I don't think I'm a foodie, though. Foodies talk about how salt makes other flavors pop and they discuss the mouth-feel of a dish. I laugh because I'm still 13.
Also, foodies are generally thin people who nibble at tapas and own truffle oil.
Foodies don't go to Del Taco after drinking for eight hours, order a burrito and two Big Fat Steak Tacos with a large Sprite—so they can dump Johnny Walker Red in that Sprite when they get home—and not realize they ordered a MACHO instead of a regular burrito until they've finished it all and can feel the fuse on a gastrointestinal event start to slowly burn.
So I'm not a foodie, but this did remind me of something I wrote about three years ago for my old, deceased website. Enjoy.
Originally posted on The Man Diary July 28, 2008. Posted here with slight alterations to enhance fit in the penis area.
Iron Chef: College Edition
Fuck baseball, eating is our new national pastime.
For that reason alone, the Food Network was a great idea. In America, a culture where we use words like "mouthgasm" to describe eating, that shit should dominate the rating. And, unlike most of its cable competitors, it has entertaining programming.
Especially Iron Chef America. It's awesome television. I like how epic they try to make it all seem. It’s like American Gladiators meets Sunday dinner.
But my mom never made half the stuff those bastards try. Maybe it’s because they have to use all those weird-ass secret ingredients, and my mom stuck with love and saturated fat. I watched a battle—they actually call it a battle, like William Wallace is going to appear and cut a fucking frozen turkey in half with his huge sword—where the secret ingredient was goat. After all the buildup from the chairman—what’s that all about, does he have the authority to penalize cucumbers for tasting like shit?—what a huge disappointment to see goat waiting under all that smoke.
Who the wants to eat goat? Nobody. But, do you know who eats goat? Dirt-poor people eat goat. And on this episode, the Iron Chef and his food combatant were trying to make this animal—a creature that spends its life eating aluminum cans—seem upscale. Goat tartare, curry goat, goat fuck. The worst was the goat yogurt. That sounds tasty—
“Where ya been, Honey?”
“Just getting us some goat yogurt.”
“Well, wash your hands, and don't miss that spot on your face.”
Yeah, it's gross. I know.
If they have goat as a secret ingredient, what’s next? Today’s secret ingredient—and the chairman is always so goddamn animated when he unveils that shit—is dirt. Or old ABBA 45s. Or jock straps. Animal ejaculate. And if you’ve never watched the show, they make ice cream out of everything—salmon, curry, goat yogurt, it doesn’t matter. No one goes into Coldstone just hoping for three scoops of Rocky Mountain oyster with toffee and extra nuts.
The judges eat this bullshit up, too. Bullshit isn’t used literally, here, like, “Oh this seared bovine feces, garnished with capers, was a little overcooked.” But as a way of explaining how I think many of the dishes might taste.
In the end, it doesn’t really matter what happens in the judging. There’s no penalty for the Iron Chef if he loses to the fry cook at the Spokane McDonald’s. No matter how shitty he does, they’re never going to take away Mario Batali’s signature Iron Chef Crocs. And if the challenger wins, they usually just shake hands or bow—no WWF-style crotch shaking, or yelling, “Bobby Flay, tell me how my ass tastes. Does it need more coriander?” Boring.
The lack of excessive celebration bothers me, but it'll be the lack of quality secret ingredients that finally kills the show. Since they’re obviously running out of stuff for these guys to make ice cream out of, they should switch it up and do Iron Chef: Stoned College Student.
It would go something like this:
(Two potheads stubble out into kitchen stadium. Cue lights, fog, epic music. One student wears a “Save Darfur T-shirt” and the other one is in a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon shirt with bleach spots. Both are wearing cargo shorts. The same chairman guy would be standing on the stage.)
Chairman: (Doing his arm-waving shtick. Eats a handful of Nacho Cheesier Doritos) “Today’s secret ingredient (pauses, more elaborate hand motions) Hot Pockets.” (More Doritos) "Allez cuisine!"
(NOTE: Other times it would be $1 frozen pizzas, granola bars, ramen noodles, Funyuns or corn dogs.)
(The visibly stoned contestants grab armloads of the secret ingredient and haul it back to their stations where some of their buddies are shotgunning Olympia beer.)
Alton Brown: “It should be an interesting battle today with a cornicopia of flavors from the frozen delicacies at the disposal of our chefs. The contrasting styles of our competitors should create some excitement, as well. Jimmy from the fourth floor at the University of Arizona's dorms likes to work more with sauces, while Kimball from the green house on Oak Street near the University of Oregon’s campus lets the flavors speak for themselves. Let’s send it down to the floor to Kevin Brauch.”
(Kevin stands in front of Jimmy, who is fumbling to get a ham and cheese Hot Pocket out of the package.)
Kevin: “Thanks Alton. As you may or may not know, our chefs have a variety of tools to make their inspired dishes. For those of you who’ve never watched the show, our stoned chefs have a microwave, toaster oven, George Forman grill, propane camp stove, a blender and two bongs – one for beer, and the other for, well ... – to help them craft their elaborate dishes.”
(Cut to shot of each item, with stoner sous chefs using the huge bong.)
(Kimball is putting a Hot Pocket into the crisping sleeve.)
Alton: “Kevin, it looks like Kimball is using a pretty widely used cooking method, putting that Pocket into the crisping sleeve and placing it in the microwave. What kind was that?”
(Kevin on the stadium floor, exhales a puff of smoke.)
Kevin: (Coughs) “I believe it was a Philly cheese steak Hot Pocket, Alton.”
Alton: “Thanks, Kevin.”
I think you get the idea about that part, so let's skip to the end, which would go something like this:
(Contestants hurriedly plate a variety of Hot Pocket dishes. Some with ketchup on them, some sliced weird, etc.)
Alton: “Time’s up. Put your dishes down. And now, we’ll go to the judging.”
(Well-dressed judges would sit at the table. There would have to be the fat guy with the glasses that has a face like an English bulldog, the younger guy with the glasses and some woman from some culinary magazine no one’s ever heard of. They all definitely aren’t stoned.)
Chairman: “Chef Jimmy, what was your inspiration for these dishes?”
Jimmy: “I don’t know, man. I just kind of got the munchies and wanted to combine some of the flavors and textures, or some shit like that. So, like, I guess, it’s just a contemporary take on the human condition, man. Like how we’re just all sort of combinations of a bunch of stuff covered in some random shit. You know?”
Chairman: “Not at all. But thank you, chef.”
(Jimmy puts out a plate with a Hot Pocket in the crisping sleeve, with some ketchup pooled around it in the shape of a smiley face.)
Jimmy: “So this first dish is called Hot Pocket tartar with a ketchup garnish.”
Fat toad judge: (Finishes the struggle he has chewing his food.) “This Hot Pocket is undercooked. Frozen even. What’s the purpose of that? You can’t even effectively eat the damn thing.”
Jimmy: “It’s tartar. And Doug kind of took a nap and forgot to put them in the toaster oven.”
(Chef Jimmy brings out two other dishes. The first is a chicken and broccoli Hot Pocket floating in some spoiled milk with Funyuns as a garnish. The second is the dessert course, which is a ham and cheese Hot Pocket on a bed of Cocoa Puffs with chocolate syrup drizzled over it. The judges aren’t stoned enough to think any of these things were a good idea.)
Chairman: “Thank you chef for your … interesting dishes.”
(Chef Kimball approaches the table.)
Chairman: “Chef, what was the inspiration for your dishes?”
Kimball: “I like it simple, man. I’m like a simple man. A simple kinda man. Skynyrd! So, I guess, I focused on cooking all the Hot Pockets so people could eat them, man. That’s really about it.”
Chairman: “Thanks. You can present the first dish.”
(Chef Kimball brings out his three dishes. The first is a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket in a shallow dish that is semi-filled with beer—the crushed can is left as a garnish. The second dish is called brunch and has a bacon and egg Hot Pocket smashed together with a beef taco Pocket. They were cooked in the George Forman Grill. The last dish is half-eaten jalapeno steak and cheese Hot Pocket with a couple of Kit Kats melted on top. The judges are disgusted and make comments about this filth being below their culinary expertise.)
Chairman: “Thank you chefs for your wonderful creations. (Chefs pass joint back and forth while chairman speaks.) It was a tough decision, mainly because the judges refused to give points for almost all of the dishes you both prepared. So, in one of the closest contests in the history of kitchen stadium, Chef Kimball’s cuisine reigned supreme.”
(Lights flash as Kimball pulls his pants down and points at his ass.)
Alton: “That’s ecstasy and elation for Chef Kimball, who pulled out the victory by half a point, 1 to .5. (Kevin is clawing his way up Alton’s perch.) And depression and defeat for Chef Jimmy. So for—"
Kevin: (interrupting, and obviously baked out of his mind, with bloodshot eyes) “Did you say something about ecstasy, because that would be—"
(Alton shoves him back down)
Alton: “So for our judges, who appear to be throwing up in the corner, and our chairman, I’m Alton Brown saying, are you going to pass that shit, or will I have to regulate on a mothafucka?”
(Credits roll over judges puking.)
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