And yes, some people are allergic to rhubarb, and if they eat here, they might die. Any questions about that? No? Good.

Now, I want to introduce the single most important person here at Laroux's, that grumpy little man standing over there next to the knives. His name is Gaston, pronounced just like that, Gaston, like it rhymes with Bass Fun, which is my little joke, since Gaston hates fish and never ever has any fun. Isn't that right, Gaston? Now, don't be alarmed, everyone, that knife he just threw at me, sticking in the wall by my head now, while sharp enough to cleave my skull in two, was nevertheless precisely aimed. Gaston is an expert, and I was never in any danger.

That knife, the one that is sticking out of my chest right now, yes, that one might have killed me. But I wear a thick coat of Styrofoam for just such occasions. Gaston can be temperamental.

And like I said, Gaston is the single most important person at Laroux's, and you would do well to remember that, always. Even in restaurants that do not have the world's greatest knife-sharpener, the knife sharpener is usually the most important person. Gaston is more important than the owners of Laroux's, Mr. and Mrs. Chancery, who never step foot in the restaurant. He is more important than me, the head chef, as I rarely come into the restaurant myself. He is more important than Mike Stevens, over there, the sous-chef, who does all of the real work here and is more or less the creative genius that keeps Laroux's so well attended by customers. He is more important than the line cooks, the salad chef, the dessert chef, even the sommelier. A quick word about the sommelier: he is an utter asshole. Ignore him as much as you can.

You may have heard, in other restaurants, that the customer is the most important person. Lobster dunked in bulldog gravy, I say to that, and yes, that retching sound you just heard did come from Mike Stevens. In this restaurant, the customer is fairly important, I will admit, but not as important as Gaston. He may, on occasion, express a desire to murder one of the customers. Please, as hard-working waiters and hostesses of Laroux's, I am begging you, do not try and stop him. That's what the last group did, and they were all sacked. The ones who did not end up in the soup! That laugh you just now heard was from Malik Aaron Mohammed, our soup chef.

And I want to be clear, that the reason Gaston is so important has nothing to do with his ability to throw knives at me whenever and wherever he likes. I am, it is true, very afraid of Gaston. But even if he were as gentle as kittens, even if he had not killed his own mother, several nuns, members of congress, and an entire university lacrosse team, even if Gaston here was a paragon of timidity and reluctance, he would still be the most important person here. Why? Can anyone tell me? You there, with the pony tail? You, the one who reeks of cigarettes, itching to get this meeting over with so you can get your nicotine fix? No? It's simple, really.

There is nothing more important to a restaurant kitchen than well-sharpened knives. It's as plain as that. Mike Stevens has his own set of knives, as does the salad chef, the soup chef, the dessert chef, the celery monger, the radish man, the box boy who opens our boxes. The line cooks all use knives, the sommelier keeps a small knife to cut through the foil on champagne (never drink his recommendations, by the way; the man's an idiot). You hostesses will keep a few knives around just in case some drunk comes in the front door and makes unsavory comments about your attire. And that's just the knives we use—Gaston also sharpens all the knives we place on the tables for our customers.

It's a twenty-four seven job, isn't it, Gaston? He answers me by taking a long swig from his bottle of vodka. Don't be fooled, that's not water, it is genuine vodka. But do you see any bandages on his hands? No. You see them on all of us, since he does like to throw his knives. Mike Stevens has several on his arms, the salad chef has a few on his ears, and the line cooks should consider buying stock in Band-Aid. But Gaston himself has none. He is an artisan. He is a genius.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to tonight's directions from Mike Stevens, who I'm led to understand has prepared a truly brilliant menu for the evening. I've checked the stores—plenty of rhubarb—and I've just gotten word from Mr. and Mrs. Chancery that the last of the lawsuits have been settled. So, have at it, have fun, and whatever you do, do not forget who the most important person in this restaurant is. I forgot, once, and that's why I only have the one ear, and the eye-patch. Good night, all!