Topped Chef(16)
Chef Adam leaned forward, fingers knotted together. “So then, you are essentially repeating Grandmother’s repertoire. But wouldn’t you imagine that shrimp and grits might be found on fifty percent of the menus in America—at least in the southern half of the country? How would you stand out as the host of Topped Chef? And how would your propensity toward fattening foods fit in with a world struggling with a full-blown obesity epidemic?” He sat back, looking satisfied.
By now I wished I couldn’t see the monitor at all. I’d heard that the camera added ten pounds—on me it looked closer to twenty. And the slight time delay had the effect of repeating everything twice, making me feel as though I were moving in slow motion. Underwater. Bad enough to go through all this once.
Randy’s face paled and he stumbled through an explanation of how he took solid cooking as his baseline and tweaked it with local flavors. “I’m not afraid of a deep-fat fryer,” he insisted.
“Bravo,” said Toby. “The restraint should come from the diner, not the chef.”
“Fascinating stuff,” said Peter Shapiro, “but we must move on to our second contestant.” He hustled Randy out of the spotlight and had him sit on a high stool at the far end of the porch.
“Now, judges, what do you think about Randy’s prospects?” he asked us.
No one said anything.
“You want us to talk about him now?” Toby asked, her pale eyebrows knitting together as she frowned. “Right here where everyone can hear us, including him?”
“That’s the whole idea,” Peter said. “It’s reality television. No conflict, no ratings.” He backed away, smiling a little stiffly, and signaled for us to continue the discussion.
More silence. We kept our eyes on the table, and squirmed in our seats. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I had to say something.
“He clearly loves food,” I said. “Seems like he’d be able to connect with home cooks. That’s why my mom is nuts about Rachael Ray. Mom could sauté circles around her and yet she loves watching Rachael’s show. She has a certain warmth that she’s able to telegraph to her viewers. She makes us feel like we’re friends at the table in her kitchen. I sense a similar possibility with Randy. I think his personality would really shine if he wasn’t quite so nervous. His jitters would get worked out with a little more practice. And I’d love to meet his grandmother.”
Chef Adam groaned. “You want to invite his granny? Sure death to our ratings. And don’t we have enough low-brow shows on the air?” he asked. “If I want something fried, I’ll go to the diner downtown, or even”—he shuddered—“a fast-food restaurant. How would this be different from what’s out there already?”
“He’s a man,” Toby offered. “Maybe he’d appeal to gentlemen viewers?”
Through the glass doors into the kitchen, I could see that Peter Shapiro and Deena had begun to argue in heated whispers. He thrust his clipboard at her and strode back out onto the porch.
“Cut!” Peter swept his glasses off and clasped his free hand over his eyes. After heaving a great sigh, he replaced the glasses and then dropped his hands to his sides. “People, you have to speak your minds more bluntly here. This is reality television, not an edited sound bite on public radio. Viewers have the attention spans of gnats. You’re losing them. You’re losing me. You’re flat, you’re forced, you’re stiff.” He wiggled his shoulders. “Let’s loosen up, shall we?”
Chef Adam’s face reddened and I imagined he was thinking what I was thinking: I quit.
“Honestly, Mr. Shapiro,” said Toby, “it’s hard to concentrate after getting that news about Mr. Rizzoli. It makes all this feel”—she gestured at the cameras, her lips trembling as she searched for the right words—“rather inconsequential.”
Shapiro forced a smile but his voice softened. “Understood. We are all in shock over the news. But again, I must ask you to think about these young chefs. They have big dreams. Are you willing to quit on them because of this tragedy? I think not. You are our experts, handpicked. We brought you on board because we believe you can help us find the next star. Think outside the food here, people. Can you see the kernel of celebrity in one of our contestants?”
He made eye contact with each of us, his blue eyes intense, then waved forward a thin, tanned man with a long ponytail and settled him in the chair that Randy had vacated. With one hand on the man’s shoulder, Peter turned to address the camera.