The first time I saw Bobby Flay in person, he didn’t see me. I was sitting with friends at a table outside a pastry shop in Taormina, Sicily. I looked up from the massive cannolo I was intent on devouring, and there he was in all his flame-haired glory. He was wearing a matching orange polo shirt and strolling hand-in-hand with a lithe blonde who serpentined across the cobblestones from shop window to shop window. I watched him go by, seemingly relaxed and unrecognized by passersby, until the May tourists obstructed my view.
The second time I encountered Bobby Flay, this time, I didn’t see him. (At first, anyway.) It was two years later, and just two months ago, here in New York. I’d walked up an impossibly long staircase and into a room where I was supposed to find the celeb-chef — just as the Food Network producer instructed me, and as the cameras were rolling. Climbing the interminable staircase, I was painfully conscious of the fact that I was trying not to smile too much. The waiting crowd clapped for me, and for Jorge – that’s right, our very own guest columnist and my dear friend, Chef Jorge Fortune. They clapped ardently for two absolute strangers. But they too were just doing what they were told.
Jorge and I were asked to be judges on the popular television series, “Throwdown with Bobby Flay,” in which Flay challenges a cook who is locally renowned for a particular dish. In this case, an arepa — a Venezuelan snack food consisting of a thick cornmeal cake, split open and stuffed with a variety of fillings. Flay’s competitors are always duped into thinking they’re filming some other Food Network show, and then Flay pops out and challenges them. Funny thing is though, the surprise is on the judges too.
There’s always two, and often they’re authors, critics or journalists. In our case, they had a bona fide Venezuelan chef on their hands. I was your token writer. We were told we’d be used as “experts” on an episode in a “new series.” We were to report at Essex Restaurant about midday, wearing casual clothing that was anything but busily patterned, striped or white. Except for Jorge — he was encouraged to come in his chef’s coat. (As you can see, I went for "thinning black.")
At first I was convinced our roles would consist of bits of commentary, 30 seconds of which would actually be used. Then, as the day grew closer, a little seed of thought began to germinate. I wondered if this could actually be a Throwdown we were walking into. Jorge and I sort of fit the profile.
Vanessa, the producer, met us at the door with a walkie-talkie in one hand and a headset over her ears. She was sweet but brisk. She led us into an adjacent market and spilled the beans there. Then came a barrage of instruction, none of which prepared us much for what we were walking into: We were to lay low until called. (Were we hungry? Thirsty? We could have anything.) Someone would be down to mic us when it was time. Then we’d walk into the room, shake the competitors’ hands, sit down at the judging table, and that was it. The director would take it from there.
Um. Thanks.
We waited, and waited, and waited some more. Two hours went by until my nerves were nearly buzzing. I went over the intricacies of an arepa for the eleventh time with Jorge and then the mic man appeared. He told me to put the mic down my bra and pin it there. Then we received our judging cards. Arepa “A” consisted of shredded beef, black beans and cheese, while arepa “B” was stuffed with fancy pants ceviche.
“Hm.” I smiled at Jorge. “I wonder which one’s Bobby’s.”
No self-respecting arepa guru who believed she was shooting a “how to make arepas” show would come prepared to stuff her corncakes with ceviche.
Then, suddenly, it was time. We were ushered into the restaurant and shooed up the stairwell. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears despite the enthusiastic welcome. I’d been told Flay’s competitors were two lovely Venezuelan ladies wearing bandanas. I spotted them front and center of the crowd. I shook their hands. Then, I looked for Bobby. And I looked. He wasn’t to their right. Not to their left. Not immediately behind.
Fifteen seconds on the set and I was already screwing up.
I turned around to Jorge and stepped toward my seat at the judge’s table, not knowing what else to do. But then the director spoke up: “Don’t you want to shake Bobby’s hand?”
That’s when Bobby stepped forward. He’d tucked himself somewhere within the crowd, in no logical place where a person with minimal instructions would spot him.
“Bobby!” I squealed like a little girl as I extended my hand.
Good grief.
What followed afterwards pains me more. To put it mildly: I ABSOLUTELY CHOKED. For a woman who has made her career from words, I couldn’t string a coherent thought together to save my 15 minutes of fame. I took one bite of the first arepa and said something like, “Mmm, it’s very flavorful.” Blink. Blink.
My favorite comment was after I bit into Flay’s masterpiece. I looked the arepa over and then turned to the camera and said, “This one’s more golden.”
There you have it, ladies and gentleman — my enlightened contribution to the Food Network. I can still see the director’s face staring back at me: expectancy melting into shock (perhaps a sprinkling of horror?). I’m sure she left the set that day, got back to headquarters and exploded: WHO FOUND THAT IDIOT?
Fortunately, Jorge was the epitome of eloquence. He spoke about the arepas as if he could decipher each and every ingredient incorporated. And that’s because he could.
When we were told to turn to each other and decide on the winner, that’s when I was able to compose myself. Because suddenly it was like Jorge and I were in his kitchen or mine, cooking together, my notebook not far out of reach. We were tasting one of our creations, figuring out how to describe the flavors and texture for you guys, our dear readers.
Unfortunately, all of that was a bunch of mumble-jumble, though, as we tried to keep our voices down and make the contenders sweat it out a little.
I won’t say whose arepa we chose, but frankly we were very torn. I’ll give you my thoughts — in coherent sentences, I promise — after the episode airs, June 24 at 9pm.
Please. Be kind.
