You know who I fucking am. I’m Giorgio Nava. Says so on my fucking jacket. Black, not white. Armani suckers. Drop some Italian style. A fucking renaissance man. Fuck MasterChef Australia. Matt Preston’s my bitch. I’m a fucking Italian Masterchef. Certified. See that smirk? The smile of success. Do you have any idea how many restaurants I have? Seriously? Like four. Hundred. Million. 95 Keerom. Carne. Down South. Caffe Milano. Mozzarella Bar. Fuck! I own this town. Name my fucking hood Little Italy. Cover me in Napoletana sauce and sprinkle fucking Parmesan on me. Call me al dente but I’m fucking unstoppable. Untouchable. I’m so hot I’ll burn your palate. I farm my own beef. I catch my own tuna. I screw my own waitresses. I fucking do it all. I’m a fucking Jedi restaurateur. I’m a fucking cash-filled cannelloni. I’m a fucking walking statue of myself. I’m Batman motherfuckers. You want ketchup with your fries? Campa cavallo! No! Not in my fucking house! You want your steak well-done? Take a walk. Off a bridge. I’m too busy for that Panarotti shit. Some people say I bit off more than I can chew. Some people can go suck my mozzarella balls. I’m handling this shit. Bitches wanna cut me down. I’ll harpoon the fuckers. I’ll demolish you. Like Rhodes House. Yeah, boo hoo. My heart pumps second-press olive oil for you. But how’s that fucking parking lot now? All my Benzies be safe. So you come eat my lamb. Slurp on my zuppa. Shove my pies in your face. I’ll be here. I’ll talk you through the specials. You’ll see my smile from a fucking mile away. You’ll love my accent. It’s heavy. Like my fucking wallet.
