Jon Favreau

I may not do everything great in my life, but I'm good at this. I manage to touch people's lives with what I do and I want to share this with you.

"Gauloises: Eager to Please. Ten years ago, I had the good fortune to dine at Chef Casper's revelatory Miami bistro, Marrow. The sheer audacity of this fresh, brave voice of the culinary scene reminded me why I write about food as a vocation. It is nearly impossible to separate my glowing regard for Chef Casper and how much he inspired me from my expectations as I sat down to dine at the recently remodeled Brentwood Gallic staple, Gauloises. Oh, how times have changed."

"Over the last decade, Carl Casper has somehow managed to transform himself from the edgiest chef in Miami to the needy aunt that gives you five dollars every time you see her in hopes that you will like her, but instead causes you to shrink from her cloying embrace which threatens to smother you in her saggy, moist cleavage. The signature app, intended to impress the country club brunch crowd, is the caviar egg. A shirred egg topped with a dollop of caviar is an excuse for the chef to overcharge us for his insecurity and lack of imagination. Carl Casper can be best summed up by the first bite of his needy, and yet, by some miracle, also irrelevant chocolate lava cake. Casper didn't even have the courage to undercook the cake, thus curiously lacking its signature molten center. This sad dessert is emblematic of Carl Casper's disappointing new chapter. His dramatic... weight gain can only be explained by the fact that he must be eating all the... food sent back to the kitchen. Two stars."

I am not cloying. I am not needy. I don't care what you think. You're not getting to me. I'm not needy! Chocolate lava cake is not just undercooked chocolate cake. That's not what makes the center molten. You take a frozen cylinder of ganache and set it in the ramekin so that as the outside cooks fully, the inside becomes molten!

It's molten, see? It's fucking molten, you asshole! And you don't do anything. What do you do? You sit and you eat and you vomit those words back. To make people laugh. You know how hard I work for this shit? Do you know how hard my whole staff works? What sacrifices I make to make you happy and then you just smugly just fucking shit on my shit?

He was… he thought you were going to close his fucking restaurant down! You asshole! And what do you do? You just write shit to… you just make shit up! It was molten! It's fucking molten! Asshole! You're not getting to me.

Hi, uh, Nikki, this is Mike. I met you at the, um, at the Dresden tonight. I just called to say that I had a great time... and you should call me tomorrow, or in two days, whatever. Anyway, my number is 213-555-4679 -

Hi, Nikki, this is Mike again. I just called cuz it sounded like your machine might've cut me off when I, before I finished leaving my number. Anyway, uh, and, y'know, and also, sorry to call so late, but you were still at the Dresden when I left so I knew I'd get your machine. Anyhow, uh, my number's 21 -

213-555-4679. That's it. I just wanna leave my number. I didn't want you to think I was weird or desperate, or... we should just hang out and see where it goes cuz it's nice and, y'know, no expectations. Ok? Thanks a lot. Bye bye.

I just got out of a 6-year relationship, Ok? That should help explain why I'm acting so weird. I just wanted you to know that. It's not you, it's me. I'm sorry... This is Mike.

Hi, Nikki, this is Mike. Could you just call me when you get in? I'm gonna be up for awhile and I'd just rather speak to you in person instead of trying to fit it all into -

Fuck!

Uh, Nikki? Mike. It's uh, uh, it's just, uh, this just isn't working out. I think you're great, but maybe we should just take some time off from each other. It's not you, it's me. It's what I'm going through, alright? It's uh… it's only been 6 months …

Trent, the beautiful babies don't work the midnight to six shift on a Wednesday. This is like the skank shift.

Look, we're gonna spend half the night driving around the Hills looking for this one party and you're going to say it sucks and we're all gonna leave and then we're gonna go look for this other party. But all the parties and all the bars, they all suck. I spend half the night talking to some girl who's looking around the room to see if there's somebody else who's more important she should be talking to. And it's like I'm supposed to be all happy 'cause she's wearing a backpack, you know? And half of them are just nasty skanks who wouldn't be nothing except they're surrounded by a bunch of drunken horny assholes. And I'm gonna tell you something T. Are you listening?

I'm not gonna be one of those assholes. Alright? It just makes me sick. It's like, some nasty skank who isn't half the woman my girlfriend is, is gonna front me? It makes me want to fuckin' puke!

How about if I wait six weeks to call. I could tell her I found her number while I was cleaning out my wallet, I can't remember where we met. I'll ask her what she looks like and then I'll ask her if we fucked. How about that? Would that be money?

I'll have a scotch on the rocks, please. Any scotch will do, as long as it's not a blend, of course. Single malt, Glen Livet, Glen Galley, perhaps, any Glen.