C'est la guerre!
Restaurant Wars, that most anticipated of Top Chef episodes, did not this week disappoint prurient viewers eager for the traditional bloodlettings, recriminations, throwings-under-the-bus, inedible experimental dishes, and general brouhaha that we have all come to know and love so well. It was a fabulous implosion that had Moleskine II and me hooting with joy.
While I'm thinking of it, may I just point out that Marcel's self-styled reverse amuse, which he defined as a 'sweet treat at the end of the meal' is usually called a petit four in polite company? Just sayin'.
After Blais demonstrated the correct way to eat a banana for breakfast (smeared with Nutella, unless my eyes deceived me) it was off to Le Bernardin for some fish butchering lessons with the great Justo Thomas, slicer and dicer to the stars. I'd read about this guy in Bourdain's Medium Raw (the chapter devoted to his awesome talent is my favorite in the book, as it happens) and it was extremely gratifying to see our usually pompous cheftestants gobsmacked into respectful silence (except for Fabio who, overcome by emotion at the beauty of the skills on display, started sniffling softly). Unsurprisingly, none of our competitors was able to match Justo's prowess, although I was displeased to see that the women were even more inept than the men. Ladies - you disappointed me!
Once it was determined that Marcel would be captain of one of the pop-up restaurant teams, the conclusion was foregone, I'm afraid. Was there any disastrous decision or choice that he failed to make? Moleskine II and I watched from the security of our armchair as he belittled his staff; squirted foams on anything that wasn't moving; ignored the needs and wishes of his patrons; and panicked unedifyingly in the face of danger. The Heimlich Maneuver himself was moved to comment on Marcel's 'weird energy' (an unusual editorial comment on personality rather than food) and I myself was prompted to speak sternly to the TV after Astro-Boy interjected 'like' into an otherwise blameless sentence for, like, the four millionth time.
His lack of eloquence alone justified his auf'ing, in my opinion. But then, I have a pet peeve about weasel words.
As the catastrophe unfolded and disgruntled diners started sending their food back to the kitchen, however, I began to ponder the bravery of doing so. I have only refused food in a restaurant once in my entire life: a stone-cold gratin of some kind (seafood, maybe?) that had clearly never made it into the oven and whose consumption could well have spelt death or worse. But that was years and years ago and I have not behaved so boldly since.
This is not because I have never been served a bad meal in a restaurant, pop-up or otherwise. Sadly, restaurant food that isn't quite up to snuff is not infrequently to be found my neck of the woods. Two plates stick firmly in my mind because they were relatively recent occurrences in very expensive, well-regarded local establishments: in one case, sauteed scallops with beurre blanc had been sitting under the heat lamp [shudder] for so long that the sauce had started to separate and form an undeniable skin on top. In the second instance, lobster risotto was served with half a tail as garnish: the poor lobster who had donated said appendage was clearly dead long before his tail was harvested and dumped unceremonously into the restaurant warehouse freezer from whence it was retrieved some months (if not years) later by Chef. It had, to put it mildly, a bit of a pong.
Why didn't I send these dishes back? Because in both cases, I honestly wondered if there was any point. At least three different people must have touched those plates between line and table and not one individual noticed how godawful they were, the only possible explanation being that they didn't know how to do their jobs. Frankly, I didn't feel like I was the one to educate them. To the risotto restaurant's credit, the manager did ask why I had left my dinner uneaten - but I had to wonder what olfactory malfuction or culinary obtuseness made the question necessary. At any rate, frozen lobster tails ('off' or not) in a so-called fine dining establishment are inexcusable in the first place. If the chef didn't know that, there was no hope for him.
And that is why, even if Marcel sent me a plate covered in three different kinds of foam spelling out the word like in ridiculous calligraphy, I wouldn't send it back. It just wouldn't be worth it.
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