Kitchen dawgs on their bitchin’ hogs

Being a professional chef means standing inside a poorly vented, glorified bathroom for hours while surrounded by raw animal flesh and vegetables prettier than your own mother. They give their lives for their art so when it’s time to punch out they like to let loose by putting a motor between their legs and cranking the throttle up to 475º. Here’s a look at some gastro-gearheads who fry by night and fly by day:

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“The Caked Crusader”, Duff Goldman, shows off his red rocket that’s as sweet as butter cream over a bundt. If the road were a cake, his rubber burner would be his pastry bag, piping black streaks over Baltimore with a deft touch.

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Drop a dollop of Rocco DiSpirito on top of his silver bullet like you would ricotta on toast and you’ve got a meal that’s simply irresistible. Rocco’s Italian-America cuisine is ideal for the hungry while the image of him on his hog is great for the horny. 

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Cooking’s resident bad boy, Tony Bourdain, takes time out of his schedule of traveling around the world for a buzz on a two-wheeled wasp. Get in his way and you’ll see why food ‘tude is far more dangerous than road rage.

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It’s rare to see this Bad Brained Brit with a smile on his eater so he must really dig a highway cruise on top of his black ball blaster. Put a helmet on, Gordon, you’ll need that brain to keep turning out tasty, modern classics.

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Building a culinary empire ain’t like pedalling mom’s rusted Raleigh to the corner shop for sweets. Between raising a family and earning kegs of quid with his shows, books and restaurants, Jamie unwinds by charging into the breeze on this pukka pedestrian plower.

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Chef Lynn Crawford could roast a whole goose with heat she generates while straddled on her big black Darth Dagger. She’s got squid ink in her veins and gas in her eyes so keep your horn covered while she’s on the road because you’ll be honkin’ out of respect.

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Tyler Florence is an inviting dish that’s salty, bitter, sweet, sour and speedy–sounds like a stir-fry to me. When he squeezes the clutch with those milky paws he treats it like winter’s first grapefruits, juiced into a refreshing custom cocktail that screams refreshment.

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Like Marvel Comics’ Ghost Rider, Alton Brown’s head catches fire when he straddles his Highway Hell Hammer, only it’s a figurative blaze of culinary ideas.

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He’d ride an Italian stallion if he could but oats are expensive and a horse’s roar is nothing compared to that of a properly tuned engine. Mario Batali prefers the stink of gas and engine oil to sea bass olive oil when flying up and down New York City streets. 

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