Yummy Tasty
"Flavours are intense and sophisticated, elevated to something extraordinary,"
"Accomplished, sophisticated cooking presenting some stimulating flavour combinations. This is a chef who really understands how to get the best out of his ingredients and works with plenty of personality,"
"Bold flavours are superbly balanced,"
Just a few recent press clippings in the national papers about me. Film Stars and Premier League Football Players dine at 'Richard and Blacks' nightly, all guessing what the secret to my superior dishes might be. I never tell anyone how my three Michelin stars were won, but I'm going to tell you.
It's local lad pee. I put it in every dish.
We're always on the lookout for young men struggling to make their way, having left education at 18 with no qualifications and few prospects. We want to give them the chance to make a career in the high-end catering industry, and maybe even eventually to become a Chef. It's a willing workforce, and a steady supply of that precious piss.
But you'd better believe that strictest discipline is the only way to achieve the exacting standards I (and my critics) expect. Most of these lads spent their school years larking about and making a total nuisance of themselves. My kitchen regime is always a shock.
New boys don't get to wear trousers or pants. With their dicks and butts on show it lets them know where they stand in the hierarchy. They can earn the dignity of being properly dressed if they're prepared to work for it. Of course they complain at first,
"Do you want this chance or not?" I bark at them.
They could walk out any time they like, but the thought of going home to tell their Mum they fucked this opportunity too usually sobers their ire. Soon they'll be earning a decent wage, working in a respectable profession, and paying rent on a place of their own. The pros far outweigh any cons. And it never takes too long for them to get into it.
All senior Chefs have full license to strike their ass cheeks if they step out of line. No chatting back, no slacking off. My Sous Chefs remember when they were naked KPs and get as much spanking in as they can. Some of the fittest new boys get so much attention with wooden spoons and spatulas it makes your eyes water. So great to see all the slapped asses washing dishes or peeling spuds.
And I want them in the kitchen every night. No lame social lives, smoking spliffs with their idiot loser mates. They're working in a top level restaurant now and they can take their commitment to it seriously. All or nothing.
Then comes the moment I ask a new lad for a steel jug of his hot piss. He never believes it at first.
"Why do you think I've been giving you beers all night?"
Always filling the pitcher so bashfully, watching speechless as I splash his golden liquor in the pot.
I'm explaining all this because I wanted to tell you about Craig. I totally should have promoted him by now, but I just can't bring myself to give him a place higher than kitchen porter. His piss is just too fucking good. I've never tasted anything like it. It's phenomenal - deep and rich, heavy and ripe. I would never have got that third Michelin star without him. Sure I could make him Sous Chef and keep on rinsing his pee, but it's just too good keeping him down.
Craig's a typical likely-lad. I hired him on the spot, with his dimple face and cocky style. He'd only just moved to Bristol with his sweetheart girlfriend and their new baby. Fancy knocking girls up at his age! The responsibility of parenthood still hasn't hit him, and he swaggers about like he'd make another dozen babies with any next fit lass that falls for his naughty smile. Everyone likes him wherever he goes.
He fit right in from day one, and didn't show a stitch of shame about having his willy out. He knows how pretty his penis is. If you got it, flaunt it. He was getting slaps before even doing anything wrong, but always took it like a champ with cheeky bants.
Thing is though, I made the mistake of letting him know just how good he tastes. My special of the season was Criadillas (for those who don't know, that's Ox testicles), marinated overnight in Craig's beery piss, breaded, and pan-fried to perfection. The dish got a gushing write up in the Independent.
Craig read what the newspapers were saying about his pee and got way too smug about it. Strikers in his football team were scoring goals after supping at our tables. Rappers on his Spotify playlist were tweeting about how good the food was at Richard and Blacks. I mean, any lad whose piss secretly becomes a National taste sensation would get ideas above his station. It was only natural, but my kitchen isn't the Craig show.
"Wind your fucking neck in Craig, or I'll have your testicles in the frying pan!" I spat, but he'd only grinned and made a joke of it,
