“I actually made it, man. I couldn’t find it, so I-uh, you know. I made it for you man-sir. Chef.”

Loretti draws the steel tiffin from the bag, flips it open, recoiling his head back as he does. He sniffs, then drags the second knuckle of his pinkie across the lid, just enough to lift a smear of the white paste. He inhales sharply, his ribs and nostrils flaring to maximum capacity, muttering, “What the—is—” before taking a hesitant lick.

Nodding, Phil continues, "Also man are you really like a chef - where’s your uh- hat- you know the white-“

Loretti sets the tiffin down on the marble countertop. He slowly tugs down his hoodie, revealing a massive purple bruise on his bald head. His eyes lock on the smooth, dark granite wall behind the stove. He stares, silent.

Phil: "Woah man."

Loretti: “Are you…” [deep inhale] “…me? Right now?”

Nodding, Phil, with a few seconds delay: “Hm?”

Loretti continues, somehow maintaining his temper “Is this—I asked you to get me Gouda’s Swiss-graded creamed butter with 25% fat. Not only have you not got me Gouda’s, or any Swiss-graded, or 25% fat, or creamed, or BUTTER—you’ve got me—” [deep inhale] “…cheese. CHEESE. The Queen wants BUTTER, that specific butter, she specifically asked for that butter, the royal guests have arriv—what the—” [deep inhale] “am I supposed to do?! Wha—“ [attempts to inhale] Fuck. FUCK. FUCK.” Lorreti erupts — giggle, sob, anger — all in a few seconds. He stares at the tiffin doing a really bad job trying to contain his right leg and lips from trembling, “ fuck ”.

“Hey, man, I think it’s great cheese, m-sir. I’ve been, like, making it, you know, and my—uh—landlord loves it. He’s, like, uh, super… he really likes it, s-chef. It’s like uh great with like bread you know or, like, biscu—”