one. Why run the risk of having those awful thoughts? It could be like eating cows brains. All the studies from Prions, where people who ingest brains that contain the Prion protein develop dementia in a very short time, could very well be the same as deciding to become a vegetarian chef. It's dangerous, incurable, and just a poor choice.
Chicken is interesting in a sense that it is one of the easiest things to cook. We arrived in the kitchen with the excitement of a Great America field trip full of second graders. I know for me, growing up on these field trips, it was a nightmare. I was playing it cool, acting like I was really excited to go on that law suit waiting to happen that everyone else calls roller coasters. Ever watch a documentary on roller coasters? Their theory of how fascinating gravity is and how they can "cheat" it in ways for entertainment purposes. Well, being the scholarly little fella I was, didn't buy this theory that was coming from guys who searched for the Lochness Monster in the off season when not designing
roller death structures. So, to say the least, my excitement, although animated, had a false sense of honesty. I knew that disappointment was about to approach. I proceeded with caution.
"Ok class, grab the chicken, cut the thing into 8 parts, rub with oil, and throw in the oven for an hour. Find something to do in the meantime."
The ever dreaded statement: Find Something To Do In The Meantime.
Standing around in a kitchen is like going to Nascar race with a blindfold on. You're supposed to be there to enjoy the fast paced race, hearing the cars drive by with Jimmy Johnson passing Dale Earnhardt Jr AGAIN and making him crash into others out of juvenile rage. Only being able to hear the cars passing is a motor tease, vibrating your private regions with Nascar sensations but without visual stimulation. Being in a kitchen NOT busy has similar false hope. You're brain doesn't have to work as much, but the way any personality is designed in a restaurant is to stay busy, feed the A.D.D, and make the time go by faster. Watching grass grow, feeding a cat or dog by hand, giving blood EVERYDAY, painting the white house WHITE, measuring your member weekly with disappointing realizations of no growth, and working at a post office are all examples of the torture and agony one goes through in a slow kitchen. I immediately tried to stay busy. I occupied my time with the following:
Cleaned my station and everyone elses: 5 minutes
Gutted another chicken. Consulted with assistant chef about castrated chickens and why they are that much better: 10 minutes
Went into grave detail of the movie "Alive" and asked the assistant chef if the humans would have tasted better if they were castrated first: 6 minutes
Watched chef walk away: 1 minute
Stirred something that was on the stove. Contents unknown: 2 minutes
Asked Executive Chef what they did with the castrated parts of the chicken and if they were used for dog chew toys like bull's and ox's dongs, or were they too small: 2 minutes
Watched chef walk away: 1 minute
Played on my iPhone: 33 minutes
Chicken came out perfectly. Cut it up. Ate. Went home.
Bringing a PS3 in this bitch next time. Watch me.
