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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.
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
