Welcome back.
Our next guest has taught|the World to cook for over 20 years.
But apparently my Wife hasn't|been listening.
- Funny.
|- I Will destroy her! And noW, extend a formulaic greeting|to master chef Elzar.
So, What Will you be cooking for Morbo|to devour With his mighty jaWs? I'm gonna Whip you up a nice,|unnameable horror from beyond With mango chutney.
Pathetic humans,|prepare to Write doWn the recipe! What's with the pots and pans?|Building a wife? Part of one.
Meantime, I'm cooking up|a tasty Sunday brunch for my friends.
Brunch.
Right.
I'd better warn-|Tell- Warn-tell the others.
Okey-dokey.
Nice.
Yes.
It's a perfect scale model|of the universe's largest bottle.
I put a tiny spaceship inside|to keep it from being boring.
- Oh!|- Get! For the last time, Zoidberg look with your eyes,|not your claws! Brace yourselves.
|Bender is making us brunch.
Oh, boy!|- Oh, God, my tract! He's proud of his cooking.
|If we don't eat, he'll be crushed.
Don't panic.
If we can get to the ship,|we'll fly north and hide under the polar icecaps.
Good idea!|What's the holdup? Fleeing somewhere? With you blocking the only|escape route? Don't be silly.
In that case, brunch is served.
Let's|go, move it out! Stop crying, Leela.
- Zoidberg, are you coming?|- Sure.
Me.
- I don't want you touching that thing!|- I know that.
Surrender your mysteries to Zoidberg.
Oh, no, professor will hit me! But if|Zoidberg fixes it, then perhaps gifts.
Oh! Ow.
What? I've personalized each of your meals.
For example, Amy, you're cute,|so I baked you a pony.
Come on, eat!|I slaved all day over a filthy stove.
This is terrible! Good thing I secretly installed|this wormhole in the table.
- Where does the other end come out?|- You know, I'm not quite sure.
Dear me.
The pie is ready.
|You guys like swarms of things, right? Casual hello.
It's me, Zoidberg.
|Act naturally.
Ouch! Ouch! Oh! Ah! Oh! Get off of me! Stop! How interesting, Dr.
Zoidberg.
|Do go on.
Check out the palm tree.
|It gets sick when I cook brunch.
How's that for coincidence, professor,|with all your precious science? I don't want to hurt his feelings,|but this tastes better as vomit.
It's unbearable.
What would it cost|to get my tongue removed? And this time I mean it! Who am I kidding? It was stupid|of me to dream of becoming a chef.
I don't have what it takes,|and nothing can change that.
Then it's settled.
|Elzar will teach me to cook! Absolutely not.
- But I watch your show.
You owe me.
|- I owe you nothing! One, your antenna's in my crotch.
|Also, I hate you.
And finally, you can't cook for squat.
- What was the first one?|- I hate you.
- I thought that was number two.
|- I knocked it up a notch.
Bam! I'll never recombobulate this ship.
When the professor finds out,|he'll tear me a new cloaca! Wait.
What would the robot do? Frame someone.
What up? I'm Walking on sunshine It's over.
My dream of being a chef|is deader than the cat I'm sitting on.
Gus, let's give a friendly welcome|to this new robo.
- What did you call me?|- A "robo".
You know, a robot hobo.
- Okay.
I thought you said "romo.
"|- No offense intended, my filthy friend.
In fact, why not join us|and ride the space rails? Get ready.
We's gonna jump off|at that switching prism.
We're going nearly the speed of light,|so roll when you land.
Ow! Welcome to Bumbase Alpha,|biggest hobo jungle in the quadrant.
I've seen bigger.
|Wait, I'm thinking of Eugene, Oregon.
Wait, a pie with hobo-lifting aroma?|Who baked it? Helmut Spargle.
|He used to be the greatest chef.
His restaurant was so high-toned,|to get reservations you had to create a parallel|universe, where you had reservations! I once ate there, back|when I was a senator.
Yo, Spargle, if you're such a great|cook, how'd you end up in this dump? Ages ago, I was the host of a TV show: Down-Home Country Kitchen|with Helmut Spargle.
One day, the Extreme Soda Company|that sponsored the shoW - decided it Was too old-fashioned.
|- Spargle, you're fired.
We need a chef who attracts a younger,|more extreme cooking-show viewer.
- Elzar!|- Get lost, old man.
- Bam!|- Mein soufflì! Elzar had been seduced|by the dark side of cooking.
Cilantro, mango salsa,|raspberry vinaigrette.
That twizzler.
As for me, I went temporarily insane|and wound up here making pies out of shoes.
My story's like yours,|only interesting.
It involves robots.
That jerk, Elzar, ruined my dream|of being a chef too.
Interesting.
You wish to cook, but as|a robot, you have no sense of taste.
It's so unfair.
|I have eight other senses but I'd trade them all,|even smision, to be able to taste! Without the distraction of taste your mind is free to touch|the Zen of pure flavor.
- You could be the greatest chef!|- I could? Just as Beethoven was a great composer|because he was deaf! Or how Rembrandt was blind|and had wooden hands! Bender, hear me well.
|I shall train you.
First, forget everything|you know of cooking.
Done.
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