The chef looks up from his notebook, glances at the caller ID, and turns instead to a glass bong half filled with a corked ’82 Petrus. He fires it up and takes a long pull on the tube.
Tell me that doesn't happen in kitchens all over Manhattan (and Chicago). And really, how great is that sentence? It totally captures both the wine and food snob pretentiousness and the enfant terrible college kid attitude that I imagine hot young chefs have to burn. Love it.