"Good Lord, Achilles! Cannot you answer a simple question? Is it as good as the best or isn't it?"

Chef Mors Amarus, Royal Chef of the Palace of Genovia, slammed his ladle down onto the Ecuadorian granite surface of the royal kitchen, causing the subject of his demand – a rather fetching soufflé – to shake dangerously. He shot it a look that would have melted steel. A tall, thin man with long black hair and a smattering of straggly beard over his aquiline features, Amarus towered over his sous-chef and gastronomic critic, Achilles Cravant, a young man as short and round as his boss was thin and tall, and currently quaking in fear. "M-m-m-m-my Chef," he quavered, "p-perhaps…"

"Perhaps nothing!" roared the thin cook. "NOW!"

With a trembling hand, Cravant poked his fork into the soufflé. The morsel almost fell off the shaking utensil as it made its unsteady way to his lips, but it finally reached its destination. He closed his eyes in concentration as he moved the soufflé round and round in his mouth.

"Well?!" snapped Amarus, causing Cravant to jump a foot into the air.

The young man choked and swallowed, hard. He looked up at the chef and appeared to be pondering the merits of a new life in Outer Mongolia.

"It… it is better than the work of Chef Strudel of Austria," he stammered.

Amarus just stared, hard.

"And it… it is better than the work of Chef Roesti of Switzerland… and Chef Boiler of Engand."

A disdainful snort.

"Definitely better than the work of Chef Dolma of Greece and Chef Toutpetit of Liechtenstein…."

A nod.

"…Chef Frankfurter of Germany and Chef Ziti of Italy …"

A nod, more satisfied than the last, with a hint of impatience…

"…Chef Moussakis of Cyprus and Chef Banderilla of Spain…."

A satisfied grunt.

"…Chef Marinee of Holland and Chef Croketsersen of Switzerland." The taster trailed off nervously at the murderous look emanating from the cook.

"You left out one country," he said ominously.

"D-did I? I'm not su…"

"I did not SEND you to the finest restaurants in Europe so that you could TOY with me, Cravant!" Amarus growled. "These countries are no threat to Genovia's ascension to the throne of haute cuisine in Europe! It is France I fear. Is it better than the finest cuisine in France?"

Cravant swallowed nervously. "Well, I.. I tasted so little of it… I… I really didn't get a chance to…OOMPH!" he spluttered as the chef grabbed him by the hair and shoveled another huge forkful into his open mouth.

"Is this big enough for you? I need an opinion, and I need it NOW!" roared Amarus. "Come on!"

The chef was boiling with impatience. His subordinate chewed slowly, which only infuriated him more. He had to put the fear of God into the lazy bum… Thinking fast, he snatched up a shining meat cleaver and brandished it in his face. "Cravant!" he shouted. "Spit it out! NOW!"

The taster's eyebrows shot up, but he obediently spat the mouthful out into the chef's face.

"ARGH!" Half-chewed soufflé dripping down his forehead and cheeks, Amarus wiped the gooey mixture out of his eyes and grabbed his sous-chef by the throat. "YOU IDIOT!" he roared. "Is it better than the finest France has to offer, or not? Tell me NOW before I have you roasted for Her Highness' dinner!"

"It-it…Well, in a manner of speaking… 'Better' being a relative term… that is to say… b-better than… than..."

"Than the one all of Europe is talking about, pea-brain! The bastard son of Chef Délicieux of France!"

"Er… that's Gusteau. Ack!" The hands had tightened around his throat. "Y…you want to know if the soufflé has surpassed the work of Chef Gusteau the Younger, of France?" The hands loosened infinitesimally around his throat and Cravant took a deep breath, his life in his hands. "N-n-n-no."

He had to drop to the floor to avoid the perfect fusillade of pots, pans and utensils being thrown across the room as Amarus's fury vented itself. Here and there through the screaming he could make out words. "Years of training… decades of study… dedication… all for the greater glory of Genovia… to be defeated by some illegitimate upstart! I won't have it… won't have it!" Finally the royal chef straightened up, panting. "Come here, Cravant."

Trembling, the young cook approached, expecting a blow with a saucepan, but was relieved to find himself receiving a pat on the back and a friendly smile. So friendly, in fact, that he tried to take a step back, but was stopped by an iron grip on his arm. "Tell me, Cravant," his boss began kindly. "You are a patriotic young man, no?"

"Y-yes," the young cook stammered, trying to back away nervously.

"And you would do anything for your country, isn't that so?"

"W-well… within reason, yes."

"Now, now, no reservations! We are so close to becoming the gastronomic capital of Europe. We need to attract tourists to our country, and what better way than through our fine cuisine! We MUST defeat Chef Delicieux…"

"Gusteau."

Ignoring the correction, Amarus breezed on brightly, "…of France! This is a matter of national pride. Genovia's reputation is at stake!"

"But if you came second, Chef Amarus, that would still…"

CLANG – the long-awaited blow from the frying-pan came at last. "Second is not a word in our vocabulary! We must win by fair means or foul! Our nation requires no less of us!" Amarus grabbed Cravant by the arm and led him away. "To ensure our national reputation's success, we must stop those French chefs from arriving at the contest at any cost! Here's my plan…"