I was going to write this up last night, but then I went to a party that I’d only intended to stay at for an hour or two and ended up getting home at 3:30. AND I had like a whole beer and a half, so you know I was in no shape to do anything. When we walked in the front door, we were violently assaulted by the smell of garlic. You’d think we’d have been used to the smell, which had been slowly seeping from our pores all evening and is probably embedded in our neighbors’ godawful sofa*, but nothing prepares you for walking into a house in which someone has cooked chicken with 50 cloves of garlic earlier in the day.
That’s right, 50 cloves. TAKE THAT, FRENCH PEOPLE. Here in the gold ol’ U.S of A, the dial goes up to 50.
*They know their sofa is terrible, so maybe this will be incentive for them to finally ditch it.
I think I might have a girlcrush on Charlie Palmer, because his Practical Guide to the New American Kitchen can do no wrong. Every recipe I’ve tried has been delicious and the book is washable, so there’s that. Plus? Scallops wrapped in bacon, creamy paprika-spiked mascarpone* polenta and the most delicious roasted, wine-soaked red peppers the world has ever seen.
*Or, as they say on Top Chef, “marscapone.”
If Bourdain were guest judging and said some shit like “It’s the bland leading the bland,” it would intensify my already-overwhelming desire to stab him in the eye with my fork. When new guest judge Toby Young says it, I want to invite him over for dinner to talk about how much we’d like to stab Tony Bourdain in the eye with our forks. Go figure.
Off we go!
What do I have that’s worth living for? Top Chef, that’s what. Well, that and whole wheat-and-nutella sandwiches. So see you tomorrow night, suckers.
You think you can get out of First Thursday because it falls on a holiday and you’re all hungover? WRONG. For it has already been officially pushed to next Thursday. The theme: challenge yourself. The rules: here, as always. Now drink some water, take some aspirin and get your shit together.