I don't watch a lot of TV. While Sir and the Kid Squid sprawl on the sofa in manly postures, enjoying the lissome babes of their crime procedurals and science fiction adventures of choice, I am usually to be found curled up in my favorite toile-upholstered armchair engrossed in my Kindle or - if the boys aren't hogging the broadband connection - streaming a movie on my iPad.
Naturally, I don't count reruns of Lost or Star Trek (Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, or Voyager only, please!) as TV. Each of these noble entertainments, in my humble (but undeniably correct) opinion, qualifies as High Art and is therefore exempt from my customary eschewal of cable fare.
The other exceptions to my rule are the completely fabulous foodie competitions that regularly appear on the estimable Bravo and Food Networks. Food Network offers two shows that I watch with some regularity, Chopped and Next Iron Chef (Next Food Network Star being too tragic for words). Chopped is always diverting, in a 'What would I do if I had to make dinner out of squid entrails, peppermint drops, and sawdust?' sort of way, but the competitors are never around long enough to make much of an impression. Plus, I suspect the food is mostly god-awful: the judges are at pains to say things like, 'I really enjoyed your use of a round plate to enhance the presentation of your banana and larks' tongue ragu', but I think this is only because there is some sort of contractual obligation not to destroy utterly chefs' reputations and careers.
As for Next Iron Chef, I understand Spike Mendelsohn will be in the running this time around. Regrettably, my Moleskine notebook and I just do not have the strength.
My favoritest food fights of all are without doubt the three incarnations of Bravo's Top Chef franchise: Top Chef, Top Chef Masters, and Top Chef Just Desserts. Who can resist Pads, The Shoes, The Heimlich Maneuver, and The Pompadour - not to mention the tantalizing promise of an appearance by the great Bourdain or - be still my beating heart - that silver-haired kitchen god, Eric Ripert? Not me, that's for sure. Every Thursday morning during Top Chef season I get up an hour early (coffee cup and Moleskine placed conveniently nearby) to bask in the glow of the DVR and revel in the gore and glory of our courageous contendors' culinary combat.
Let the boys have their Hawaiian beach bimbos and studly sardonic space scoundrels: I've got all the drama I require.