Smut Fest — A Prompt that I was not prompt in responding to.

Roasted Smegma, Anyone

A Chef’s tale

Most chefs I have encountered are by nature filthy-minded beasts. And the females are the worst. All chefs swear like troopers (that’s why they’re called a brigade), they fuck like rabbits – and anything with a pulse; they drink like fish; they snort shit like … whatever snorts shit a lot; and they take no prisoners. Oh, and they’re usually broke the day after payday, so they will do practically anything for money or a laugh. Anything.

Example:

Who can dip his arm in fish batter up to the elbow, then plunge it into boiling fish oil and get it the brownest? The winner gets a tenner.

Really clever shit like that.

As with comedians, I am happiest in the company of chefs (or stand-ups). I dislike artsy people, which includes writers, and I now also hate taxi drivers like Grimsby Hackney. Taxi drivers who write AND can’t stick to a tag-list order, are the worst. I was at the top. Now I’m a bottom.

I’ve been a chef for most of my adult life. I owned my business, which makes me a businessman too, but ultimately, I am just a chef. Nothing more. And I dabble in the writing arts with limited suck-cess.

Suck-cess is my new word for doing something repeatedly that you really do suck at, but not giving up on.

Please … feel free to use it, and submit it to Urban Dictionary. I won’t mind.

My dear friends Laurel & Jenny, aka Laurel B. Miller & Jennifer McDougall, no relation to Laurel and Hardy, though equally funny, prompted us to write about smut. And being a writer, a chef, and a bit naughty, I thought I’d write about a specific “cheffy” problem you may not have heard of before.

I stand at the stove for hours on end, amongst my amazing staff. First doing mese-en-place, and then the service. My dick faces the ovens which can reach 300 C, for hours.

For Americans, that is very Fahrenheit hot.

I think I am lucky to have 4 kids. By all rights, my sperm should be poached.

One thing about cheffing, is you spend most of the time very close to each other. You can have your face in somebody’s crotch bending to get a plate out of the warmer, while he stands and fricassees the chicken. Which usually involves the standing person, thrusting their groin, repeatedly, in your face. Uttering moaning sounds. Obviously.

Cooking is sensual. And chefs talk sensual smut most of service. Between the ‘wee chef’ or ‘yes chef’ we engage in last night’s sexcapades on a moment-by-moment, rolling basis.

So when Janet bends to get a plate and Kirk is standing doing the chicken, thrusting, she might say … “Kirk, your dick smells like it may have gotten lucky last night.” And she’ll hold her face there a second longer than necessary, for effect. And obviously loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear.

Kirk will no doubt have a comeback:- “Well if you girls washed your p&%say's once in a while, my dick wouldn’t smell of fanny, it would smell of roses,” …

Cooking potato rostì for 2 years is pretty mind-numbing for the average chef, they need an escape. Kitchen porn offers that escape. Cancel Culture cannot override kitchen smut, of that I am certain. You put 20-odd kitchen staff from various walks of life into an intense cauldron of pressure and boredom, and you get smut.

Try cutting 50 carrots into perfect baton matchsticks for 2 hours, and see where your brain wanders. Especially when some over-zealous sous chef upstart comes with a ruler to measure the frikken carrots. Nobody signs up for this shit. And yet, here we are.

And consequently, we share intimate secrets about penis dribble, vaginal wetness, creaming, and smegma.

We never really discuss the weather, because being chefs, we seldom see the outdoors. So all that is left is —

who owes whom money; how much we are currently paid an hour vs. what we would do for XX amount more per hour (usually sexual), who has the best supplier, and sex.

The type of conversations we share goes something like this:-

Sharon, when you peel that zucchini, what are you really thinking about? My engorged penis I bet?

Pastry John, (there is always more than one John) when you apply that icing to that tart, are you thinking about my vag? And how you’d like to ice it with your freshly whipped cream?

Janet, when you blew me last night, could you taste that I have been eating pineapple?

I have one chef, who every time he trims a whole fillet, dangles it between his legs, pendulum-swings it, then heaves it onto the cutting board as if it was attached to his groin area.

Every frikkin time.

And he says … each and every time …

“Ladies, look what those of you who have not had “The Victor” are missing out on. I split perineums for a living.”

We trim about 10–15 fillets a day. So you can see why most of them need a white powder hit.

And then someone replies …

“Victor, first, I’ve seen your fillet, and it’s a chipolata, and secondly, you cum before you enter the garage. So stick your fillet where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“Greta, are you offering me anal? And that’s not cum Greta, that’s …”

Or something to that effect. And so it goes. Every day.

So one very hot summer night, during a busy shift, Kirk stopped working and quietly said,

“My dick is so hot, I am offering anybody roast smegma with all the trimmings, for a fiver. I’ve got 8 portions.”

Eunice responded, “Does it come with moist & sweaty faggots?”

Now Eunice never says boo to a ghost. She is the quietest mouse in the kitchen. The entire kitchen cracked up. Not just because it was funny, but it was EUNICE funny. And in a jaded kitchen, where they’ve heard it all, that is not easy to do.

For a few minutes, nobody could function. We have an open-plan kitchen and customers were staring as 20-odd kitchen staff fell on the floor on a busy Saturday night. Literally.

Subsequently, our standard term for being hot at the stove is —

rare smegma, medium smegma, and well-done smegma with or without faggots, depending on circumstances. If they’re sweaty faggots, it’s especially hot in the kitchen.

And every chef abides now, by that descriptor. They may fuck everything else up, but not that.

That is what smut means and does for me. It gets me through life, and it is harmless. I despise people who get all uppity about a bit of smut but they’ll gladly listen to politicians spew crap all day long.

Give me smut or give me death.

Prompted by this:-

If you liked that … you belong in a professional kitchen. And might like this. It is a more serious look at wait-staff, and something I did right at the beginning of my Medium journey.

It died a horrible death, but I’m still very proud of it: