>be me
>redpilled /ck/ anon who actually knows how to sear a steak without a $47 Sysco seasoning packet
>decide it's time to touch grass and go on date #1 with tinder roastie who "loves foodie spots"
>she picks some "authentic Italian" place with $28 spaghetti and exposed brick walls
>we sit down, she orders the carbonara like it's a personality
>waiter drops the plates and i can already smell the Sysco
>lean in, whisper like it's /pol/
>"you know we're eating inside the Matrix right now, right?"
>she laughs, thinks it's a bit
>wrong
>i hit her with the redpill: every "fresh" ingredient in this building came off the same Sysco truck that supplies Applebee's and prison kitchens
>pre-portioned frozen gnocchi, "house-made" marinara that's just reheated bag sauce, even the "imported" parm is powdered Sysco dust
>she's blinking like a deer in headlights
>i keep going, full schizo mode
>"the entire restaurant industry is one big LARP, babe. the chef? he's just a Sysco janitor with a better knife roll. they pay him to pretend he doesn't have 47 identical bags of 'chef's choice' demi-glace in the walk-in"
>her fork stops halfway to her mouth
>i'm on a roll now, telling her about the Sysco Matrix™ where the bluepilled cattle pay premium to eat the exact same industrial slop as a hospital cafeteria but with worse lighting and a $14 cocktail that came out of a bag too
>she starts checking her phone under the table
>date ends with her "suddenly remembering" she has an early meeting
>ghosted before i even get the check
>mfw
>fast forward two weeks
>new girl, seems cooler, says she "cooks" (her highlight is airfryer nuggets)
>she suggests sushi
>i'm already sweating
>we get there, beautiful omakase counter, $180 a head
>i last 12 minutes before the dam breaks
>"you realize the 'wild caught' salmon is Sysco farm-raised garbage injected with dye, right? the rice is probably from a 50lb bag labeled 'sushi rice' that tastes like wet cardboard"
>start drawing the supply chain on a napkin like it's the JFK assassination board
>driver → Sysco warehouse → "sous chef" who just thaws and plates → you, paying $22 for a piece of fish that used to be roommates with a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish
>she's giving me the exact same wide-eyed stare as date #1
>whispers "are you okay?"
>i tell her the truth: the only way to escape the Matrix is to cook everything yourself, from scratch, like our ancestors before the Sysco overlords enslaved us with their 40% margins and frozen lobster tails
>she excuses herself to the bathroom
>never comes back
>waiter brings me the bill and a pitying look
>third date
>i swear i'm not gonna do it this time
>she picks a "farm to table" spot
>literally the final boss of Sysco LARPing
>menu has "local heirloom" everything
>i hold it together for 45 whole minutes
>then the waiter says "our chef sources directly from..."
>brain short circuits
>i slam my water glass down like it's /ck/ rant hour
>"BROTHER THEY SOURCE DIRECTLY FROM THE SYSKO TRUCK PARKED BEHIND THE DUMPSTER AT 3AM"
>start naming SKUs from memory
>date #3 is now actively backing her chair away from the table
>i'm full conspiracy autist, telling her how even the "house bread" is Sysco parbaked rolls they just throw in the oven and pretend
>she leaves mid-sentence
>sends me a text from the Uber: "you're actually insane please lose my number"
>now i just cook ribeyes at home and eat alone like God intended
>bluepilled cattle still out there dropping $300 on Sysco slop thinking they're cultured
>tfw the only thing spooked more than my dates is my tinder match rate
>stay redpilled, kings
>never dine inside the Matrix
>redpilled /ck/ anon who actually knows how to sear a steak without a $47 Sysco seasoning packet
>decide it's time to touch grass and go on date #1 with tinder roastie who "loves foodie spots"
>she picks some "authentic Italian" place with $28 spaghetti and exposed brick walls
>we sit down, she orders the carbonara like it's a personality
>waiter drops the plates and i can already smell the Sysco
>lean in, whisper like it's /pol/
>"you know we're eating inside the Matrix right now, right?"
>she laughs, thinks it's a bit
>wrong
>i hit her with the redpill: every "fresh" ingredient in this building came off the same Sysco truck that supplies Applebee's and prison kitchens
>pre-portioned frozen gnocchi, "house-made" marinara that's just reheated bag sauce, even the "imported" parm is powdered Sysco dust
>she's blinking like a deer in headlights
>i keep going, full schizo mode
>"the entire restaurant industry is one big LARP, babe. the chef? he's just a Sysco janitor with a better knife roll. they pay him to pretend he doesn't have 47 identical bags of 'chef's choice' demi-glace in the walk-in"
>her fork stops halfway to her mouth
>i'm on a roll now, telling her about the Sysco Matrix™ where the bluepilled cattle pay premium to eat the exact same industrial slop as a hospital cafeteria but with worse lighting and a $14 cocktail that came out of a bag too
>she starts checking her phone under the table
>date ends with her "suddenly remembering" she has an early meeting
>ghosted before i even get the check
>mfw
>fast forward two weeks
>new girl, seems cooler, says she "cooks" (her highlight is airfryer nuggets)
>she suggests sushi
>i'm already sweating
>we get there, beautiful omakase counter, $180 a head
>i last 12 minutes before the dam breaks
>"you realize the 'wild caught' salmon is Sysco farm-raised garbage injected with dye, right? the rice is probably from a 50lb bag labeled 'sushi rice' that tastes like wet cardboard"
>start drawing the supply chain on a napkin like it's the JFK assassination board
>driver → Sysco warehouse → "sous chef" who just thaws and plates → you, paying $22 for a piece of fish that used to be roommates with a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish
>she's giving me the exact same wide-eyed stare as date #1
>whispers "are you okay?"
>i tell her the truth: the only way to escape the Matrix is to cook everything yourself, from scratch, like our ancestors before the Sysco overlords enslaved us with their 40% margins and frozen lobster tails
>she excuses herself to the bathroom
>never comes back
>waiter brings me the bill and a pitying look
>third date
>i swear i'm not gonna do it this time
>she picks a "farm to table" spot
>literally the final boss of Sysco LARPing
>menu has "local heirloom" everything
>i hold it together for 45 whole minutes
>then the waiter says "our chef sources directly from..."
>brain short circuits
>i slam my water glass down like it's /ck/ rant hour
>"BROTHER THEY SOURCE DIRECTLY FROM THE SYSKO TRUCK PARKED BEHIND THE DUMPSTER AT 3AM"
>start naming SKUs from memory
>date #3 is now actively backing her chair away from the table
>i'm full conspiracy autist, telling her how even the "house bread" is Sysco parbaked rolls they just throw in the oven and pretend
>she leaves mid-sentence
>sends me a text from the Uber: "you're actually insane please lose my number"
>now i just cook ribeyes at home and eat alone like God intended
>bluepilled cattle still out there dropping $300 on Sysco slop thinking they're cultured
>tfw the only thing spooked more than my dates is my tinder match rate
>stay redpilled, kings
>never dine inside the Matrix
4
