There was a tension in the air, much like when you're standing in the middle of a pasture wearing a red jumpsuit and a bull happens to be staring straight at you, snorting. Perhaps this analogy was made better by the fact that Mondo actually snorted. Or, uh, snort-growled. There's a difference.

The plate fell to the ground and clattered against the floor, erupting into a firework of porcelain slivers and ruddy sauce. Mondo turned his head around slowly, almost for dramatic effect, meat hanging out of his mouth, his face and hair dripping with condiments.

He began to eat the meat out of spite. And because him eating = him winning a free meal, suckas.