advertisement [an article about Everton has appeared in a prestigious gastronomic magazine] Crispin: Show it to him, Everton. Everton Stonehead: Well, I... Crispin: Look, he's bound to see it sooner or later. It's much better to have courtesy on your side. Everton Stonehead: I was afraid he might be a bit pissed off. Crispin: Oh no, he won't be pissed off. Everton Stonehead: Oh, good... Crispin: He'll be incandescent with blind and barbaric fury. Next to Chef, Mount Pinatubo will be an irritating, unripe zit. The killing fields of Kampuchea will be as a bouncy castle. [Watching Savanna practice Tai Chi] Cyril Bryson: Savanna Concord, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope to high heaven I come back as your underwear drawer. [a customer just asked for extra salt] Gareth: I hate you more than you can possibly imagine! Lucinda: Everton, I'm the sous chef, do you know what that means? Everton Stonehead: It means you're the second in command, sorta thing. Lucinda: It means I'm the second in command in the finest restaurant in England. Now the head chef leaves me in charge for an hour and suddenly we're serving fricassee of used Elast-O-Plast! I hate you Everton. I want you to die. Gareth: [to Piers] Let me explain the order of things to you. There's the aristocracy, the upper class, the middle class, working class, dumb animals, waiters, creeping things, head lice, people who eat packet soup, then you. [Gareth is wearing his chef's hat] Gareth: Lucinda, I have adorned myself with the culinary condom. Gareth: Everton, please remove the maggots, rat carcasses, and corpses of shocked health inspectors and make the place fit for the preparation of sodding food! [Everton applies for a position Gareth's wife just asked him to create] Gareth: Well, you've got two things going for you. One, we're old school chums. And two, your timing is absolutely, totally, marriage-ruiningly perfect. Everton Stonehead: [reading an article about a documentary on Chef] BBC bosses boycott bollocking Blackstock. Gareth: [while preparing vegetables] Somebody bring me a knife, very long and razor sharp. I need to castrate the person who made this sauce and I don't want to cause any unecessary suffering. I'm not a vindictive man, I'm not out to cause pain, but with this man's DNA in the gene pool, humanity is doomed. Janice Blackstock: And you're a man... Gareth: Janice, I can hardly deny that with you holding the evidence. Gareth: You have as much chance of becoming a top chef as John Major has of becoming a stand-up comedian. Gareth: You are a pea-brained, prat-faced, pompous, pillock-headed cretin. If you took an intensive course of intelligence injections and studied till you drop, then one day you might make it to moron third class failed. Janice Blackstock: I consequently have a sex life slightly less active than the Singing Nun. Janice Blackstock: You've been fighting with the customers? Gareth: Well, somebody's got to do it. Gareth: So please go away... and please re-arrange the contents of this plate so that someone in the latest stages of malnutrition will at least take a passing interest in it. Gareth: Everton, let me explain things to you. In the world of cooking, I am Einstein. Lucinda is Isaac Newton. And you are a mud-dwelling unicellular bit of jelly with a predilection for consuming its own excrement. Everton Stonehead: You don't like the way I cook? Gareth: I feel it's important to be frank.