Chef Ramsay storms into Cafe Algarves like a Category 5 hurricane in an apron.
“WHERE’S THE TIP JAR?!” he bellows, veins bulging like overcooked sausages.
Joze, the owner, calmly wipes his hands on a towel.
“We don’t do tip jars here, Chef.”
Ramsay freezes. His eye twitches.
“You… don’t… reward… good service?”
“We prefer fair wages,” Joze replies proudly.
Ramsay’s phone suddenly erupts with Dies Irae blasting at full volume like the soundtrack to culinary Armageddon.
Then Joze leans in and asks politely,
“Chef, would you like a fuca?”
Ramsay spins around.
“I’M NOT—” he stops himself. “Excuse me?”
“A fuca,” Joze repeats.
Ramsay throws his hands in the air. “No I don’t want to fucka, you fouled mouth old man. I’m not fucking with you, I’m asking for a TIP JAR!”
A server walks by and cheerfully says, “Bom tarde!”
Ramsay whirls around again. “My son has down’s syndrome you wretched old man!”.
Joze sighs. “No Chef it means…”
Ramsay points dramatically at the dining room.
“Special people can do all sorts of jobs! Special people of all abilities can work in kitchens, run businesses, do incredible things. What we’re NOT doing is turning greetings into insults because someone can’t listen properly!”
He grabs a spoon like it’s a royal sceptre.
“And by the way — a bonobo can learn complex tasks. That’s impressive. YOU? You can’t even put out a jar for gratuities!”
Joze finally holds up a large chef’s knife.
“Chef… fuca means knife.”
Ramsay pauses.
The Dies Irae reaches full dramatic choir.
“…Oh.”
Beat.
“Right. Well. Good knife. TERRIBLE POLICY.”
He slams a mason jar on the counter.
“Write ‘TIPS’ on it. Big letters. Or I swear I’ll conduct this kitchen like Mozart conducting chaos.”
Fade out as Ramsay argues with his own ringtone.
