Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what appears to be a miniature, and frankly insulting, replica of a food preparation station. It seems the small human is meant to take these tubs of strangely scented, brightly colored putty and mash them into crude facsimiles of "food" using a series of levers and stamps. The sliding griddle mechanism has a flicker of potential for a good batting session, but the primary material—this "Play-Doh"—smells suspiciously of wheat and chemicals, a combination I find both perplexing and beneath my palate. Ultimately, it’s a loud, clattering source of noise and tiny, colorful crumbs that will inevitably get stuck in my pristine gray fur. A monumental waste of prime napping territory.
Key Features
- 2-SIDED RESTAURANT KITCHEN PLAYSET: Aspiring chefs can feel like they're running their own restaurant with this play kitchen set for kids! Create, customize, and share amazing Play-Doh food creations
- STAMP 2 PRETEND FOODS AT A TIME: Attach 2 stampers and press the lever to stamp pretend burgers, pizza, chicken, or spaghetti! Let go, and the griddle automatically slides over to the prep station!
- DECORATE AND SHARE: Use half-molds on both sides of the playset to create pretend toppings and sides, then put creations on the plate and pass through the window to share with friends!
- PLAY KITCHEN ACCESSORIES: Use the spatula to put pretend desserts in the oven, and set up the menu board to complete the pretend play kitchen experience
- 5 PLAY-DOH COLORS: This tabletop play food set includes 2-ounce cans of red, yellow, green, blue, and brown Play-Doh compound. Contains wheat
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a box that was far more interesting than its contents. After the small human’s initial flurry of manic activity, the "Busy Chef's Restaurant" was abandoned on the living room floor. I observed it from my perch on the armchair, a silent, tuxedo-clad judge. Its plastic gleam was offensive. Its colors, an assault on the sophisticated grayscale world I prefer. The small human had left a disc of red putty squashed into the "pizza" mold. An abomination. My disdain, however, was pricked by a flicker of movement. A fly, one of those fat, arrogant ones, had landed near the lever mechanism. It buzzed, cleaning its repulsive little legs, entirely unaware of the world of physics it was about to enter. I slunk from the chair, my paws making no sound on the rug. The fly was my target, but the machine was my weapon. I saw the design flaw immediately: the spatula, a flimsy blue accessory, was resting precariously on the edge of the prep station. With a surgeon’s precision, I nudged the base of the spatula with my nose. It tipped, its handle swinging down and tapping the main lever. The lever depressed with a loud *CLICK*, and the stamping mechanism slammed down onto the empty griddle. More importantly, the entire griddle slid sideways with a satisfying *shhhh-clack!* The sudden motion launched the unsuspecting fly into a panicked, spiraling flight path, directly toward my waiting paws. A swift, mid-air clap, and my work was done. I glanced back at the contraption. The lever had reset. The griddle was now on the other side, waiting. I looked at the pizza stamper, then at the spaghetti one. A tool. A rather noisy and gaudy tool, but a tool nonetheless. It couldn't create anything edible, but it could, with the right application of feline ingenuity, serve as an excellent, if unconventional, fly-launching catapult. I gave a slow, deliberate blink. The restaurant was still an eyesore, a blight on my otherwise impeccable domain. But it had proven its utility. It would be allowed to remain. For now.
