Sara swoons out of her kitchen with deconstructed nachos served on square plates. Her uncouth barbarian of a friend opens his classless hole, “aw chips ‘n dip, you beauttttty”.
Sara takes a moment to compose herself. “The protein was prepared via sous-vide, and the kale garnish has been gently tossed with pink Himalayan rock salt OK?” In reality, the only thing that Sara is tossing is the gaping hole of pretentious cookery.
Sara spends the remainder of the meal talking up the complex flavours she has smoked into her homemade corn chips. Sara is careful not to let the conversation veer too far from her culinary expertise. After all, you are at her house, eating her sweat and tears, show some god damn respect for this jus-serving MKR wannabe.
An awkward silence comes over the table as Sara retrieves dessert: sugar-free poached pear, the culinary equivalent of fucking exercise. “Bon appetite”. Ugh. After fishing for compliments and forcing each guest to identify the hero of the dish, Sara finally lets her friends leave.
It may not come as a surprise but in between constant trips to farmer’s markets and viciously dissing every meal on TV cookery shows, Sara has little time for romance. Despite the odds, she is charmed by a bearded cheese-dick who she spotted berating a Leederville barista for “tainting” his coffee with a “slight char”.
They bonded over stories of the correct use of cream chargers and how Perth bogan’s couldn’t confit their way out of a greasy takeaway bag.
To mark the occasion of this unholy union, they head to a Perth establishment that is worthy of their culinary brilliance. Their first bottle of wine comes out and the pair swill it around in their mouths like a couple of unimpressed washing machines.
“No, no, no, no, I had good Tempranillo on the coast of San Sebastian, this is clearly corked, no”. The trained waiter whiffs the bottle, and politely disagrees. Sara’s face suddenly resembles something that would chuck its babies out of a nest, “I think I know what I am talking about, bring us another bottle, very unprofessional”.
“I can’t believe these Moreton bay bugs aren’t twice cooked”, the top knotted MasterChef agrees, “totes babe, really not Fat Duck standard”. It is worth noting that neither have been to Fat Duck.
However, one must never let knowledge get in the way of super-critical culinary cuntery. Sara had only managed to crack a smile when a waiter tripped on King man-buns foot and is quick to whip out her iPhone at the end of their meal. The final course for a foodie is always a hot serving on Google Reviews.
“Food was OK, wait staff were rude (never argue with the customer when you serve CORKED WINE!), and the plating up was amateur at best”.
With the click of a button, she shits on the bold degustation and contributes to the ever-growing class of diners who compare restaurant service to the shit on toast they cook up in the kitchen of delusional grandeur.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?