(Disclosure: I watched this episode for 20 minutes and have no idea what happens to Nini.)īut here is where Back to Back Chef transcends the realm of the quotidian and gallops into the realm of the gorgeously surreal: Natalie Portman does seem to care if she can make a vegan carpaccio while standing back to back with a professional chef. Meanwhile, on Top Chef, if Nini fucks up the front of the house, her entire life is ruined. Can Natalie Portman make a vegan carpaccio while standing back-to-back with a professional chef? If she can, that’s cool! If she can’t, who freakin cares? The moment she stops shaving radicchio onto raw coconut, she is Natalie Portman again. There is no actual conflict, just the vague outline of a totally fake conflict both outcomes to the episode are equally pleasing. Here’s why: The stakes are completely nonexistent. This conceit is simple, elegant, and absolutely genius. I’ve never watched these episodes and I never want to.) (The first few episodes of Back to Back Chef do not follow this exact format - instead, Bobby Flay, Daniel Boulud, and Gordon Ramsay teach an “amateur chef” to make something. But there’s a catch! The celebrity and Carla Lalli Music cannot look at each other once while they cook. Carla Lalli Music, Bon Appétit’s food director, who I cannot bear to describe in a single sentence, teaches them how to cook a very elaborate dish in 15 minutes flat. Here is what happens on Back to Back Chef, a show that, I’m sorry to admit, was first served to me via Instagram ad last winter: A celebrity - often startlingly famous - comes to Bon Appétit’s test kitchen. But in the interest of demonstrating respect for my favorite show, I’m going to call it a show. It’s called Back to Back Chef, and it is a perfect show.Ĭalling it a “show” is generous, I suppose, because Back to Back Chef is a series of 12 videos posted on YouTube over the course of a year by Bon Appétit. If you, like me, are an embarrassing person who finds healthy human competition upsetting instead of fun, but who is also eager to find the sort of cathartic brain death experienced by those around you, I have good news for you. The last time I sat in the room while my boyfriend watched the Restaurant Wars episode of Top Chef, I had to lie down for an hour. Suddenly I’m very concerned about Britni and her small son Brando, who is living in his grandmother’s detached garage while Britni desperately vies for the affection of Cob, and whose father perished in a tragic scooter accident off the coast of Ireland. Nothing is more stressful to me than accidentally catching four minutes of The Bachelor. I’m specifically incapable of responding appropriately to reality TV that includes a competitive aspect. (“They” are my friends, who are normal and enjoy normal things.) Unfortunately, I have mostly found reality TV to be a harrowing experience. It’s an escape, they say a way to detach, they say a way to forget your troubles as you bask beneath the blank, chilling stare of Neil Lane, they say. I’ve been told the entire point of reality TV is that it is pleasantly diverting.
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