Marco continued. "And there were too many herbs. A bird can be ruined by herbs. You have to be careful. We're here to eat a fucking bird, are we not, Bill? Isn't that why we're here, to eat a fucking bird?" The waiters had been joined by a cook in a toque. Marco, meanwhile, was inching up on the edge of his char, and his eyes were bulging again. "We're not here to eat a fucking herb garden. Would I have ordered grouse if I wanted to eat a salad? And the parsley. I mean - look at it. There's no fucking point, is there Bill?" His eyes were darting round the room wildly. His eyes said: Some fucker was responsible for this and I'm going to find out who. "I just don't know why it's there. Do you, Bill? Is there someone here who can tell me why this fucking parsley is sprinkled all over my grouse?" Marco was shouting. "If someone will tell me what it's doing there, that will be fine. But I don't have a fucking clue."
He sighed heavily. "It's all about good eating."
Bill Bryson on Marco Pierre White - Heat
