Yesterday I postponed my discussion of Top Chef Masters because of the Royal Wedding.
All right, I admit it. This morning, despite my avowed disapproval, I watched the very end of the ceremony as I ate my breakfast of organic super-yogurt, chia seeds, Hunza raisins, and home-made cherry/blueberry preserves. Normally I would have spent this quality time reading the NYTimes online, but I am currently suffering agonies over whether or not to pay their monthly subscription. While my indecision festers, I am without my usual breakfast diversions.
Anyway, who can resist a rousing chorus of Jerusalem? Not me! And didn't Kate look lovely? Sir was quite taken by her dress. Humming God Save the Queen, we departed for work feeling that there was still hope for love in this crazy old world.
But I am obliged to comment on Top Chef Masters because this week's thrilling episode touched on two hot topics that are near and dear to my gluten and lactose-free heart: artisanal cheese and weight loss. While I don't suppose these things are usually considered in the same breath (except as mutually exclusive items) I am obsessed with both at the moment, as loyal readers are well aware. The other event requiring examination is the departure of my dear, sweet, heroical Suvir, who behaved in a way that I found understandable but unforgivable, having myself been both the victim and perpetrator of his crime.
What was this sin, you may ask?
Preaching to others about what's good for 'em.
But first things first. The cheesy quickfire was awesome, if only because we got to meet Norbert, a bow-tied and bespectacled evangelist from The Beverly Hills Cheese Store, which is apparently a shrine for fromage-lovers of all shapes and sizes (a quick look at the establishment's website reveals details of the highly-coveted American Artisanal Treasure Awards, which I shall be seeking in a number of categories in due course). Norbert was the geekiest, dweebiest, most outrageous character to grace my TV screen in some time and I dearly hope he gets his own show soon. And boy, does he get excited about cheese!
The chefs were tasked with creating Norbert-pleasing cheese dishes in twelve minutes flat and did a pretty good job, too. Of course, I am a total cheese snob now and can speak so knowledgeably of rinds, affinage, cultures, and butterfat content that I viewed the challenge with the sort of discernment only two weeks' worth of cheese expertise can engender. Of particular interest to me were Celina's Manchego with crispy carrots. figs, golden raisins, and sherry; Naomi's Chaumes with apples, skirt steak, onions, and balsamico; and Traci's Columbier with prosciutto and arugula. I had more or less decided that these three cheeses were the ones I needed to fabricate in my own kitchen without delay, but was brought up short when I looked up their recipes in my Cheese Tome (get it? tome? tome? never mind). Tragically, Manchego is made from sheep's milk, which is unavailable to me locally. Columbier is made from raw goat's milk, ditto (although I would dearly love to keep some Nubians in the back yard, there is a local ordinance against it). That leaves Chaumes, a washed-rind cow's milk cheese that we used to eat by the pound when France was on our doorstep. My tome tome does not contain a recipe for this orange-skinned wonder, but a washed-rind cheese is now definitely on the List of Things I Need to Make. I shall brew up some Reblochon instead and be content (but not this weekend: this is Wensleydale weekend, as per Sir's special request).
As if to punish the viewers for worshipping all those fat calories, the quickfire was followed by a weight-loss challenge, where our gladiators were required to slim down horrifically-laden plates of corned beef, cheeseburgers, meatball sandwiches, and something called a 'Chinese buffet' for contestants on Biggest Loser (another one of those cross-schedule promotions for which Bravo is justifiably famous). The guest judge was BL's preserved-in-vinyl host, accompanied by two fitness trainers who looked like an escaped Vegas lounge act.
After the usual stunned consternation at being faced with the sort of food than normal Americans supposedly eat every day (Unibrow commented that he could feed his entire family for a week on just one of the plates set before him), the chefs got down to it and produced some tasty-looking substitutes that pleased their customers no end.
Except for Suvir. Oh, Suvir, whatever were you thinking? Tasked with creating some sort of healthy alternative for a lover of bacon cheeseburgers, my guy completely lost his grip. He decided that by presenting his client with any sort of beef he was pronouncing her death sentence and instead went totally off the rails with a hare-brained scheme to convert her to veggie-burgers. 'It's about changing the paradigm!' he proclaimed as everybody else looked on in disbelief. 'She may not enjoy it,' he continued, 'but there's a statement to be made.'
Yikes.
I knew he was doomed even before he got up onto his soap box and went on and on and on about how beef was killing more Americans than any other fatalistical agent this side of a Black Death epidemic and how it was his responsibility - nay, his duty! - to bring The Message to all heathens unfortunate enough to be within earshot. It was a cringe-making performance that succeeded only in shaming his poor Loser to red faced embarrassment (although she recovered sufficiently to steal Unibrow's beef portions from her table-mates' plates) and irritating his fellow cheftestants no end.
Now I know something about what it feels like to be told what to eat. I also know that one's first instinct at being preached to by Those in the Know is to stick one's fingers in one's ears and start humming Jerusalem. But I also know what it feels like, as a proselyte, to see others crazily ignoring what (in one's own mind, anyway) is sheer common sense. Was it only last October that I vowed I wouldn't jump onto the natural foods bandwagon just because I couldn't eat cake anymore? Now I can barely contain myself when I stand in supermarket lines behind people loading up the conveyor belt with hormone-filled chicken breasts (Those chickens were quartered in China, you know!) and huge bags of frozen shrimp (Their aquaculture is destroying the oceans and they are full of chemicals!) and ice cream barely worth the name (I know it's only fifty cents a gallon - but it's disgusting!) All I want to do is escort these lost souls personally to the produce section and organic aisles to show them the light - or at least what real food looks like.
Luckily common sense, a certain sense of decorum and, I admit it, timidity usually prevail - although I did once warn an unwary shopper about the perils of gluten-free pancake mix, a testament for which she expressed seemingly joyous gratitude.
I would not like to turn into a Suvir, all self-importance and scolding 'I know what's good for you better than you do' - and that is always a danger with a new convert.
I'd rather be a prophet of blooming cheese than a prophet of unceasing doom.
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