Foreign Mind Film About Pasta
They're all right, these first class boxes. But you can smell the pretention when you open them. The pretzel sticks are 'stick-style dipping pretzels,' and they pair nicely with the raspberry-mustard dipping sauce. We're not even going to make a joke about that combination because it might make me throw up. But what we're really going to skewer here is the pasta-in-a-can.
Before we start, let me assure you that that's exactly what it is. Pasta-in-a-can. No, I have not eaten it. The stench when you open it is so overpowering that I could not bring myself to (which reminds me... don't you hate those people that, when you say you don't like something, immediately respond with, "Aw, have you tried it?" How do you think I found out I don't like it?). But I know plenty of vegan flight attendants that have eaten it, and they all assure me that it's your average pasta-in-a-can. But get a load of this label:
I think it's supposed to make the food sound chic. But all it really does is plant this scene immediately into my brain:
INT. POSH FRENCH CLUB -- DAY
A bar, lit in subtle blues and reds. FRENCHMEN in black tights and Hamburglar shirts drape in ennui over the avant-garde furniture. Berets abound. Looks like Ms. Hepburn just stepped out of the place.
ECOLE, the barman, bursts from the back, carrying a silver platter upon which rests a baguette.
ECOLE: Mais oui, mes amis! I have cooked a food!
The FRENCHMEN are stunned even more silent.
HENRI: What? How?
ECOLE: Using quantum technology I happened to have lying around, I created an all-natural deep sub-space vacuum back there in the sink, and placed its event horizon squarely in the center of this baguette. It will remain fresh forever!
FRENCHMAN: Finally... fast, nutritious gourmet food.
ANOTHER FRENCHMAN: Sounds like an optimal process.
FRENCH DWARF: Hey, doesn't nature abhor a vacuum?
HENRI: But, but, but, Ecole... zis is a bar!
ECOLE: I know. But I have been thinking of opening a restaurant.
HENRI: But you must know that that means you would have to face... certification!
The FRENCHMEN gasp. One, who has been pulling his mustache, releases it, and it twangs in the silence like the A string on a guitar. ECOLE thumps his chest.
ECOLE: I am not afraid!
EXT. DEPT. OF CERTIFICATION -- DAY
Sirens flash and klaxons wail as several hard SOLDIERS in kevlar and nylon blast from the severe-looking government building. Screaming 'vit vit vit!', they pile into a Yugo-shaped police van.
INT. POSH FRENCH CLUB -- DAY
HENRI trembles in ECOLE'S arms.
HENRI: I am afraid.
ECOLE: Steel yourself, mon ami.
Suddenly, the doors slam open; the SOLDIERS dash in, taking up defensive positions behind the FRENCHMEN. COLONEL FROMAGE enters, riding crop under arm, scowl legendary.
ECOLE swallows nervously.
FROMAGE: 'Ou is in charge 'ere?
ECOLE: I am. Sir.
FROMAGE: Zis is a bar?
ECOLE: It is. Sir.
FROMAGE: What is on that silver platter?
ECOLE: A food. Sir.
FROMAGE: Was it... an accident?
ECOLE (defiant): No, it was not. Sir.
FROMAGE raises an eyebrow. Sniffs disdainfully. Begins to shake. Turns red. Then, at the top of his lungs:
FROMAGE: MEN? CERTIFY!
The SOLDIERS heave to, speeding up and down stairs, their assault rifles vanishing to make way for slide rules and magnifying glasses. They tap pipes, scrape bricks, taste wooden planks.
After sixty seconds of blazing certification, a SOLDIER snaps to attention in front of FROMAGE, and whispers a report. FROMAGE takes it in, nods, then stalks towards ECOLE. HENRI whimpers.
FROMAGE: Quantum... technology?
ECOLE: Yes. Sir.
FROMAGE: Zis is now... a kitchen.
He whips out a rubber stamp and pounds it across ECOLE'S forehead. ECOLE'S eyes roll upwards, trying to read it.
HENRI: 'CERTIFIED 100% MODERN.'
ECOLE grins. HENRI smiles tearfully.
FROMAGE (shaking, red): MEN? MOVE OUT!
The SOLDIERS depart to the sounds of the FRENCHMEN snapping fingers.