Tonight's Nightmare is brought to us by The Secret Garden restaurant. My first question is, why would you name a restaurant after that story? It's about is about a girl who's forced to move in with her creepy uncles and her dying bratty cousin after her parents die from the bubonic plague or something. Sure, everything worked out in the end, but who remembers that? When I hear The Secret Garden I think of pain. Hey, what a coinkidink! That's what I think when I hear the opening song on Kitchen Nightmares!

Moorpark, CA. gateway to wine country, golf courses, and this guy:

Other than looking like a possum about to strike, what's this Chef's problem? As Sammy, a waitress who answers the phone with the fakest English accent I've ever encountered, puts it: "Michel's biggest problem is that he's French." I've never heard anyone turn being French into an actual personality flaw before, and I like it. He can't help it, he was born that way.

As some of you know already, I usually just rag on French women because I have hated them ever since the book French Women Don't Get Fat was published. That general rule, apparently, doesn't apply to French men, so I thought this tub of Frenchie might sit better with me. Then Michel explains that French people just have better taste than Americans. And...hate. Hello, have you ever tried a chicken snack wrap from McDonalds, Michel? I didn't think so. Oh, snap.

"Thaynk ew foh cahlling the Seecret Gaaahden, mye aye haylp you? Alms foh thuh poah? Pleez suh may oy ave sum moah?"

Jane, the other waitress (the one with a real English accent. Is Sammy Single White Female-ing her?), is a bit blunter and basically says Michel's a dick. Then she explains that he's Fr... a Chef! All Fr...Chefs are dicks! You see? It's not just me. No one likes French people. Montage of Michel throwing around his (considerable) weight and bitching at people for no reason in an Inspector Clouseau accent, spitting everywhere every time he opens his big stupid mouth.

A-hole stereotype Chef aside, the place is at least popular with the hip crowd. The broken hip crowd. Could you see that one coming? No? Neither could any of the customers. Wuh-oh! Hope the food's fresh, cuz the customers are almost expired! I've got a million of em. Those jokes never get old, unlike the customers here! Heeeeeyyyyooooohhhhh! That's why I make the big bucks, people.

Wake up, Meemaw. Your soup's here.

Unfortunately, the patrons are all on a fixed income and Michel can't pay of $320,000 in debt selling just a few sides of mashed potatoes and cups of hot water with lemon a day. Enter our hero. Now, Gordo is never bursting with excitement to be anywhere, but he seems particularly pissed off at the world today. As he approaches the restaurant, he snivels "fine dining" and shakes his head. It doesn't help that the front door is locked. So is the side door. And the back door. He finally enters through the bathrooms to find not a soul in the restaurant. Oh wait, my bad. There is one soul.

Go on, soul. Follow the light. There's nothing for you here!

Gordo walks around the empty dining room in awe. The place looks like the Sad Hatter's Tea Party. Granny's china, over the top frilly draperies, and knick knacks galore. He doesn't have time to rag on the giant frog in the corner holding a blackboard because he's so offended by the other statue in the room. He walks up to it and calls it a fat bastard. Hilarious.

Be a man.

Gordo finds the kitchen and Michele braces himself for all the compliments that are bound to come gushing out of his guest's mouth. "I couldn't find the entrance." Michel's smile is replaced with a confused lip curl. Don't worry, Frenchie. You can make up for it in the fabulous meal you're about to serve him.

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