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Basil Fawlty: [overseeing dinner, he approaches a table where Mrs. Heath is eating with her son Ronald] Everything all right here?
Mrs. Heath: Well...
Master Heath: [cutting in] I don't like the chips. The chips are awful.
Basil Fawlty: Really? How so?
Master Heath: They're the wrong shape and they're just awful.
Mrs. Heath: Ah, he's very clever... rather highly strung.
Basil Fawlty: [forcing himself to smile] Highly strung... Yes, he should be.
Master Heath: [to Basil] These eggs look like *you* laid them. Haven't you got any *proper* chips?
Basil Fawlty: These *are* proper French-fried potatoes. The chef is Continental.
Master Heath: Couldn't you get an English one?
Mrs. Heath: Why don't you just eat one or two, dear?
Master Heath: Because they're the wrong *shape*.
Basil Fawlty: Oh, my... What shape do you prefer? Mickey Mouse shape? Smarties shape? Amphibious landing-craft shape? Poke-in-the-eye shape?
Master Heath: God, you're dumb.
Basil Fawlty: [gritting his teeth] Is there anything else we can get you, *sonny*?
Master Heath: I'd like some bread and salad cream.
Basil Fawlty: Well, there's the bread, and there's the mayonnaise.
Master Heath: I said *salad cream*, stupid.
Basil Fawlty: We don't *have* any salad cream.
Master Heath: What a *dump*.
Basil Fawlty: ...The chef made that mayonnaise fresh this morning.
Master Heath: That's *puke*, that is.
Basil Fawlty: Well, at least it's *fresh* puke!