Like any American chef (current or former), I've had a love/hate relationship with France for a long time. Before I knew enough to know better, I hated the country for producing some of the white-toqued, chain-smoking, red-faced bastards who trained me -- guys who bigfooted their way through the kitchen, who thought the appropriate punishment for almost any transgression was a hot spatula across the back of the hand or neck. I hated the fuckers for their snobbery, for their presumption of infallibility. And I hated their food because it was just so...right.
Coming up in this week's Cafe review: bad service, worse snails and some wrong-headed inspiration. A series of unfortunate experiences at Brasserie Ten Ten lead me to question not only my tastes and my choice in careers, but my faith in both God and French cuisine.
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All this, plus my usual ranting and raving, a mean joke told at the expense of those suffering from Parkinson's Disease and news about what's going to be done with MTV's Real World house. Here's a hint: It's not being made into a cultural museum. -- Jason Sheehan