The food is your ammunition, your range is your weaponry, the people you must feed, the enemy. Your job, as a chef is to kill the motherfuckers, kill them all. Take no prisoners. You make sure you have enough enough ammo, that your weapons are clean so that when you open fire it will be heavy and sustained and brutal. Count every “I’m full, thanks”, every “no more”, every “I’d like my check please”, as a casualty. You kill them with deliciousness. Force them to take another biute, order another serving. The more they eat the closer they get to tapping out. You make them eat more. When somebody says it’s good that means they are in your sights, sitting right there in your crosshairs. Sure, here, have some more. BLAMBLAMBLAM. Still here? How about Thirds? BLAM!
You need to know your enemy’s vulnerabilities. They like heavy, starchy food? Meat? This is easy. Such people mere made to die by your hands on the field of battle. You load up on your flour and your butter. They like salads? Not so easy, but there are ways. You find out their habits, what kills them quickly and cheaply and what doesn’t. When you decide to let loose, you shoot to kill. It’s your kitchen, they come to you. This means that you have the means to prepare an ambush, the means to arrange your soldiers and your weapons in ways that will be most beneficial to you.
The new and exciting dish is a booby-trap they have been fooled by, they will be so entranced by the novelty, by the unusual ingredients that won’t see the explosion coming. The truly inventive chef is to be the Ted Kacsinski of dishes, their enemies, unsuspecting, not even having the time to panic. The old dish is the articllery-fire they knew would greet them but that takes casualities anyway.
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