At the beginning of the second decade of the 21st century, in a major American city, there was a chef who was praised far and wide for his unique and original dishes. Pasta that came in one twenty-foot strand. Hot dogs where the hot dog was the bun and the bun was in the middle and you ate it with a tiny pitchfork thing. Ice cream made of whipped oxygen infused with desert cactus juice. He was such a sensation that the line to get a table wound three city blocks and the police often had to direct traffic, otherwise there were fights, and once somebody was stabbed for cutting in line.
Once inside, people would take pictures of his food before eating it and this made the chef very proud of his culinary accomplishments. People would stare at their food in awe. Food critics extolled the chef’s talents and claimed his dishes belonged in museums, not in simple digestive tracts. Gourmand aficionados flocked from across the country and even internationally.
The chef grew so possessive of his dishes that after a few months of this he insisted that nobody eat the food, but just come and admire it there on the plate. At first people still paid to view his creations in person, but less and less until people stopped coming and the whiz chef was all alone in his restaurant with tables full of levitating goulash and clam chowder puree and scrambled eggs still inside the shell.
The chef lost everything and last time he was seen he was digging through a trash can for leftover cheesy bread outside a Dominos.