The first rule of Amtrak’s “Quiet Car Chopped All-Stars: Fight Club” is: Kindly shut the fuck up about everything. Don’t talk about how the pungent aromas made you forget that the anti-griddle just zoomed by.

What’s wrong with you? I said not to talk!

OK. That was a legit question. I know that. That’s on me. There are passengers who get murdered for simply not adhering to the etiquette of this noise-protected zone, you know?

This is the most civilized form of transportation that incorporates freshly minted murder for those on a tight budget. There are no decorations, no squeezing of tomatoes, and no natural convos.

Once you’ve nestled into one of the quiet car’s vintage seats, we’d like you to immediately silence your talkhole and surrender every type of electronic device. It’s a move to make you unreachable. I imagine your absence on mobile networks will be profound and felt across the world. Our train service guarantees not-bad, quiet luxury, and boasts of speeds up to 150 mph during all-out, spicy assaults on culinary artists.

Thank you for choosing our train to get your fix for picking a fight with a stranger over family recipes!

Just sit back and enjoy the live cook-off, wondering who among you can make the most exciting dishes with ingredients from a mystery basket before being beaten unconscious.

There are no sponges on this train. Apparently, chefs keep stealing them. It’s sick. According to reports, there is no safety on this train either. As a matter of fact, there is a good chance you’ll reach your destination with serious contusions, prompting you to make a list of every life choice you’ve ever made.

Many foodie-heads have tried to sue us for exposing them to “a minefield of accidents waiting to happen.” Look, kitchen injuries are part of the business. You chose to marinate in a sleek train, not in a rickety stagecoach, so while your commute may be filled with severely traumatic events that usually include having sliced fingers, there will be NO sudden swerves. That’s a promise!

If you’re thinking, “I didn’t know this railway was bare-knuckle chef combat—I just had total knee arthroplasty! I’m lazy and a little drunk! I howl in pain just getting into bed! And I have no mental toughness!” We reply, “THANK YOU FOR BEING SO EXCITED!!!!”

Of course we already know we’re the best travel option. The most entertaining aspect of jumbo jets? Their air safety demonstrations. We bring a lot to the table. For example, if an overcooked cupcake hits you squarely in your nose, breaking it, give yourself a treat—like that cupcake your face just collided with.

I acknowledge that you’ve probably never been a fight buddy. Don’t worry. It’s our job to calm every first-timer down. If you appear to be the only person on the party train who hasn’t figured out what’s about to happen, we’ll have a senior chef cook you a calming feast beforehand. No heartburn. Then be prepared to fight. You’re part of a community now. Pick up that corncob. I’m serious. We need you to fight. There’s no other option.

Now, with respect to management stuff: if a chef-to-chef confrontation happens outside the train, we ask that you exit your row smeared with bodily fluids and rush past them without commentary. No “How will she use the Cactus Mint Bubble Gum on those sautéed scallops?” or “What a ridiculous food combo, fuck it, he’s not breathing anymore.” I think you’ll find this is Amtrak, not pay-per-view—and, yes, those who forget to pack their chainmail aprons usually get recruited first. Something to consider. Above all, watch your step because we care about you!

Finally, if you wish to put a stop to whatever battle is being waged, alert the train engineer. Or anyone not slashing at you with a meat cleaver.

Please note that while you adjust to life post-fight club, you’re required by law to act nonchalant and make eye contact only with your good eye. Your body will change. No showing your murderous paws. Don’t bum us out by describing your recent rumbles like a madman. We provide a festive atmosphere in what is a Food Network Studios on wheels—show us things like respect. Details of choo-choo carnage will fade as you begin to realize we’ve shuttled you into the abyss, you’re cursed eternally and, well, you now go by the name Pam Balaya, Iron MasterChef.

Thank you for choosing our train to get your fix for picking a fight with a stranger over family recipes! You’ll love our hushed locomotive where, for our sleepy travelers, we offer U-shaped neck pillows that double as cheese graters. Always allow at least a 2- to 3-hour delay.

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