His name is KOGA and he is an HONORABLE WARRIOR of the kitchen. He started his business as a competitive chef, and his family has long since worked in food procurement/services. He’s from a long and noble line of chefs and hunters, they have served emperors and traveled along war-ridden lines to deliver much-needed food!
He has five children, who live on Quo’nos and four of them are also chefs (his youngest daughter is a true warrior) and his operates his restaurant with his wife and some cousins, as well as young klingons training to be NOBLE CHEFS.
He likes getting competitive with other restaurants, and he has a fierce aggression towards a vulcan restaurant nearby. They go back and forth, but secretly will totally get take-out so that they can enjoy Klingon/Vulcan food.
“Why do you express surprise that a Klingon has chosen the path of fine cuisine? Why are you so shocked at my cultured palate?
“Warriors must eat, and a warrior who has eaten well will fight all the better for it. A true Klingon chef knows that any meal he prepares may be the last meal that a warrior may ever eat. Does not every fine warrior deserve to go into battle with a good meal in his belly? Should not a chef do his utmost to ensure that every nuance of that meal is prepared to perfection?
“My grandfather was chef to Admiral Koros. A fine warrior, the Admiral, a man who loved fine food. My grandfather was there when the Admiral died. He was there for the songs sung in the mess hall on the eve of battle against the Romulans. When the battle began, my grandfather put down apron and knife and took up his duty as damage control officer.
“Long did the battle rage. Many Klingon and Romulan ships burned in the void of space. In the end, the sons of Kahless were victorious, but at great cost to ships and men.
“My grandfather was one of the men who found the Admiral on the bridge of his ship, surrounded by his dead and dying men, half of his body burned in disruptor fire. The Admiral spoke of glory, and honor, and expressed no regret for his own death. And yet, the Admiral said, he would have liked one more taste of my grandfather’s Rokheg Blood Pie.
“My grandfather returned to his kitchen. Among the wreckage of his burned ingredients and damaged stoves, he gathered together what few supplies remained unspoiled. Using all of his skill and strength, he prepared, with his hands, one last small Rokheg Blood Pie, as the Admiral lay dying
“The men served their admiral one last meal. They put the fork to his mouth. The Admiral tasted my grandfather’s Rokheg Blood Pie and smiled. And, without another word, the Admiral went to Sto’Vo’Kor.
“This story is memorable, not not unusual. Countless such stories have been written down in my family history. I come from over two dozen generations of chefs who have served great warriors, and all of us have given their all to provide the best meals possible to these men, always knowing it may be their last.
“SO I WILL KNOW IF YOU EVER ATTEMPT TO PASS OFF CARDASSIAN LILY STAMENS AS GENUINE Q’ONOS SAFFRON AGAIN, AND IF YOU EVER ATTEMPT SUCH TREACHERY, I SHALL GUT YOU WITH MY CHEF’S KNIFE AND USE YOUR INTESTINES AS SAUSAGE CASINGS!”