My restaurant in the Northern Quarter in Manchester is currently a top selling place. All the critics rave about the place like they’ve never eaten anything before, like hungry dogs hoping to get a bite of whatever their owner’s eating. Before the pandemic I was struggling actually, nobody was coming, not even family nor friends because it was suggested since I was in such a powerfully posh and privileged position that I could never be humble in any way. Jokes on them when I used my position to feed the homeless population in the city, they queued for miles to get their food. Since then my restaurant gained a lot of popularity, especially with younger people with them being socially conscious and all that.

I go down to the restaurant at six in the morning to make sure everything is in tip top shape. I make myself over to the kitchen to turn everything on in there ready for the day, for my assistant chef to run around the place like a panicked rabbit. As soon as the lights come on in that kitchen all the screaming, yelling and sheer stamina comes back to me powerfully. To me, turning on those lights has the same effect as a morning shower or coffee as it gets me primed to go to work.

After turning on the lights I make the dining areas ready, setting out cloths and cutlery for the tables as well as different glasses. I start to hear buzzing around my ears, pesky flies, I’ve forgotten to turn on the bug zapper. I flick it on and allow the blue light to penetrate my eyes and watch as the flies go towards it like some suicidal minions or disciples. They serve the light, they die by the light.

At around eight thirty I see the morning corpse that I call my assistant chef come into the restaurant. The restaurant opens in half an hour, he’s early for a change.

“Morning” I say

“Morning chef” he says back

“You’re early today, that’s a change”

“Yes chef, didn’t get much sleep last night and thought might as well come in extra early”

“I like your ethic, committed to the work. That’s what’ll make you successful in life” I say pointing to him

“Thank you chef, I agree”

“Enough chatter” I say “Let’s get this place set up”

“Yes chef”

We work on the presentation of the place for the next half an hour, final touches, smoothing out creases and making extra sure all the machines work and that we have enough food.

It’s not until twelve that we get a customer, a balding, lonely looking man. He looks at our menu and I go to greet him.

“Afternoon sir, will you be eating with us today?”

“Yes yes, I’m just looking to see what’s here. Never been here before”

“Really? I must say without tooting my own horn that we do have a bit of a reputation, we might have been covered in the news”

“Oh really? Why were you in the news then?”

“Well it was about four years ago now but we helped out the homeless situation here in Manchester by giving out food” I say smiling

“Oh right, have you done anything of the sorts since then? Are you an ally to a charity or something?”

This annoyed me, I don’t have to stay loyal to any fucking charity to be a nice person. How dare he assume that I’m not a nice person.

“Well no and no” I say chuckling “However we did really help out that day, I assure you”

“I’m sure you did” he said I’m sure sarcastically

How careful I was with my words and actions. I would’ve liked to strangle him there and then but restrained myself, because I am a professional. Regardless he decides to sit down at our restaurant, he orders a coke as a drink and for food he asked:

“Do you do beans on toast?”

No we don’t do fucking “bEaNS On ToAst”, who does he think I am Joe Wick? We do proper food here, of the highest quality and actually worthy of the admittedly high price. “Beans on toast”, what a pillock.

“Um no sir, that is not on our menu therefore we do not serve it”

“Uhhhh, can I just have The Full English then?”

“Of course you can sir, excellent choice, a classic”

I take the menu away from him. A Full English in the afternoon? He does know it’s short for Full English Breakfast right? Clearly not, again absolute pillock.

Me and my assistant chef get to work on the meal, the sizzling eggs and bacon make the kitchen come alive as well as the bread in the toaster and the baked beans in the pan. The smell was gorgeous, it reminded me of childhood mornings waking with an empty stomach and being led to the kitchen by the smell like I was in a cartoon. Specifically Tom when he smells pie in Tom And Jerry.

As I came out with his food our customer was on his phone, probably sending "memes" to a co-worker the stupid prick.

“Here’s your food sir” I say with a soft smile

“Thanks” he said without looking at me

“Enjoy” I say to him

I go to my office above the restaurant and take out a special carving knife. I know and my assistant knows that when I take this particular knife out it means something is up and I have full confidence in my assistant to help me out in situations like this. He sees me come into the kitchen

“Had enough?” he says

“Yes, I’ve had enough” I say pointing to the customer

We wait until he finishes his food like a pig. When he finishes I go up to him and ask if everything was alright

“Yeah yeah mostly, the egg was a bit undercooked and I also felt like you gave me too much beans. But overall yeah it was good”

My ever growing hatred reached its peak.

“Is there a bill or something I need to pay?”

“Yeah, there’s a way to pay” I say before jamming the knife right into his fucking eye. His screaming annoys me so i close his mouth with my hand as I repeatedly stab him in his stupid face. Trying to avoid my hand I cut into the skin of his head so easily, marks on his face were complemented by the spewing blood that came from his eye and then onto my clothes. His face looked all made up like he was in a horror film, with the last beauty touch being a slash across his throat splitting his Adam's apple in a vertical half. After calming myself down a bit and wiping some of the blood off my face and body I dragged the corpse through to the kitchen. My assistant helped me put the body in a freezer and afterwards I went for a quick change because I have a spare outfit in the restaurant in case something like this happens which, to be honest, it does often. My assistant cleans the floor as I watch from the kitchen.

I’m a professional chef, and this is my fucking restaurant.