Random Sequence

[random phrases worked into a story]

Ignominious Schwa

I'm no "foodie", and I always hated doing freelance photography for Chew magazine -- you know, the rag whose slogan is "What Are You Doing About Chewing?" The worst was having to photograph professional chefs, the planet's leading egotists, in the visual nightmares of their Byzantine kitchens. And the worst of all was the Brit chef and gourmand Caesarian Whitecap. I remember meeting him and being impressed by his prodigious girth and dismayed by his imperious attitude.

"Another intrusion by yet another importunate geek!" he said as I shook his oily hand. "Someone was here last week to photograph my comestibles. Now, my visage must be plastered across your pages. It's not about me. It's about the food!"

"Yes, well, I'll try to be brief," I said as I set up my tripod. "Um, what's cooking?"

He gave me a nasty look. "Is that a genuine inquiry?" he asked. "Or are you just trying to make conversation?"

I didn't know what to say, but he didn't wait for an answer. "Leggy potpie," he said. The French name for it wouldn't mean much to you, I assume."

Mais non, I thought. "What's in it?" I said, adjusting a light. He looked down at his mixing bowl. I noticed that he had three prodigious chins. Not cover material, I would have to inform the editor.

"Frog legs instead of the usual poulet," he said in a musing tone. I could tell he was proud of his concoction. "And inseminated gooseberry."

"Inseminated? With what?"

He sighed and pulled another sour face. How would I ever get him to smile?

"Giorgio Primo La Massa 2007," he said, superciliously.

"Wine?" I asked. He guffawed. Then he grumbled something under his breath. It sounded like "Ignominious schwa!"

"I'll take that as a multilingual honorific," I said. His attitude was starting to piss me off.

"The article this is going to appear in, this, this little postmortem operetta, this 'spread' as you say. Must you include photographs of me in addition to the cuisine?" he asked.

"Your grub isn't enough," I said. "The gluttons want to see who whipped it up. Are you ready, big guy?"

He looked at the lens, sucked in his gut, and struck a kingly pose. "Just don't make me look like some prepackaged torte," he hissed. "I am a souffle."

"Don't worry, Chef Boyardee," I said, instantly regretting it. I thought he might hit me with a rolling pin. Instead, for a moment, he grinned just as I clicked the shutter. The smile made him look less like the porcine owner of a meat market. And a month later his chubby, angelic face appeared on every newsstand in America. I celebrated by eating a bowl of SpaghettiOs.