The Human Zoo - The Perth Foodie

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 salad of pretentious cookery.

Sara spends the remainder of the meal talking up the complex flavours she has smoked in to her homemade corn chips. Sara is careful to not 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 cunt. An awkward silence comes over the table as Sara retrieves dessert: sugar free poached pear, the culinary equivalent of fucking exercise. "Bon appetite". Ugh...

In between her 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 on the soy”. They bonded over stories of correct use of cream chargers and how Perth bogan’s couldn’t confit their way out of a greasy take away bag. 

The Zomatards head to a top restaurant, one of the few Perth establishments that are worthy of their culinary brilliance. Sir topknot has greased his cunt-antenna up and Sara’s resting bitch face is ready to eye-scowl the wait staff. 

Their first bottle of wine comes out and the pair swill it around in their mouths like a couple of stuck up 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 eats it own young, “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”. In fact, the furthest either has come to Fat Duck is when a Tip Top truck rolled over next to Lake Monger at the annual dickhead BBQ. 

However, one must never let knowledge get in the way of super-critical culinary cuntery. Sara has 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 any dickhead foodie is always a hot serving on the eatery's page.

“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 entitled diners who compare restaurant service to the shit they cook up in the kitchen of delusional grandeur.

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