Arty Chefs

Arty Chefs
They’re total cunts. Why the fuck do these cunts think that anybody wants their food looking like a fucking painting?. You daft cunts, all I want is some decent grub, not garnished with fucking flowers. Just do the fucking cooking cunts, or fuck off to art school. Cunts.

Nominated by Jimmy the spaz

32 thoughts on “Arty Chefs

  1. Simple rule – if I want to treat an evening meal as some kind of social beauty pageant with friends, then I’d gladly go one of Heston Blumenthal’s pretentious outlets and prepare to pay a fortune for the fucking pleasure.

    If however I am fucking starving, then I will drive to and from KFC, return home with the spoils and trough an entire Bargain Bucket sitting in my underpants, already with one (Japs) eye on the later evening wank which I shall be enjoying.

    Needless to say, I’ve experienced the latter much more than the former…

  2. Used to work in London’s square mile. Often taken out to lunch by brokers to one of the many rip off restaurants.

    One I remember in particular in the early 1990’s was in Philpot Lane, EC3. Nouveau Cuisine. Vast prices for pretty but minuscule portioned food. Even filling up on the bread rolls provided (and being charged for) usually came out feeling almost as hungry as wnen I went in.

    After my first experience there would always try to dissuade brokers for taking me there. Always expect reasonable value for money, overpriced poncey food I can well do without.

    • Agree with you there Willie. My favourite London restaurant is Simpsons at the Savoy. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with no splother.

  3. I tried a few artisan things myself, unfortunately I often get lavender and rosemary confused, so although palatable it is rather unique.

  4. It’s not just the art, it’s the fucking portions. You dont get enough to sustain life. I’ve given up with restaurants because I always find I can cook something better (apart from the indian).

    What really pisses me off is cunts that say they can’t cook. If you can fucking read, you can cook. And do it often enough you start making up your own recipes. It’s intellectual laziness.

    • And the typical curry house usually serves up decent portions. In the US, they almost have a buffet option, which helps even more if you’re into that sort of thing. The typical biryani can fill me up at dinner and still leave me enough for lunch the following day.

    • Agree CNR , but I’m sure Indian nosh is not as good as it was in the 70’s, it’s all a slight variation of the same thing now.

  5. Fucking chefs. If the chilli is too hot remove the seeds. No cunt, most of the capsaicin is in the flesh. Seal the meat by frying it. No, cunt, it seals in nothing, you are confusing it with the Maillard reaction. And sprouts should be boiled within an inch of their lives and half a pound of butter applied, not fucking roasted with fucking pancetta!

    • I thought I was the only one who realised chilli’s heat is not in the seeds. Pisses me off hearing ‘Top’ chefs saying remove the heat by removing the seeds. The cunts.

      • Sure there’s heat in the seeds, but you remove them so you don’t have tough, woody seeds fucking up the texture (that is, if you mind it- plenty don’t give a shit). But the worst of the heat’s in the membrane between the seeds and flesh, that’s for sure.

    • The sprout must be completely subdued before eating – fully agree. It should melt in the mouth and be completely converted to methane in the lower gut, for the pleasure of other diners.

  6. Couldn’t agree more Jimmy!

    What’s the fucking fascination with foams, arty “jus” smears and stacking things on top of each other like they’re some sort of edible Jenga?! Just bring me something I don’t have to knock over before I eat and that doesn’t look like it’s been spat on by a llama and then sauced with a skid mark. Cunts.

  7. It always makes me laugh when I drive past an establishment offering ‘home cooked food’.

    Here’s an idea for those establishments:

    Sack your marketing team because I can get that AT HOME.

    Goodbye for now.

    • Good one. Reminds me of many years ago when I saw a sign on a restaurant in Cyprus saying that it was closed for its staff´s lunch hour!

  8. Great cunting. There such a lot of ponce in cooking, especially in ‘Lahndan Taaan’ and ‘Dahn Saaaf’.

    My philosophy has always been that whatever goes in your piehole comes out the other end as a pile of shite, so why the fucking pretentious bollocks of making a meal look like the Chelsea Flower Show?? It is ludicrous. I am pretty basic when it comes to food. I don’t give a bugger what it looks like on the plate, as long as it tastes good and tickles my fancy.

    High end restaurants are the most pretentious culinary cunts of all cunts. They give you a portion the size of a postage stamp that looks like Salvador Dali knocked it up then charge you a shitload of money for the pleasure. Restaurants like that are run by cunts, cheffed by cunts and frequented by even bigger cunts.

    Give me an M&S microwave meal anyday over this shite (well I did say I was basic)

    • There was a piece today in the paper, £28 for two cauliflower steaks and veg, some wanky pub in Notting Hill (surprise surprise) cashing in on the upsurge in vegans.

      • Fuck’s sake, LL. That sounds like my idea of hell, as well as a pile of wank.

        Cauliflower steaks and veg for THAT price? They are ‘avin a laugh!!

        • ….not that I would ever eat a plate of veg anyway. My bowels go into spasm and shock as soon as a slice of carrot even dares hit them.

          • Its more surprising that they had a ‘proper’ Angus beef steak for the same price on their chalkboard. No contest !

          • Cauliflower steaks?! The veggie equivalent is sure a big juicy mushroom, surely? Mushroom juices taste a bit meaty which is why they are great with steak.

            Cauliflowers are the brains of SJW.

      • Took Mrs Fistula to a pretentious arty farty pub in Hove. And yes there’s a lot of them. They served me this steak that was about half inch wide, and three peas covered in jus, it wasn’t even adequate for a starter and fleeced me £35 notes for each meal. I complained to the waiter who patronised me saying it’s for a delicate pallet. One fart and we were both hungry again. Had to go up KFC for a decent meal.

        • Yep, Mr Fistula. Portions sufficient for a bloody mouse with these restauranteur twats.

          Oooh, I love a KFC. Now that is what I CALL good food!

  9. Very true. This, in recent times especially has also been fuelled by these fuck awful TV programmes such as “I’m a retarded masturbatory masterchef locked in an outhouse in the jungle whilst strictly coming on myself” or whatever the shit it is?

    Cuntishly tiny food portions made to look like a fucking Damien Hirst exhibit, enjoyed by more-wad-than-sense chinless corporate fuckers from Londonistan, who’ll happily pay for a meal that would cost the same as a brand new NHS ward. Fuck’s sakes. Some of these so called artsy dishes look like they’ve been fished out of an abortion clinic’s waste bin.

    I just want decent, honest food…not some overpriced, pretentious, arthouse bohemian plateful of cunt that wouldn’t keep a church mouse alive. Fucking television shite with Mary “Leatherface” Berry going on about her soggy bottom?

    These holier than thou “food critics” all standing around calling it art? It’s food, not a stunning masterpiece on canvas or a sculpture? What a load of cunt in a blizzard. As Sid James once said “better get in quick, before it evaporates”.

  10. My mum was a school cook for years, I always want to say to a cunt like Oliver, look sunshine, when you can knock out a thousand fucking dinners a day, literally, in a kitchen as hot as Hades, for thruppence a fucking meal, to a bunch of cunts and their parents who do nothing but moan, then I might give you some respect. Fuck off.

    • A mate of mine took a date to Jamie Oliver’s Italian kitchen in Oxford. Fifteen fucking quid for pasta and some tomato sauce splodged in the middle.

      Mug.

  11. I went to a restaurant where the head chef was a friend of my brother’s and cooked extensively as an ‘executive chef’ around stabistan. I’m a big bastard and work in the building trade, so if i’m out after a hard day’s work i like a few pints and some good food.
    Unfortunately what i got was mackerel ‘weirdness’ for a starter, foĺlowed by a thimble of pork fillet that was magenta from lack of cooking, and not cured.

    This Rothko cunt-test on a plate made me long for a giant steak and chips (as it did my dad as he saw regular menu items being served to other patrons and they looked heavenly).

    Too bad it was the old dear’s birthday and she wanted the restaurant menu with its pickled flowers and nonsense.

    Utter crap.

  12. The conceit is funny tho. The frogs can have jus, cos it’s french, otherwise it’s sauce or gravy. Napped with. Eh? Oh, side by side. On a bed of. Uh, right. A medley of heritage carrots. Small carrots then. Purple ones. Foam; ah, you mean snot. Quennelles eh, fuck me. Confit spuds, cooked in butter. Squid porridge with pigeon liver ferment dressed with an Aleppo chilli reduction and crispy eel skin. Trust me daahling, you’ll just die. My French is shite, nouvelle cuisine, and now, moins Sur la plate, plus Sur l’addition. But, you still can’t match a serious Indian!

    • I’ll second that Tony, whenever I get together with my mates the conversation always turns to LETS HAVE AN INDIAN 👳🏿‍♂️👳🏾‍♀️👳🏾‍♀️👍

  13. I worked behind the bar in a poncey north Yorkshire hotel. Used to take the food orders. Every time I went into the kitchen would read out the order just to fuck off the chef, god I’m childish, and in drink.

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