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flambage.livejournal.com[Yo, Paradisa. Who's freakin' hungry?
There's a little sign pinned up to the kitchen door:
FOOD INSIDE - MADE BY A MASTER - COME AND SEE WHAT'S COOKING!
FREE DESSERT FOR THE LADIES!
And inside, there's a whirlwind of motion as one man works the stoves, ovens, and everything else... except the microwave. For the moments he stands still, one can see that he's blond, has strange, swirly eyebrows and a goatee, and is smoking a cigarette in his stylish and functional maroon clothing.
More important to many might be the food, and there's a lot of it, split into three tables for what kind of meal people feel like. On the breakfast table, there are pancakes and waffles galore, omelets both vegetarian and packed with meat, fruits of all sorts. Another has sandwiches and bowls of noodles, joined with chunks of meat and vegetables on bowls of rice or skewered on sticks by themselves. The last table, the one he's thrown most of his pride into, is awash perfectly-grilled with steaks and roasted poultry, and a large, glazed ham dominates the center. Breads of many varieties, both toasted and not, abound at all three tables, along with plenty of butter, honey, and jam.
And, of course, there's the dessert table, with cakes, pies, cookies and pastries of all kinds, but that one's off-limits. OFF. LIMITS. SERIOUSLY. Look at the velvet rope and posts around it, that screams class, doesn't it?
Why did he make this banquet? Because he was bored. Sanji takes a moment to rest and cracks open his journal.]
Oi, who's hungry? Get to the kitchen, I'm not eating this myself.
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