Not Approved By Paula Deen

Pretty

Thanks to Naomi and Rachel (and Facebook), I discovered an available ticket to the Anthony Bourdain/Eric Ripert show at The Paramount (Feb 11, 2012). I didn’t know what to expect, but when Mr. Bourdain and Monsier Ripert came out onstage, my first immediate thought was, ‘Okay, these are my kind of rock stars.’

Sure, I love some actual rock stars (Peter Frampton! The Bee Gees!), but I don’t watch MTV — I’m too old/fat/smart for that shit. Instead, I watch food shows. I read food blogs and follow food tweeters and buy baking books and swap recipes. FOOD is the music I listen to the most, the art I most admire. Food is my drug, for better or worse. Worse, if you’ve seen my ass lately, I mean Jesus.

Pretty expensive

Anthony Bourdain walks a thin line between relaxed and intense. He swears with the greatest of ease and hams it up for the audience on-stage. Eric Ripert, with his decadent French accent and dignified air, was half-dragged, half-teased through most of it. They made a pretty good team: one would lob a high ball, the other one would hit it. I enjoyed the first half a lot; the format really worked. They interviewed each other — well, interrogated would be more accurate — and shared a good rapport. You could tell they were real friends. And I only understood every fourth word out of Chef Ripert’s mouth, but that didn’t matter. He’s pretty.

My favorite question from the audience was, “So how shit-faced were you in the San Francisco episode?” I came home and watched it right away, and yeah, he was pretty fucked. It was good for a laugh. And I loved the Paramount show, too, despite having sold all my blood to afford the damn thing.

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