Post Category → tin chefs

Grafs with no nuts

I have to admit that watching (and watching and watching) one heartsick and furious Iraqi do what the whole world has dreamed of for eight years did get my mind entirely off the inanity of the food world. Leave it to the Silly section, then, to bring me right back to reality TV. What in the name of Allen Funt were they thinking devoting an entire page to the Sarah Palin of chefs, only a week after doing the Chicken Little rap on Depression dining? To quote another train wreck, the whole thing was ragged, fallen and fraying around the edges. But I guess it wasn’t a total waste. I learned you could pick his chopped onions right out of the mirepoix — there’s a talent. Funny that I was laughing at a flackmail with a subject line on “local flare,” and now I hope that’s what we just saw burning out at last.

“Inspired by respect,” indeed

As if I can’t get riled up enough on my own, my favorite curmudgeon alerts me to the craven new line of Molto sauces enriched with Ego. Next at the supermarket: Orange Charmin. But even those were not as risible as the “Mexican” pizzas coming from the guy some fools think could actually be in line to be White House pretzel baker. I don’t care if you can find pizza everywhere in Mexico, fat and stupid Americans do not need pizzas with “cilantro and Mexican herbs” in the freezer case. No wonder illegal immigration is down. Imagine struggling across the Rio Grande only to find Chevy’s looking authentic.

At least no icebergs were harmed

Artful Dodger Award of the year goes to the author of the T-for-Twaddle piece on the New Boonville Hotel sequel in Oregon. This guy can go to work with Turd Blossom now, having managed to glide right past the fact that investors got rooked big time. My consort and I made the pilgrimage to sustainable Mecca way back when, and it’s funny that I remember nothing about the food, just a few details about the B&B where we stayed (friends of Alice Walker’s and Bill Owens’s). Clearly, there are second acts in American lives. And on the internets, no one has to know you screwed up. I saw a reference to Julia Childs in my paper, but my friend out in Santa Barbara missed it online. Ted Stevens was wrong. It’s not a series of tubes. It’s one big eraser.

Odd ends

As my most verbally agile young friend puts it, I have a date shortly at a clean, well-lit table where I’ll be the center of attention, so I’m rationing my bile for now. But I have to say the latest cash-in from Molto Ego, overpriced watches, should be sold as orange badges of cretinism. And I have to wonder if the Egotist really ate chestnuts off the soles of his shoes, as his lede implied. And does no one at the Taj Sulzberger understand that with food sections, once you’ve had color you’ll never go back? And things must be flusher there than I realized if a two-course dinner for $42 is considered a deal. Well, I guess that is only 12 shares of stock.

And then there’s the sad reality that the genius of Monte Carlo has hooked up with the Rachael Ray of France, to neither’s credit. The book party was the most dispiriting in ages, with a strange (and small) crowd in a tired-looking room (upstairs); the great man was there but his collaborator had moved on to bigger things already, leaving her scary agent to do the hustle. Someone must really have something on “the Escoffier of our time” to get him to promote food that has been so bastardized; the photography is almost stomach-turning. How do you say nuked the fridge en francaise?

The collapsing tent

It sounds like nighttime in the switching yard down in the Bloomberg HQ’s commissary. I guess John Tesar was tied up, because the rumored choices for new chef are not exactly super three-stars; their resumes are long but not deep. When the only requirement for the food is that it can be inserted tidily between Botoxed lips, though, why would you need an Adria?

CF, want a do-over?

In a rare positive development, I was going through a mountain of review copies and spotted a glimmer of a hint of an encouraging new trend. Call it “let your freak flag fly.” Andrew Carmellini, in telling stories you might actually want to read, gets to not only use “fucking” but use it in boldface and all caps. (Thank you, British bad boys, for teaching us Puritans the S.I. Hayakawa lesson: The word is not the thing.) And Pauline Nguyen is surprisingly genuine in her stories “from the heart” and from her restaurant, the Red Lantern in Sydney. Ma and Pa and other relatives are not warm and fuzzy characters but complicated creatures. I haven’t cooked from either book yet, but as reads they are both a long way from 10 Emerils or 15 Giadas or however the hell many Food Network books are spewing sappily forth. To think snark was once an automatic no-deal. Some very prolific ghost cooks may be coming to the end of the gravy train. 

One down, a hundred to go

I passed a guy at a vegetable stand on First Avenue the other day with this on his back: “Under this shirt I’m not wearing any clothes.” And of course he was, shall we say, less than lean. I had the same reaction as when I see a certain someone festooned in sausages for yet another photo op. Brain bleach, please.

Will there be burgers in heaven?

Looks as if one editor went from the saute pan straight into hellfire, from a forced obsession with Korent to the poor man’s Zagat. But he might have landed on the right level. Even the people’s choice award did not go to Chang. Then again, Bobby Flay rules.

“Refining his classical sensibilities”

On a similar topic, consider the case of the celebrity chef from a beleaguered city who signed on to promote hometown products at a strange event up north. E-cynics may denigrate him, but hey, he is the biggest name going, and he lured me out. What a letdown to experience his alleged magic touch. The redfish was overcooked in bland liquid, redeemed only by chunks of the kind of crab you so rarely come across here. And the “boudin balls” were made with andouille rather than the real deal; the funky flavor came from chicken liver. It was a very long way from Eunice. But at least I learned why the touted product line is turning up even in my neighborhood Food Shitty: The company sold out to Big Food. And the star sold out for a boxed mix. I never understand how chefs can undervalue their reputations for deals like this, even when their beleaguered city benefits, but I guess that’s because I don’t have four restaurants to support me.

Calling Marlon Brando

I was cringing at what the world must think of this circus we have going here, with a Rachael a heartbeat away from the nukular weapons, but then I spotted a photo of the orange one jackassing around Spain and realized we’re already an international laughingstock. I think it was Adam Gopnik who pointed out how Americans traveling in shorts look absurdly like overgrown children, but this guy takes it to the slobbiest ends, with the in-your-face socks and kiddy shoes and the true marker of nationality, the Santa circumference. I know he can’t easily help that, but as essential ambassador for this food world, could he at least dress for respect? I can only assume the Spaniards had good gag reflexes. Those nekkid calves would be enough to put a whole country off its chorizo.

Tapdancing on butcher block

But I guess I shouldn’t pick on him just for doing what comes unnaturally these days. It boggles my little mind that the profession of chef has been so degraded since the days of Soltner, but this is a country where money talks and bullshit walks. You gotta have a gimmick in flaming color. Exhibit A for the 5,000th time: A magazine promo for a casino event where “celebrated chefs perform live.” Personally, I would pay cash money to see Escoffier and Careme cook dead.

Andouille doughnuts

Speaking of cookbooks, can anyone seriously believe Emeril has 10 more in him? All these guys just churn through the cliches, but 10 more times? The Frugal Gourmet was not that prolific even as he was cashing in with both wandering hands. The other question for which I have no answer is one asked by my consort, as we looked at the thin little piece on the saintly new burger stand: “What’s the big deal?” The only astonishment is that it doesn’t have a cookbook in the works.

There is no bum territory

Did I really hear a reporter on NPR say he could detect “the smell of pralines baking” in New Orleans? Is a Scotch maker really trying to market a $350 bottle in this economic climate? Is a famous and presumably wealthy chef really reduced to making desk calls to promote his new line of cookware, going office to office like an Avon lady? Jeebus. I guess there are worse fates than a Meatpacking gig.