Original subtitles

Why do I seem annoyed? Let's see.

Instead of savoring this espresso, this cigarette...

...and the four minutes of free time I have today, I'm talking to you cockwits.

What else?

Oh. I'm doing a special seating for diplomats

from the State Department and Albania.

So not only do I have to create a meal out of yogurt and a goddamn sheep's head...

...there's been some vague security threat...

...so my highly-trained staff...

...has been infiltrated-- Sorry.

--By Shithead Squadron.

Just need to grab some menus for the-- Camera? Why is there a camera?

I assume because this restaurant can't hold 3 million viewers.

Two-point-eight. Because it's not promoted properly.

Yeah, the show's called Bastard Chef.

Hm. Excuse me. Thank you, giraffe lady.

Anyway, those ISIS idiots are doing security...

...and for some inexplicable reason, they have to do that undercover, so...

Whoops. That's probably why I seem annoyed.

Let's go, Chet, chop-chop.

You're the one who dropped it. Why do I have to clean it up?

You're the garcon de cuisine, which means kitchen boy...

...whereas I am sous chef, which means shut your face and mop up the damn yogurt.

Why do you get to be sous chef? I have fine-dining experience.

I used to own a restaurant. It was a burger joint.

- Cyril-- I mean Chet? - Archer?

She means Randy. Can I borrow you?

Sure, um... Mitzi. My name is not Mitzi. Walk-in. Now.

Yeah, I got time for a quickie. Wait, a what?

Arch-- Randy.

Whoa. Whoa, unh!

- You guys can edit that out, right? - Yes. But we won't.

Do you think it's a good idea...

...talking to a TV crew when we're undercover?

Do you know how TV actually works?

L... They won't broadcast this episode...

...in the restaurant tonight.

- Wait, are you guys? No, we--

- Like a closed-circuit deal or...? - No.

Because come to think of it, I actually don't know how TV works either.

How about geopolitics? Uh...

Because if anything goes wrong tonight...

...U.S.-Albanian relations could become even more unstable so--

What the shit? Speaking of unstable, that guy is a powder keg.

Why is there yogurt fricking soup all over my spotless fricking kitchen?

Randy did it. Whoa, whoa. First of all, no, I didn't...

...and second, these bowls are the worst.

Look, they're, like, totally slipper--

Seize, please hold. Seize, please hold. Seize, please hold.

What're you doing? I'll tell you what I'm not doing.

Besides your job? My job is--

Answering the damn phone.

A task so simple that if the Health Department

would let me, I'd have a monkey do it.

Why? No, I was being facetious.

I would never allow a monkey in my restaurant.

Except in the form of an exquisitely-prepared entrée.

No, I mean you're booked solid for-- Holy shit, the next 10 months?

Why bother answering the phone? To tell people they can't eat here.

Soto drive people away, basically. Those people.

That's not the real number for reservations.

I'm sorry? The real number's a secret...

...closely guarded by people I deem acceptable.

So just so I'm clear, instead of assessing the security needs for tonight...

...I'm answering phone calls from people who aren't good enough to eat here.

Yeah, so try to sound apologetic, but not, you know, overly so.

Seize. I'm sorry, we have nothing available for the next 10 months.

Okay, bye.

- Keep trying. - Ugh!

Why?

Besides I said so? They're booked.

If I'd known I couldn't get a table, I would have never agreed to do security.

Why do they need security, anyway?

There was a threat of some sort, it's all rather vague...

...but when those State Department dweebs see just how good ISIS really is...

...mark my words, one day soon, we'll be a major player.

What? No, you know, just--

You say that like you believe it.

Hey. Get me a table, or the fish gets it.

Jesus, what's the big deal?

That's my fish. His name's Jermaine.

Oh! I thought he was just your food.

Food? We're not making food, people. We're creating cuisine.

Food is what a dog eats, or a tourist.

Wait, a dog ate a tourist? What? That was ambiguously worded.

Was that ambiguous? Why are you antagonizing him?

Cyril, come on, it's my nature. See? Uh, yeah, kind of.

Well, how about this?

Plus, he can't aim for shit, he's pulling everything to the right.

If you can't turn that into promo gold, you should honestly consider suicide.

Hang on, there's a bumper. Now prep, you ******* maggots.

Then bleep *******, since Darlene won't let me say that.

But, seriously, guys, we do have a lot of food to prep so...

Uh, the food's splattered all over the wall and floor...

...and, uh, Chet here so... So scoop it into a bowl.

Nobody will know, it's Albanian glop. The entree is a fricking sheep face.

I value all cultures equally highly.

Uh, should you be smoking in here?

Should you be flaming in here? You know...

Boom. Bumper.

He's just such a bastard.

And that's not my name!

Yeah. "Child murderer" shouldn't be hyphenated.

That makes it seem like he's a murderer who's also a child.

Actually, no, it doesn't. Actually, yes, it does.

"Publicity whore" isn't hyphenated so why-- Why the shit...

...are you maggots not prepping? I-- Wait, are you doing a bumper?

Ha-ha. I have seriously never been happier. Ow!

Boom. Bumper.

Wait, so what did Malory say exactly?

L-- She said "credible threat." I know, but what kind of credible--

Cy-- Chet, I need those onions! Yes, chef.

Heh. He has to call me chef. How and why are you enjoying this?

Well, for one thing, I'm pretty drunk.

And besides bar-tending in Polynesia, I've never had a real job $0...

Wait, never?

Oh, well, when I was 10, I asked if I could sell Grit door to door...

...so I could win some of those x-ray specs?

Mother said they were fake.

Also, that I'd get raped and murdered.

It is like peeling an onion with you. Right? Oh, wait.

Chet! Onions!

Here. What dish are they going in?

Oh, eat a dick. That's "Eat a dick, chef."

And for a third thing, I actually might be good at this.

- Oh, yeah, nice technique, Randy. - Thank you, chef.

Want me to prep the 'shrooms? No, you do the aubergines.

Right away, chef.

If Chet gets his incompetent thumb out of his equally incompetent ass!

Nice. Yes, and that is excellent ABBAB. Always Be Berating and Belittling.

And you, time to lean, time to get your distracting tits off my line.

Hey, is something burning? Oh, wait, it's you, because you just got burned.

Oh, my God, you admire that dick. He's a master chef, Lana...

...which turns out is not nearly as gay a job as I thought it was.

It's no secret agent, but it's way above architect.

Speaking of secret agent, at some point

before the restaurant is full of diplomats...

...I'd love to go over the-- Menu, I know, let's--

Plan. On going over the menu, yes.

Get child murderer Gilles de Rais in here and I'll walk you through it.

Answer the goddamn phone, woman!

Seriously, Mitzi, how hard is that?

Ugh! Now nobody is picking up!

- A monkey could do this stupid job. - And yet I pay you to do it.

- Oh, so now I'm a monkey? - No, because a monkey--

What is this, Spain?

I mean, it is just constant ABBAB.

Is that supposed to be funny? Yes.

And I also think you might have low blood sugar.

And I need you to focus...

...so we can get Cruella de Vil's mom in there a table before she kills Jermaine.

It's impossible.

And what's so important about a stupid goldfish?

Okay, A, he's not a goldfish, and B-- Please don't berate me.

Please don't make me, and B...

Tell him, Chi.

Jermaine! Jermaine! Jermaine!

Without getting all into the details...

...I may or may not owe $14,000 to some people...

...you wouldn't wanna owe 14 cents.

I so can't relate to that.

Could you try? No.

Could you pretend to try? Yes.

Absolutely not.

Absolutely yes. Come on I need the tongues first...

...then every bit of meat scraped off those cheeks.

Is that all? You don't want the fricking eyeballs?

Oh, okay, so the tongues second.

I'm not cutting out their eyeballs. Not with that. Use a melon baller.

Oh, I'm gonna go make a big pitcher of melon balls.

You want one? No, I don't want a damn melon ball.

Suit yourself. But trust me, you are gonna want a melon baller.

Okay, what's the word? How we doing?

Well, I've swept the entire place for explosives...

...and it's clear. That's the good news.

The bad news is if this vague threat is gunmen...

...we've got ingress points here and here and...

You are talking about eggplants.

No, Lana, I'm talking about aubergines.

They're the-- They're the same thing.

Oh, then where does auberge fit in?

Then go answer the goddamn phone.

Okay, moment of truth, taste test.

Uh, please don't B and/or B me too hard.

Mmm, not bad, Randy. Not bad at all. Thank you, chef.

Just needs a little kick in the ass. Speaking of, where's Chet?

In the walk-in, weeping like a child.

Nice. Man, you should have been a chef. Oh. Pshaw.

I'm serious. Maybe being a secret agent isn't your true calling.

Yeah, my mother says that a lot.

Oh, what, so now I suppose you're just going to sit there and pout?

Well, I didn't get you into this, mister. You got yourself into this.

And the clock is ticking, my friend.

Mm. So just so I'm clear...

...you want me to use this top-secret 934-TX telephonic isolator unit...

...for which you have neither clearance nor written permission...

...to even gaze upon, to find all phone numbers...

...associated with this physical address.

Yeah, Glenda Gotrocks here says...

...ritzy joints like Seize have reservation numbers that are strictly on the QT.

What is this, Spain I mean the '30s?

A flagrant violation of my sworn duty, for which my recompense will be?

If, in fact, I heard you correctly.

Yes, you, in fact, did, and said recompense will, in fact, be a handjob.

No. From her.

Yes. What? No!

Yes. Please.

If I don't make good on that fish fight...

...you're gonna find me in a dumpster somewhere out in Red Hook.

If you're ever in Red Hook snooping around in random dumpsters.

Great, so it's give him a handjob or change up my whole Sunday routine?

Um, apparently. Ugh! This is so unfair.

Okay. But I am not spitting in your face.

Take it or leave it, dude.

Hello? See how I did that? Just picked up the phone and talked into it?

And how did you get this number?

Which Kennedy? Because if it's Teddy, he still owes me for a urinal so...

Oh. Oh!

Yes, absolutely. Eight o'clock, table for four. Thank you.

Thank you! Hoo-hoo.

Thank you.

I think I'm in love with you.

And yet I will die alone.

Yeah, probably.

Okay, listen up, people.

Tonight has to go perfectly because it is wall to wall VIP's out there.

We've got the Albanian ambassador and all his little diplomat buddies.

And also little Vernie Kennedy, JFK's crazy niece or cousin or something.

And then Teddy walks into the library wearing nothing but a whiskey sour.

Hoo-hoo. Teddy. Such a scamp.

So no screwups.

Now, get to work. I'm talking to you, Gayvid Niven.

Oh, eat a di-- What was that?

Yes, chef. Randy, ready the soup.

I'll be out front favoring the guest of honor with aperitif and my presence.

And here you are, Mr. Ambassador. I prefer to be called Your Excellency.

Well, people in hell want ice water. Ray. What is your problem?

Besides not knowing if I should add an 18-percent gratuity?

Because I can, it's a party of six or more...

...but if they were gonna tip 20 percent, I just hosed myself.

Not to mention U.S.-Albanian relations.

So instead of insulting the ambassador, whom we're here to protect--

Protect him from what?

The only threat around here is-- Dying of thirst, apparently.

I've been trying to get a table at Seize for months...

...and when I finally do, instead of Casteau's world-famous risotto...

...I have to eat sheep face. Wait a minute.

For God's sake, the least you could do is keep my wine glass full.

Oh, my God, it's you. You're the threat.

You couldn't get a table, so you made an anonymous threat...

...and got ISIS hired to do security.

Well, that's still no excuse for poor service. Wow.

Okay, you know what? Excuse me. Yes, tell them all about it.

That'll do wonders for U.S.-Albanian relations.

Bon appétit.

Hi, yeah, are you done shouting at my guests in barely-passable French?

Then why don't you go help Mincent Price with the--

Eighty-six soup. Ugh.

Aw, man, I'm fricking starving.

Here you go, gang, get in here. I brought a bunch of crackers and jelly.

You promised you'd stop doing that. They were in my tuxedo from last time.

For the love of God, will you--?

Kicked out in the first act.

Well, we didn't have to fight for a cab.

What?

Tell Randy, as his final act before I walk back into the kitchen...

...and murder him with his own shoes, to-- Fire the entrées!

Yeah, might as well.

Because, Randy, except, of course, for your mother, there is no threat.

Tell that to my tavé kosi...

...the tender flesh of which I'm now ruining under the broiler...

...because I have no soup!

Ew. And whose fault is that?

The-- Whatever idiot invented those slippery-ass bowls.

Now, get back here and mop it up, Chet.

Chef, eat a dick.

A toast. To His Excellency...

...the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of Albania.

And to a long, peaceful and prosperous friendship...

...between his great nation and ours.

While we sit here dying of thirst.

Hang on, I might have a juice box in my-- Ron!

Thank you, chef. The dolma, the rakia.

I feel I am home in Albania.

Just wait until you try my tavé kosi. Oh! Tavé kosi is my most favorite.

Excuse me, I need to make sure my sous chef hasn't ruined it.

It's ruined. No, it's actually really good.

Cyril and/or Chet? No, Cyril and Chet are now vegans.

Aw. Just when I thought I couldn't hate them more.

Now, get these entrees to the table. Move, maggots! Everybody take a tray.

Yes, chef. Right away, chef.

Not you, Chet. You look like a dinosaur's tampon.

Boom! Bumper. I am just killing it today.

Well, finally.

Yeah, sorry, we were dealing with this incredibly obnoxious hoax, so--

So can I at least assume there will be a wine pairing?

Mmm, Chef Randy, this is the best tavé kosi I ever tested. I--

I'll have what he's having.

Wow. You really do like it. Your Excellency?

He's dead.

Holy shit snacks.

Then I don't want what he is having.

Wait. No, the threat was a hoax. A what?

Lana! Oh, my God.

Well, you can forget about ISIS working for the State Department, ever.

And, sir, please, I'm sure this was just an allergic reaction.

Okay? Yes.

To poison. What?

No, I started with the freshest ingredients, like--

Oh, my God, the mushrooms.

Casteau must've put poison mushrooms in the-- Pam!

What? Nothing. Here, have mine.

You sure? Pam!

Okay, let's get Casteau before he-- He's gone.

And also on the phone. Oh, Cyril.

Oh, Teddy. Ever the scamp.

Sir, please, let's have dessert and then-- No time.

We have an embassy to close.

So that's a no on the wine pairing?

Malory, a man has just been murdered.

But how? We all ate a little.

Or a lot. You said I could have it.

But if it wasn't the food-- How the hell did he get poisoned?

I coated his glass with cyanide, you idiots, for the toast.

Oh, there's toast? Give me that. But, chef, why?

Six million bucks...

...which I'm gonna use to deficit-finance a new show where I travel...

...so I can insult people's cooking all over the globe.

Now, there's a show I'd like to-- Wait, you won't get away with this.

Well, you say that.

And remember when I said you could've been a great chef?

Yes.

Every morning, I make two cooks like you in the toilet.

Why?! Why couldn't he let me have the dream?

Why can't you let me have some wine? What is this, Spain in the '30s?

And way, way more importantly...

...who would pay $6 million just to make ISIS look like idiots?

For that much money, we could have built a whole new bionic man.

Don't tempt me, Barry. Boom! Bumper.

Wow.

Remind me not to piss you off.

Remind yourself.

Yes, dear.