I'm not a culinary school grad. "Chef" isn't technically my title. I'm not an eighty-hour-week-working Michelin mogul. My only real tools are a single chef's knife, a cheap Kunz spoon and a pair of Joyce Chen kitchen scissors. The greatest tools to my name are two callused, burnt, and sliced up hands--two hands to cook, eat, and write with.

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Too many "foodies" look past the kitchen and into a fantastical world where a chef's story is glorified and food is a glamorous art. Here's a reality check. Your food is actually made by sweaty line cooks who smoke each other's weed, burn each other with sauté pans and shock their eyes with four shots of espresso every time they clock in. I'm tired of food critics who feel entitled to judge someone's cooking without ever having passed twelve quarts of puree through a chinois or lost their pain receptors to popping duck fat. I'm tired of CIA graduates who ramble on about pronunciation of Niçoise; When it's time to scrub the floor, they pick up a clipboard and start ballooning their callus-less ego. People who really know food are those who bleed, sweat, and sob all over it for fourteen hours a day. 

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Welcome to Blunt. Pair with weed, coffee, and Fernet Branca. 

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Peace,

George Vedder IV​

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