The Perth Chef

The chain smoking, meth-pippin’ chef-opath of yesteryear has been replaced with a newer model. Thanks to Masterchefs like the 3 pigsman of the foodpocolypse, the cookery scene has been elevated to rockstar status.

Roy opted against  the rotted teeth and sweaty bacon-belly look of his predecessors. He needed an original and trendy look. Naturally, he opted for the every-cunt-chic style: dual arm sleeves, a beard and hair so greased back that it resembles a BP related environmental disaster.

After his apprenticeship, Roy found it difficult to sustain employment. None of the other chefs recognised his sustainable cooking-noir philosophy. Roy isn’t just a preparer of food, he is  Leonardo da Cuntci: a culinary artist that grows his own fucking heirloom tomatoes fertilised with his own shit. Probably.

Given his artistic sensitivities, it was necessary for Roy’s father to buy him a little space to start up his own vision: The Compost Heap. He always felt the need to one-up Matt Stone’s old pot plant plastered eatery and figured decaying matter would create a wonderful ambiance.

Is his menu complicated? Does Iain Hewitson shit in the farkin’ woods mate? The showcase item is the “deconstructed fairtrade Ravioli with half ripened Peruvian mango puree and a drizzle of lithuanian gooseberry sous-vide jus - $45”. Bargain.

Before his opening night a local culture rag interviews him for an article. He strikes a serious pose with crossed arms, like he’s about to drop the hottest organic vege-patch tip of 2016. Every thing that comes out of his mouth is pure pretentious verbal masturbation. “I guess I’m a bit like the Heston of sustainable cooking, ya know?”

Opening night is somewhat of a disaster. He is too busy trying to chat up nose-ringed hair-dyettes to focus on his kitchen. While on swoon-patrol, a bloated Zomato’er yelps for his attention. “Mate, could I grab some salt for my Risotto thanks?”


The red mist clouds his eyes as he storms off towards the kitchen. He dives his hand into the Risotto and examines his artistry carefully. Yep, salted to fucking perfection! How could this Sizzler salad barbarian not realise that? Roy returns and smugly tells the man, “ya know mate, I think I saw some salt down at the local McDonalds. I cook well balanced and healthy food here”.

Well, turns out Roy’s arrogance left the man saltier than the lick in Sarah Jessica Parker’s stable. He leaves a scathing 1 star review on The Compost Heap’s Facebook, Zomato and Yelp page. A wiser man would have let it go. Roy isn’t that kind of man.

He launches a filthy tirade on his business page. He suggest the man should stop marching to the dia-beat-e of his own drum. Roy is the genius, and the half-chewing shitbag is a culinary pleb.

Predictably,  the viciousness of his attack goes down like deconstructed ravioli and the Compost Heap is sentenced to death by the Court of public opinion.

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