MANICHAEAN
05-02-2013, 03:52 PM
MASTERCHEF 1963.
Nigella placed one finger in the juice of the stew and considered both its ambient temperature and consistency. That accomplished, she proceeded to suck said digit in a slow deliberate manner, whilst Saint Peter, viewing from his celestial hideout instinctively crossed his legs.
Marco Pierre White stood before her, brooding and sinister, his appearance, albeit attired in immaculate whites, resembling a postwar culinary apparition of Dracula complete with curled lip and hooded eyes.
He had preceded her pole dance display of food tasting, although in a more conventional and hygienic mode by using a spoon.
“Well Nigella. Is there enough seasoning?” he asked in a quiet silky manner.
“Mmmm. Quite enough,” she purred, white teeth parted like an invitation to an oral heaven, and her ample bosom shifting like tectonic plates about to undermine San Francisco.
“In which case,” said Marco, “I’m wrong and you are right,” and moved on to the next contestant.
“Next time I’ll do faggots,” she thought.
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Chef Ramsey, sleeves rolled up, was at his station massacring a section of pig with an evil yet effective looking blade.
“Hello Gordon. How are you today?”
“F—king great Marco.”
“And what dish are you working on?”
“It’s called “Callos Madrilenos” Marco.”
“I’m not familiar with it. What is it comprised of?”
“Well Marco it’s basically a beef tripe broth with Spanish blood sausage, Serrano ham, a splash of white wine, garbanzo beans and white onions. To give it an extra f—king twist I’ve included two pigs’ trotters with marinated celery leg braces.”
“Interesting” said Marco, making full uncompromising eye contact. “Where did you discover the dish originally Gordon?”
“Oh, it was in a sh-t hole of a Spanish jail. I’d been locked up for swearing in a public place and ended up being friends with the prison cook. It’s a hearty frigging dish for those cold nights in an Iberian cell and is served in earthenware bowls accompanied by rustic bread.”
“How long does it take to do Gordon?”
“Normally three and a half hours.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you to it then.”
Marco moved off. “Interesting young chef,” he thought. “Quite articulate and creative in a basic kind of way. Might make a name for himself later in his career.”
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Nigella placed one finger in the juice of the stew and considered both its ambient temperature and consistency. That accomplished, she proceeded to suck said digit in a slow deliberate manner, whilst Saint Peter, viewing from his celestial hideout instinctively crossed his legs.
Marco Pierre White stood before her, brooding and sinister, his appearance, albeit attired in immaculate whites, resembling a postwar culinary apparition of Dracula complete with curled lip and hooded eyes.
He had preceded her pole dance display of food tasting, although in a more conventional and hygienic mode by using a spoon.
“Well Nigella. Is there enough seasoning?” he asked in a quiet silky manner.
“Mmmm. Quite enough,” she purred, white teeth parted like an invitation to an oral heaven, and her ample bosom shifting like tectonic plates about to undermine San Francisco.
“In which case,” said Marco, “I’m wrong and you are right,” and moved on to the next contestant.
“Next time I’ll do faggots,” she thought.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chef Ramsey, sleeves rolled up, was at his station massacring a section of pig with an evil yet effective looking blade.
“Hello Gordon. How are you today?”
“F—king great Marco.”
“And what dish are you working on?”
“It’s called “Callos Madrilenos” Marco.”
“I’m not familiar with it. What is it comprised of?”
“Well Marco it’s basically a beef tripe broth with Spanish blood sausage, Serrano ham, a splash of white wine, garbanzo beans and white onions. To give it an extra f—king twist I’ve included two pigs’ trotters with marinated celery leg braces.”
“Interesting” said Marco, making full uncompromising eye contact. “Where did you discover the dish originally Gordon?”
“Oh, it was in a sh-t hole of a Spanish jail. I’d been locked up for swearing in a public place and ended up being friends with the prison cook. It’s a hearty frigging dish for those cold nights in an Iberian cell and is served in earthenware bowls accompanied by rustic bread.”
“How long does it take to do Gordon?”
“Normally three and a half hours.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you to it then.”
Marco moved off. “Interesting young chef,” he thought. “Quite articulate and creative in a basic kind of way. Might make a name for himself later in his career.”
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