Have been neglecting my blog, I know, I know. Blame “other issues”.
This is just a quick one on the theme of arty-farty chefs.
Followers of my recent food-focused posts will be aware of my aversion for prima donnas of the kitchen, and the tinge of contempt that creeps in when I contemplate their yuppie foodie patrons, no matter how hard I try to retain that glow of positivity you all know and love so well.
You’ll also be aware of my recent perceptual U-turn on Ramsay, the recent Denton interview being the pivot point. If the guy really was, as I once thought, an obsessive perfectionist with a fiery temperament who just couldn’t stand to have his standards compromised by neglectful or careless kitchen staff, fair enough. I like that sort of commitment to excellence. A lot can be excused in its name.
But Ramsay emerged from Denton’s probing as a boorish, uncouth, dull-witted, misogynistic egotist with a hell of a chip on his shoulder. Worse, the guy is INSECURE (his body language betrays this in his tv shows – the most obvious signal being his hand covering his mouth during one-on-one communications). It’s not his insecurity itself that troubles me. Rather, it’s the realisation that insecurity is what his aggression is all about. He’s a common bully, not a genius chef frustrated by imperfection.
And he’s a money slut, very calculatedly exploiting the car-crash-ogler element out there in the service of marketing himself and sustaining the momentum of the Ramsay juggernaut. Get that, and you feel a little stupid having once swallowed the lure. And resentful at being suckered.
But let’s forget about Ramsay. I’ve assigned him too much blogging time as it is.
My focus here is another ‘celebrity’ chef who, for me, epitomises the absolute worst of kitchen carry-on, and I’m talking arty-farty, not ranting head chef aggro. I refer to Gary Rhodes.
Thankfully, this unbearably fastidious, egotistical, oily-vocalled, gelled-up dandy has only had one free-to-air show in Australia (to my knowledge at least – on ABC a few years back). Can’t remember the title, but it was all dainty-fingered fussily-fashioned teetering conical arrangements at the hub of white plates, encircled with dribblings of sauce like dyed birdshit. Worse were the soft-focus close-ups of morsels glistening moist while phasey ambient music rippled by, evocative of New Age foolery like rebirthing and float tanks, Rhodes cooing redundant observations over the top in tantric tones… food porn, in other words. Eeuw.
Lest I be accused of needless nastiness and negativity in my choice of adjectives to sum up this tosser, check out the following excerpt from his series, Rhodes Across India.
Nice hand action, Gaa. Need I say more?