In continued Top Chef commentary, let us come next to my latest Cooking Crush.
You know what it doesn’t take to be a White House Chef? It doesn’t take being a really nice guy.
Sam has that, “I’m not that nice of a guy, because, fuck you, I’m a chef at the White House and I’m super pissed about the horrible shit we feed children, and you’re not Obama’s chef, and children hate you,” kind of way about him. It’s super hot.
Look how annoyed at you he looks!
So this morning I get a (very thoughtful) email in my inbox from Tony of sinosoul.
The title, like the title of some of my pervier posts, is Chef Crush. In the email is a link to a picture of Chef Erling Wu-Bower, the sous-chef at popular Chicago gastropub, Publican.
“I think that’s your type?” Tony ventured to guess.
Considering I have done Chef Crushes on gay men, married men, old men, and hideous men, I was pret-ty astonished at how right on he was. But how did he know? What is my type?
Perhaps some magical mixture of the following?
a little Don Johnson (pre-Miami Vice):
a little 90s Parisian thug, ala La Haine:
a little ethnic:
a touch ambitious:
I’ve always liked talent:
Oh and I sure do like an accent:
someone who is both essentially and effortlessly cool:
wouldn’t mind if he could carry a tune:
old fashioned:
well-dressed:
real dreamy:
and perhaps most importantly, hilarious:
I could go on, I really could. But that oughtta be a good start for anyone else that wants to send a crush my way. Tony got it right on the first try but not everyone is always so lucky.
As my next cooking crush may I present the one and only Akhtar Nawab, of the former Elattaria restaurant.
Oops. maybe not the one and only.
Should we? Maybe take a? A bath in exotic spices?
Even if sometimes you’re a little fobby?
Yeah. I think we should.
I just read No Reservations and realized that, despite my first impression, I think Anthony Bourdain is actually hilarious and rad and, sort of justifiably obnoxious. Good writer, great storyteller, unabashed and unapologetic beast of a chef. I used to see him on TV and think, who the fuck does this guy think he is?? But after reading the book I feel like, Oh, I get it, he earned his stripes, he’s allowed to behave like that.
And I like that he dresses like this. Still.
And cooks like this. Or at least did.
I almost filed this under cooking crush but I can’t bring myself to be attracted to this in any way, shape or form.
Besides, not only is he married but I could never bring a guy like this home to my dad.
Unless…
A couple of weeks ago, I took a cute boy to one of my favorite Japanese restaurants in LA. Incidentally it’s also one of my favorite vegan restaurants–Shojin, the quiet gem tucked away modestly on the third floor of a somewhat intimidating, very Asian mall downtown.
First of all, Shojin’s menu comes in a binder, if that’s any indication of how many ordering choices you have.
Second of all, while they were at Staples shopping for binders, they clearly stumbled upon these:
which led to a whole lot of this:
I ordered iced tea and my date had ginger ale, which I took a sip of before he even realized the eagle had landed. Make myself comfortable, why don’t I?
As I sat down, I realized that I had lost my new, favorite, gift from my mommy purple scarf somewhere on the sojourn between car and restaurant.
I spent the entire dinner trying to imagine the whereabouts and foresee the fate of most favorite scarf.
I let my date order since the entire menu reads like a series of haikus with pictures. In the spirit of bossing me around, he then stole my camera, set it to macro, and took my pictures for me. I’m taking him with me everywhere, whether he likes it or not.
We had the crispy curry broccoli and tofu served with Shojin ketchup:
good shit yo.
Then we ordered the Shojin Go-Zen, a balanced assortment of traditional Shojin style dishes:
Seitan Pepper Steak:
daily vegetable dishes:
kind of the most majestic tempura I’ve ever seen:
(p.s. maybe I should limit the use of “majestic” to sea creatures?)
Then, because for some reason that wasn’t enough, we ordered The Caterpillar Roll with BBQ Seitan and Avocado:
At this point we were pretty full and I was in not-so-silent mourning over my lost scarf. So…..
Only one thing left to do, really.
Schooled him, naturally. I don’t think he realized what he was getting into when he agreed to play Scrabble with me. Cause why on earth would he have guessed that I secretly played expert Sri Lankan strangers online for months a year during a very slow phase at work?
I’m going to file that under never should have admitted.
Got up to leave the restaurant and guess what I found:
That’s more of a happy ending than any other I can think of that involves an Asian setting and a great date. Oh wait….
Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto. Odd choice, maybe.
But I bet he’s a real tiger.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Chef Marcus Samuelsson, Ladies and Gentleman.
What are you doing to me? With your little sauce brush?
And who, while we’re at it, was in charge of this awkward cooking utensil prop photo shoot?
You’re athletic, too?
Cause it sure looks like you’ve been workin’ out:
What’s your type, boo???
OH.
Yeah, I’m not really feeling you either. But we could be friends. Dinner in Lil’ Ethiopia? No? K.
So on October 27 I got an email from my best buddy Joanna, attempting to coerce me into buying New Moon tickets for almost a month later. I hadn’t seen or read any of the Twilight movies so naturally I pretended I was busy that day.
To which Joanna responded, “You have plans for Friday November 20th?!!! I better schedule something with you now so I can see you! Xx”
I don’t know why I thought I could trick my best friend into thinking I had a life, but she didn’t fall for it. Long story short, come Friday November 20th, Joanna and I were rolling to the Arclight to see a bunch of t(w)een madness.
But before I could watch the movie she had to catch me up over dinner with some friends at BOHO, basically the best option for a decent meal pre-Arclight movie. Except for Hungry Cat. And The Bowery.
Ordered the farro salad:
Market Salad (with watermelon radishes!) and corn:
and for dessert, illegal feelings for these two:
(p.s. if I didn’t know any better, I’d think Jacob was a girl I played volleyball with in high school).
Chef Govind Armstrong. Costa Rican Rasta Dreadlock.
Should we throw on all white linen and take a beach stroll?
Should we slow dance to some Kellz?
Or should we nap in the hammock but accidentally sleep through the night?
Collect seashells? Jump off waterfalls? Make ceviche?
What??? You were asking for it when you named your book this and you know it:
Call me?
Ok, I’ve debated about this one quite a bit. Frankly, I’m not usually attracted the ol’ pale skin/reddish hair color combo, but every time I do a Cooking Crush post, Bobby Flay comes to mind. And each time, I try to push him to the side, but the truth is, questionable thinning hair patterns aside, he deserves more than the back burner. I mean, he is crazy busy (so hot!) with all his majorly successful projects and TV shows, an incredible chef, and he likes it spicy. Me too, Bobby, me too.
Plus he’s an iron chef. And if you were gonna make out with a red-headed iron chef wouldn’t you prefer him
over him?
I know the truth hurts but success is sexy.
Just look how much fun hard work is.
Cleans up nicely:
Sighhhhh. If you weren’t so busy and so married, I’d throwdown with you. And I’d win.