Chop You, Scott Conant!

Is anyone else getting tired of the “mean” judges on reality TV? Alright, I know, it’s reality TV, in and of itself a tiring but unfortunately inescapable part of life. Deconstructing all of its evils would be as useful as undertaking a literary criticism of Dan Brown or Ken Follet. Like anything the first time around, Simon Cowell’s brash, rude and painfully honest critiques on shows like American Idol used to be funny. Back in 2002. After all, people are morbidly fascinated with other people getting put down on national television—why else would Jerry Springer have become famous in the 90s?

Even over in Spain, where I lived for a decade, they have a version of Cowell on Operacion Triunfo, a sort of “Spanish Idol”. His name is Risto Mejide, called “Risto” as if Madonna or Cher. Always decked out in a leather jacket and big, designer, lightly tinted shades, his fights with the host and his tantrums on set are so pathetically planned and scripted that it's embarrassing to watch. He once told this poor, sweet, young (and pretty) girl that she had the most boring face he had ever seen. Is that really necessary? Simon Cowell is often funny because he hits the nail on the head with why a person's singing sucks…Risto is just a dick. Anyway I digress…back to America.

As we know, nowadays even quirky, random YouTube videos are eventually brought to the mainstream and beaten like a dead horse until there is nothing new or refreshing about anything, and Cowell, as with anything else, has become a product meant to be replicated…a string of pathetic, wannabe “bad ass” judges have followed in his wake. Enter Scott Conant.

Admittedly I only watched a recent episode of The Food Network’s Chopped for one reason: one of the chefs, Hannah Hopkins, is from Dish, my favorite local restaurant—a slice of funky Brooklyn in my one horse town. Everything from the mouth watering menu to the ever-changing local art adorning the walls, the dark mood lighting and the half price wine Wednesdays make Dish a divine dining pleasure. So when I read that Hannah would be on Chopped, I looked forward to her winning with ease.

The show, hosted by an apologetic Ted Allen, challenges four chefs (in this case Hannah, two cocky American men and one older French chef) to make a starter, main dish and dessert using a basket of random ingredients (a chicken liver, raspberries and asparagus, for example). With each round, the judges pick apart the dish, pointing out merits and mistakes, and remarking on how creative it is before axing one of the contestants. During round two on this particular episode, the chefs were charged with making a pasta dish with mackerel. This is where Scott Conant really became the raging a-hole he is. The chefs, racing against the clock to create the dish, all committed the deadly sin of undercooking their pasta.

Conant immediately began twitching in annoyance, as if having some kind of epileptic fit or allergic reaction. “Is this a joke?” he barked several times, muttering about how it “pissed him off.” He proceeded to humiliate and yell at the chefs, who stood with hanging heads and flushed faces as if in the principal’s office at school. When Chef Hannah was "chopped" in the second round, she left the show teary and defeated. My question is, why is this necessary? Are these chefs in boot camp with the U.S. Marines? Do the judges have a right to rip contestants to shreds and make them feel like complete shit just to feed their own bloated egos? As I angrily Googled Scott Conant later, I saw blogs and news feeds alike dedicated to his “cantankerous” rants. One was because a chef decided to include raw onions in his salad, something Conant apparently hates (the chefs not only have to throw together a meal with bizarre ingredients in limited time, but also have to read his mind as to his likes and dislikes). Another was because a chef had dared to serve string cheese and celery whole.

All I have to say is what a fah-reiking Divo. Anyway, I know today’s blog post is a personal one…not many of my (five) readers will have been to Dish or care about Conant’s treatment of one of my favorite chefs. But I'm sure you can commiserate on these cookie cutter judges that really need to get a hold of their rampant self-importance—or any such ego maniac (a few of my university professors were just as bad!). There is a difference between knowing your stuff and giving constructive criticism to push people and make them be better at what they do—and just being an annoying, bitchy, fartbag.

P.S. Despite my hatred for him, I plan to go to Scott Conant's restaurant on West 14th street, Scarpetta, to see if all of his hauteur is warranted and to make sure his pasta is fully cooked. If it is as good as the reviews say, maybe I’ll forgive him and become a flagrant hypocrite by raving about him in my next post.