Press "Enter" to skip to content

The Next Celebrity Chef? I Made a Pretty Good Soup and I’m Verbally Abusive to My Coworkers

I’m not what you’d think of when you think of a celebrity chef. I’m a white guy who grew up upper middle class, but wanted to “find himself” doing “real labor”. But after I realized how much that sucks, I had my dad make a few calls, and now I’m an accountant. But I do think I’ve got that special something. That “Yo No Se Qua”. Because I straight up don’t know how to cook, but I just made some pretty decent soup and I yell at people a lot.

Look, I’ve barely even heard of the Culinary Institute of America or James Corden Bleu, but if I’m being honest, this soup kinda fucks. It fucks in the same way I do: Nothing particularly memorable, but essentially gets the job done, and bare minimum: I like it. Compared to my usual lunch of “toast and whatever’s in the fridge that looks spreadable” this soup was a revelation. I don’t even really remember what I put in it. Potatoes? Some kind of onion? My coworker Bill asked me if I used leeks, but I just called him a homophobic slur and sack-tapped him. Mostly because I don’t know what leeks are and feeling stupid is a trigger for me.

But like a modern-day Jocko Pépin, I just threw some stuff in there and then hit it with the immersion blender my ex left at my place after she bailed on me because of my “toxic, narcissistic delusions of grandeur”. I don’t really know what that means, but fuck her, I’m the main character, and I think I might be the next celebrity chef.

It also must’ve had some fish, because Kyle from accounts payable whined “Hey, that’s kinda stinking up the kitchen. I thought we had a ‘no fish’ rule?” Without missing a beat, I harnessed my inner Gordon Ramsey, and shot back “Hey Kyle, get fist-fucked, you blood-shitting, diarrhea stain” and threw my coffee mug directly at him, resulting in him needing 11 stitches. Yes, hello? Is that the Food Network on line 1? Thought so.

And look, If I’m being totally honest, I’m not even interested in Lindsay from data analysis, but that shouldn’t stop me from going “Batali-mode” and giving her unsolicited details of my (imagined) sex life. How else will I score my own run of mildly noxious cookware exclusively available at Target? Oh you wanna cancel me? Does the truth scare you? Is my “no-nonsense look into what it means to be a chef” making you uncomfortable? Am I making it worse by saying all this with my pants down? I don’t even care, because once I get on Rogan, it’s all good.

Seriously, I don’t give a shit. Now that I’m a badass chef, I’m from a different stock of man. The type of guys who actually work for a living. The type of guys who call everyone queer, but like, not in the new positive and accepting way. But also not in an intentionally homophobic way either, I think? More like in the way guys from Boston use it. No, not that part of Boston. That part of Boston. I’m tough. And like the greats before me, I can only express my emotions through insults, violence and the occasional ass-grab. Bon Appetite!