God, you guys--don't get me wrong, I do love him. I love his show. The travel porn, and the food porn, all together, with fun local people... the fact that the fucker gets to have almost exactly the life I want... the fact that he spoke truth to hairstyle (that is, in calling Jim Jarmusch's films tedious and pretentious, which really needed to be said)... the humour... the behind the scenes look at the chefs du cuisine, and the impossibly hard work they do, and the respect he shows for that...
And I love the real people that he finds, who show him around kindly, with a big, hearty Argentinian/Greek/French/Island/whatever it is this week Welcome.
But damn it: sometimes the whole "Down with the Common Man" thing seems to be his way of working out a balance for his otherwise insufferable Ivy League SMUGNESS! (I know, he dropped out after two years at Vassar--is Vassar actually one of the Ivies, or just a fellow traveler?--before succeeding very well at the Culinary Institute of America.)
What set me off was this comment by him (I've tried doing an impression of it, but I always end up sounding like William Shatner): a lady on one of his shows asked him, "did you really eat the still-beating heart of a cobra?" He answered, in the same sort of "I'm far too important for this" accent with which he delivers more "plainly"s, "clearly"s, "obviously"s and "post-ironic"s than the average Lexus commercial, on his shows: "(sigh) Someone always asks this--yes, but--"
--get ready--
"--if you're gonna call yourself a gourmet, you have to do that."
Really? You really have to eat the still-beating heart of a cobra, in order to consider yourself a gourmet?
I love Andrew Zimmern. But if I achieve my dream, get a travel show, and become the west-coast public school, San Francisco inferiority complex foil to Anthony Bourdain's east-coast Ivy League Smirk Factory New Yorker's superiority complex, my motto will be: "No Blood, No Brains, No Insects, No Offal." I mean, I've had a few things like the minced liver sauce in San Gimignano, or a pate in the Dordogne, that I liked. But for the most part, I just don't like funky, gamey meat. I apologize. I'm disqualified, then? Shame. And I've tasted my own blood, when I've pricked my finger; I don't particularly like it. You're telling me, "oh, but you must taste cobra blood, or you're plainly no gourmet. And it must be from the still-beating heart of the beast, Dances with Wolves. No TV show for you." Honestly? Having tasted one kind of fresh blood, I must really sample all of it, before deciding it's just simply not a taste I'd like to acquire?
I understand acquiring tastes. I've had frog's legs, and liked them; my father, who loved escargots more than anything, passed this love on to me. I don't need to remain within my comfort zone at all times, and I'm able to push myself. But what is this brains and insects stuff? Part of the joy of savouring fine meals, for me, is the aesthetic presentation of it. I associate insects with the cold, robotic, vicious, adversarial killing machines which their brains and instincts direct them to become, and the insidious nature that their small size confers upon them, when they encounter human beings. My mind associates insects with disease agents, at best, and surprising, painful attacks from out of nowhere, at worst. Their physical appearance is that of a monster from a hair-raising horror movie. I don't want to eat them. I'm supposed to consider this an experience of memorable, plush, fine dining?
This doesn't argue that all food should be comfort food. Fine dining is about exploration. But we have our likes and dislikes, in some cases. Campari tastes like ear wax, and that's that. Rabbit just tastes too funky. I love goose-breast. I just don't like duck quite as much. I prefer the white meat of the chicken to the dark meat. Well?
I used to have an aversion to Chinese food (to be honest, it was because a lot of the shredded vegetables reminded me of insects). As a child, I ate about six things: hamburgers, french fries, pizza, carrots, raw spinach, and Monte Cristo crepes from the Magic Pan. Typical (half-)Englishman, suspicious of "foreign food." I remember a Vietnamese co-worker asking, "do you eat Chinese food?" When I answered that I liked lemon chicken and eggrolls, he replied: "that's not even Chinese food! (Villagejonesy), I think you are All American Home-Boy." (Shame)
So, sure, I had a way to go, back then. I did need to explore, and explore I did. Now, I'm happy to say that there's not a single vegetable in the world that I disdain, except eggplant (still too bitter for me). My Chinese repertoire has expanded dramatically since then. I try things. And I appreciate it if Mr. Bourdain is saying "you have to try all sorts of different things, to consider yourself a gourmet." Sure, I agree with that.
But the still-beating heart of a cobra? Or else you're to be smugly dismissed as "not able to call yourself a gourmet"? And I'm surely not allowed, then, to speak the plain truth about something as basic as rabbit, or pork with MSG: that they simply Taste. Funky?
Well I suppose I could hold my tongue, even though the thing I taste with is the same thing I speak with, and it would cry out for freedom to voice its outrage.
But okay, Mr. Bourdain: serve me up the stupid still-beating cobra heart. If that's the challenge, then all right, I'll take it. But if you make me eat a side of calf brains and three-inch live cockroaches and maggots with it, you'd BETTER have a nice 5-puttonyos dessert wine and a creme anglaise with cinnamon for me to finish off with, if not a bottle of 2005 Griotte-Chambertin.
All right, I can't hate the guy. The word "hate" is in lower case in the title of the diary for good reason. I don't want to hate ANYONE, anyway. And I really do like his show, and so many things about him. I am sure he's a good person.
But God--the smugness. The superciliousness. The superiority complex. The rush to add "post-ironic" to his script, so we'll know he gets it and isn't impressed by anything. Stop it! Be impressed. Be equal to your audience, instead of above us all. We'll still watch.