bo.haerentanimo.net
Nuevas recetas

Netflix acaba de renovar la popular serie documental 'Chef’s Table' por tres temporadas más

Netflix acaba de renovar la popular serie documental 'Chef’s Table' por tres temporadas más


We are searching data for your request:

Forums and discussions:
Manuals and reference books:
Data from registers:
Wait the end of the search in all databases.
Upon completion, a link will appear to access the found materials.


Netflix hizo su debut en serie gastronómica el año pasado con el estreno de Mesa del Chef. La serie documental, protagonizada por Massimo Bottura (Osteria Francescana), Dan Barber (Granja Blue Hill) y Magnus Nilsson (Faviken), fue tan popular que Netflix renovará el programa por tres temporadas más con 16 chefs de renombre internacional.

Segunda temporada, con Grant Achatz (Alinea en Chicago) y Enrique Olvera (Pujol en México), se estrenará el 27 de mayo. La tercera temporada, con todos los chefs franceses como Alain Passard, (L'Arpege en París), saldrá a finales de 2016, mientras que la cuarta temporada, con nombres familiares como Ivan Orkin, (Ivan Ramen en Nueva York) y Nancy Silverton (Osteria Mozza en Los Ángeles) se estrenará en algún momento de 2017.

Vea la lista completa a continuación:

Mesa del Chef, Temporada 2 - 27 de mayo

Alex Atala, Dom, (Brasil)

Ana Ros, Hiša Franko (Eslovenia)

Dominique Crenn, Atelier Crenn (Estados Unidos)

Enrique Olvera, Pujol (México)

Gagan Anand, Gaggan (Tailandia)

Grant Achatz, Alinea, Next, The Aviary (Estados Unidos)

Mesa del Chef, Temporada 3 - Cuota francesa, TBD 2016

Alain Passard, L'Arpege (Francia)

Michel Troisgros, Maison Troisgros (Francia)

Adeline Grattard, Yam’Tcha (Francia)

Alexandre Couillon, La Marine (Francia)

Mesa del Chef, Temporada 4 - TBD 2017

Ivan Orkin, Ivan Ramen (Estados Unidos, Japón)

Jeong Kwan, Ermita de Chunjinam, Templo Baekyangsa (Corea del Sur)

Nancy Silverton, Mozza (Estados Unidos)

Tim Raue, Restaurante Tim Raue (Alemania)

Virgilio Martinez, Central (Perú)

Vladimir Mukhin, White Rabbit (Rusia)


Chef & # x27s Table es otra porción de & # x27cool culinary & # x27 mitos

El nuevo programa de Netflix centrado en los chefs crea mitos sobre el origen de algunos de los creativos culinarios más respetados del mundo, pero ¿ha ido demasiado lejos la revolución de los chefs geniales?

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Última modificación el lun 13 de agosto de 2018 12.23 BST

En el febril mundo de los medios alimentarios modernos, era solo cuestión de tiempo antes de que los encargados de perfilar a los chefs acudieran a las páginas de Marvel Comics en busca de inspiración. Naturalmente, el chef como Superman debe tener su propio mito de origen. Con Spider-Man fue la picadura de una araña radiactiva. Con Batman fue el trauma de presenciar el asesinato de sus padres. Con Dan Barber, chef de los famosos restaurantes de campo a tenedor Blue Hills, tanto en Nueva York como en el norte del estado, fue, er, una gran cantidad de espárragos.

Aparentemente, un día de 2000, Barber ordenó en exceso la verdura larguirucha. Decidió incluirlo en todos los elementos del menú esa noche, incluido el helado, y el crítico Jonathan Gold lo aclamó como la figura decorativa del movimiento de alimentos liderado por ingredientes.

No, realmente no se compara con la vieja araña radiactiva, pero tienes que trabajar con lo que tienes. La historia aparece en una nueva serie de perfiles de chef para Netflix de David Gelb, director del aclamado documental Jiro Dreams of Sushi, una película sobre un maestro de sushi japonés y sus hijos. La serie de Gelb, Chef's Table, es solo la última etapa en la elevación del cocinero de un restaurante de alguien que es interesante por lo que cocina a alguien que es interesante simplemente porque cocina.

Es una noción que ha sido investigada repetidamente por Munchies, el sitio de comida del imperio Vicepresidente. Ahí está su Munchies Presents. serie de perfil de chef, así como las más de 100 películas de la serie Chef’s Night Out. Cada uno de ellos comienza con cocineros en sus cocinas e invariablemente termina con ellos boca abajo en una barra de buceo rodeada de chupitos de sambuca vacíos. Porque si hay un tipo que sabe cómo divertirse es ese tipo que acaba de voltear tu bistec.

No solía ser así. Los chefs eran como soldados, definidos y respetados únicamente por su función. Tenían el uniforme y su sala de guerra, la cocina, donde cocinaban cosas, y estábamos felices de que existieran en esa burbuja. No nos importaba cómo eran cuando se quitaban los blancos. Entonces apareció Anthony Bourdain y pinchó la burbuja. Su libro de memorias Kitchen Confidential, publicado en 2000, le dio una voz a cada cocinero sucio, con marcas de quemaduras y tatuado que alguna vez había trabajado en la línea. Su libro no trataba sobre micro berros y espumas. No se trataba de una pasión culinaria. Se trataba de hábitos de golpe, tragos de bourbon y la autoinvención de inadaptados en alguna tribu guerrera pirata. Él solo hizo que ser un chef chico malo fuera genial.

El mismo chef genial, Anthony Bourdain. Fotografía: Heathcliff O & # x27Malley / Rex

En 2006 teníamos el reality show de televisión Top Chef. Antes de la tremendamente popular serie de Bravo, los concursos de cocina de televisión eran generalmente sobre seres humanos normales que aspiraban a triunfar como otros profesionales de la cocina del mundo. En Top Chef y su spin-off Top Chef Masters (revelación completa fui juez en las dos primeras temporadas de la última), los profesionales de la cocina se vieron obligados a presentarse, al menos en parte, como seres humanos normales. El drama no se trataba solo de quién hizo la cosa más emocionante con el erizo de mar esa semana. Se trataba de cómo lidiaron con la presión, a quién insultaron en los dormitorios y si se lavaron lo suficiente. Después de todo, un superhéroe que realiza milagros solo es realmente interesante si también tiene una historia de fondo muy humana.

Entonces, ¿por qué deberíamos estar ahora tan fascinados por la vida de los cocineros? En parte se debe a que, en una época cada vez más urbanizada, son nuestros últimos artesanos genuinos. Ellos toman las materias primas y las manipulan directamente para nosotros, lo que casi nadie más hace. Más importante aún, como señaló Bourdain, pueden tener todas las trampas de una pandilla obscena, solo una segura que no se dedica a la metanfetamina de cristal ni lleva a cabo asesinatos por encargo. Ser cocinera es delincuencia ligera, mezclada con un poco de crianza y maternidad.

Oh querido. Con Bourdain todo esto era cierto. Pero claro, no era un obsesivo gastronómico. Era un cocinero de línea que ascendía de rango, más feliz comiendo, viajando y escribiendo sobre eso que cocinando. El problema es que muchos chefs realmente obsesivos, los que compiten constantemente para restablecer la agenda culinaria, un juego de pinzas pulidas metidas en sus blancos, son, bueno, un poco aburridos. Cocinan por lo que son. Final de.

Jamie Bissonette de Toro en Nueva York prueba un tipo diferente de salsa en Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Fotografía: Vice

Con las diversas ramas de Vice no ha sido un problema, porque esas nunca superan su bienvenida. Solo 18 minutos de material bien filmado y editado inteligentemente sobre un cocinero del que nunca has oído hablar, la mitad del cual en realidad es pornografía de comida de cocina, es manejable. En un próximo Chef's Night Out que presenta al chef de Filadelfia con cabeza de bala Marc Vetri, es principalmente él y sus compañeros conduciendo por una ciudad nevada comiendo cosas y diciendo "mierda, eso es bueno" (que es solo una pequeña variación de la acción del chef convertido en rapero El programa de Bronson cuyo propio programa de Munchies se titula Fuck, That's Delicious). Mientras que un perfil de Margot Henderson, esposa de Fergus Henderson de St John en Londres y una cocinera talentosa, es bastante más divertido porque en realidad es muy buena.

La mesa del chef de David Gelb para Netflix vive y muere por la calidad de su tema. Massimo Bottura de la Osteria Francescana de tres estrellas Michelin en Módena, Italia, que disfruta enfureciendo a sus compatriotas rediseñando los clásicos italianos de las mamás, es encantador. (Su mito de origen: comer tortellini crudos que dejó caer su abuela mientras él se encorvaba debajo de la mesa mientras ella los preparaba arriba. Sabes que Bryan Singer podría divertirse mucho con eso). La comida preparada por Niki Nakayama del restaurante japonés de gran prestigio N / NAKA en Los Ángeles se ve fabulosa, pero casi lo clava cuando dice: "Mi comida es muy expresiva de quién soy". Gracias a Dios por eso, porque no parece especialmente interesada en expresarse.

Y luego llegamos al querido Dan Barber de Blue Hills, con su espíritu de la granja al plato y su campaña para llevar la zanahoria más sabrosa a sus clientes, que pagan $ 198 antes de impuestos o servicio por el placer. Ahora es el momento de poner los ojos en blanco. Se ahoga porque el trabajo de toda su vida para encontrar los ingredientes principales le impidió ver a su hija el domingo anterior. En ese momento, solo desea gritar en la pantalla: “¡Controla, hombre! ¡No eres bombero ni paramédico! ¡No eres más que un tipo que prepara el almuerzo para los asquerosos ricos! Ve a ver a tu hija ". Parece que cuando se trata de chefs de restaurantes de alto nivel, un mito de origen solo puede llevarlos tan lejos.


Chef & # x27s Table es otra porción de & # x27cool culinary & # x27 mitos

El nuevo programa de Netflix centrado en los chefs crea mitos sobre el origen de algunos de los creativos culinarios más respetados del mundo, pero ¿ha ido demasiado lejos la revolución de los chefs geniales?

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Última modificación el lun 13 de agosto de 2018 12.23 BST

En el febril mundo de los medios alimentarios modernos, era solo cuestión de tiempo antes de que los encargados de perfilar a los chefs acudieran a las páginas de Marvel Comics en busca de inspiración. Naturalmente, el chef como Superman debe tener su propio mito de origen. Con Spider-Man fue la picadura de una araña radiactiva. Con Batman fue el trauma de presenciar el asesinato de sus padres. Con Dan Barber, chef de los famosos restaurantes de campo a tenedor Blue Hills, tanto en Nueva York como en el norte del estado, fue, er, una gran cantidad de espárragos.

Aparentemente, un día de 2000, Barber ordenó en exceso la verdura larguirucha. Decidió incluirlo en todos los elementos del menú esa noche, incluido el helado, y el crítico Jonathan Gold lo aclamó como la figura decorativa del movimiento de alimentos liderado por ingredientes.

No, realmente no se compara con la vieja araña radiactiva, pero tienes que trabajar con lo que tienes. La historia aparece en una nueva serie de perfiles de chef para Netflix de David Gelb, director del aclamado documental Jiro Dreams of Sushi, una película sobre un maestro de sushi japonés y sus hijos. La serie de Gelb, Chef's Table, es solo la última etapa en la elevación del cocinero de un restaurante de alguien que es interesante por lo que cocina a alguien que es interesante simplemente porque cocina.

Es una noción que ha sido investigada repetidamente por Munchies, el sitio de comida del imperio Vicepresidente. Ahí está su Munchies Presents. serie de perfil de chef, así como las más de 100 películas de la serie Chef’s Night Out. Cada uno de ellos comienza con cocineros en sus cocinas e invariablemente termina con ellos boca abajo en una barra de buceo rodeada de chupitos de sambuca vacíos. Porque si hay un tipo que sabe cómo divertirse es ese tipo que acaba de voltear tu bistec.

No solía ser así. Los chefs eran como soldados, definidos y respetados únicamente por su función. Tenían el uniforme y su sala de guerra, la cocina, donde cocinaban cosas, y estábamos felices de que existieran en esa burbuja. No nos importaba cómo eran cuando se quitaban los blancos. Entonces apareció Anthony Bourdain y pinchó la burbuja. Su libro de memorias Kitchen Confidential, publicado en 2000, le dio una voz a cada cocinero sucio, con marcas de quemaduras y tatuado que alguna vez había trabajado en la línea. Su libro no trataba sobre micro berros y espumas. No se trataba de una pasión culinaria. Se trataba de hábitos de golpe, tragos de bourbon y la autoinvención de inadaptados en alguna tribu guerrera pirata. Él solo hizo que ser un chef chico malo fuera genial.

El mismo chef genial, Anthony Bourdain. Fotografía: Heathcliff O & # x27Malley / Rex

En 2006 teníamos el reality show de televisión Top Chef. Antes de la tremendamente popular serie de Bravo, los concursos de cocina de televisión eran generalmente sobre seres humanos normales que aspiraban a triunfar como otros profesionales de la cocina del mundo. En Top Chef y su spin-off Top Chef Masters (revelación completa fui juez en las dos primeras temporadas de la última), los profesionales de la cocina se vieron obligados a presentarse, al menos en parte, como seres humanos normales. El drama no se trataba solo de quién hizo la cosa más emocionante con el erizo de mar esa semana. Se trataba de cómo lidiaron con la presión, a quién insultaron en los dormitorios y si se lavaron lo suficiente. Después de todo, un superhéroe que realiza milagros solo es realmente interesante si también tiene una historia de fondo muy humana.

Entonces, ¿por qué deberíamos estar ahora tan fascinados por la vida de los cocineros? En parte se debe a que, en una época cada vez más urbanizada, son nuestros últimos artesanos genuinos. Ellos toman las materias primas y las manipulan directamente para nosotros, lo que casi nadie más hace. Más importante aún, como señaló Bourdain, pueden tener todas las trampas de una pandilla obscena, solo una segura que no se dedica a la metanfetamina de cristal ni lleva a cabo asesinatos por encargo. Ser cocinera es delincuencia ligera, mezclada con un poco de cariño y maternidad.

Oh querido. Con Bourdain todo esto era cierto. Pero claro, no era un obsesivo gastronómico. Era un cocinero de línea que ascendía de rango, más feliz comiendo, viajando y escribiendo sobre eso que cocinando. El problema es que muchos chefs realmente obsesivos, los que compiten constantemente para restablecer la agenda culinaria, un juego de pinzas pulidas metidas en sus blancos, son, bueno, un poco aburridos. Cocinan por lo que son. Final de.

Jamie Bissonette de Toro en Nueva York prueba un tipo diferente de salsa en Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Fotografía: Vice

Con las diversas vertientes de Vice no ha sido un problema, porque esas nunca superan su bienvenida. Solo 18 minutos de material bien filmado y editado inteligentemente sobre un cocinero del que nunca has oído hablar, la mitad del cual en realidad es pornografía de comida de cocina, es manejable. En un próximo Chef's Night Out que presenta al chef de Filadelfia con cabeza de bala Marc Vetri, es principalmente él y sus compañeros conduciendo por una ciudad nevada comiendo cosas y diciendo "mierda, eso es bueno" (que es solo una pequeña variación de la acción del chef convertido en rapero El programa de Bronson, cuyo propio programa de Munchies se titula Fuck, That's Delicious). Mientras que un perfil de Margot Henderson, esposa de Fergus Henderson de St John en Londres y una cocinera talentosa, es bastante más divertido porque en realidad es muy buena.

La mesa del chef de David Gelb para Netflix vive y muere por la calidad de su tema. Massimo Bottura de Osteria Francescana de Módena, Italia, de tres estrellas Michelin, que disfruta enfureciendo a sus compatriotas rediseñando los clásicos italianos de las mamás, es encantador. (Su mito de origen: comer tortellini crudos que dejó caer su abuela mientras él se encorvaba debajo de la mesa mientras ella los preparaba arriba. Sabes que Bryan Singer podría divertirse mucho con eso). La comida preparada por Niki Nakayama del restaurante japonés de gran prestigio N / NAKA en Los Ángeles se ve fabulosa, pero casi lo clava cuando dice: "Mi comida es muy expresiva de quién soy". Gracias a Dios por eso, porque no parece especialmente interesada en expresarse.

Y luego llegamos al querido Dan Barber de Blue Hills, con su espíritu de la granja al plato y su campaña para llevar la zanahoria más sabrosa a sus clientes, que pagan $ 198 antes de impuestos o servicio por el placer. Ahora es el momento de poner los ojos en blanco. Se ahoga porque el trabajo de su vida en la búsqueda de los ingredientes principales le impidió ver a su hija el domingo anterior. En ese momento, solo desea gritar en la pantalla: “¡Controla, hombre! ¡No eres bombero ni paramédico! ¡No eres más que un tipo que prepara el almuerzo para los asquerosos ricos! Ve a ver a tu hija ". Parece que cuando se trata de chefs de restaurantes de alto nivel, un mito de origen solo puede llevarlos tan lejos.


Chef & # x27s Table es otra porción de & # x27cool culinary & # x27 mitos

El nuevo programa de Netflix centrado en los chefs crea mitos sobre el origen de algunos de los creativos culinarios más respetados del mundo, pero ¿ha ido demasiado lejos la revolución de los chefs geniales?

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Última modificación el lun 13 de agosto de 2018 12.23 BST

En el febril mundo de los medios alimentarios modernos, era solo cuestión de tiempo antes de que los encargados de perfilar a los chefs acudieran a las páginas de Marvel Comics en busca de inspiración. Naturalmente, el chef como Superman debe tener su propio mito de origen. Con Spider-Man fue la picadura de una araña radiactiva. Con Batman fue el trauma de presenciar el asesinato de sus padres. Con Dan Barber, chef de los famosos restaurantes de campo a tenedor Blue Hills, tanto en Nueva York como en el norte del estado, fue, er, una gran cantidad de espárragos.

Aparentemente, un día de 2000, Barber ordenó en exceso la verdura larguirucha. Decidió incluirlo en todos los elementos del menú esa noche, incluido el helado, y el crítico Jonathan Gold lo aclamó como la figura decorativa del movimiento de alimentos liderado por ingredientes.

No, realmente no se compara con la vieja araña radiactiva, pero tienes que trabajar con lo que tienes. La historia aparece en una nueva serie de perfiles de chef para Netflix de David Gelb, director del aclamado documental Jiro Dreams of Sushi, una película sobre un maestro de sushi japonés y sus hijos. La serie de Gelb, Chef's Table, es solo la última etapa en la elevación del cocinero de un restaurante de alguien que es interesante por lo que cocina a alguien que es interesante simplemente porque cocina.

Es una noción que ha sido investigada repetidamente por Munchies, el sitio de comida del imperio Vicepresidente. Ahí está su Munchies Presents. serie de perfil de chef, así como las más de 100 películas de la serie Chef’s Night Out. Cada uno de ellos comienza con cocineros en sus cocinas e invariablemente termina con ellos boca abajo en un bar rodeado de chupitos de sambuca vacíos. Porque si hay un tipo que sabe cómo divertirse es ese tipo que acaba de voltear tu bistec.

No solía ser así. Los cocineros eran como soldados, definidos y respetados únicamente por su función. Tenían el uniforme y su sala de guerra, la cocina, donde cocinaban cosas, y estábamos felices de que existieran en esa burbuja. No nos importaba cómo eran cuando se quitaban los blancos. Entonces apareció Anthony Bourdain y pinchó la burbuja. Su libro de memorias Kitchen Confidential, publicado en 2000, le dio una voz a cada cocinero sucio, con marcas de quemaduras y tatuado que alguna vez había trabajado en la línea. Su libro no trataba sobre micro berros y espumas. No se trataba de pasión culinaria. Se trataba de hábitos de golpe, tragos de bourbon y la autoinvención de inadaptados en alguna tribu guerrera pirata. Él solo hizo que ser un chef chico malo fuera genial.

El mismo chef genial, Anthony Bourdain. Fotografía: Heathcliff O & # x27Malley / Rex

En 2006 teníamos el programa de telerrealidad Top Chef. Antes de la tremendamente popular serie de Bravo, los concursos de cocina de televisión eran generalmente sobre seres humanos normales que aspiraban a triunfar como otros profesionales de la cocina del mundo. En Top Chef y su spin-off Top Chef Masters (revelación completa fui juez en las dos primeras temporadas de la última), los profesionales de la cocina se vieron obligados a presentarse, al menos en parte, como seres humanos normales. El drama no se trataba solo de quién hizo la cosa más emocionante con el erizo de mar esa semana. Se trataba de cómo lidiaron con la presión, a quién juraron en los dormitorios y si se lavaron lo suficiente. Después de todo, un superhéroe que realiza milagros solo es realmente interesante si también tiene una historia de fondo muy humana.

Entonces, ¿por qué deberíamos estar ahora tan fascinados por la vida de los cocineros? En parte se debe a que, en una época cada vez más urbanizada, son nuestros últimos artesanos genuinos. Ellos toman las materias primas y las manipulan directamente para nosotros, lo que casi nadie más hace. Más importante aún, como señaló Bourdain, pueden tener todas las trampas de una pandilla obscena, solo una segura que no se dedica a la metanfetamina de cristal ni lleva a cabo asesinatos por encargo. Ser cocinera es delincuencia ligera, mezclada con un poco de crianza y maternidad.

Oh querido. Con Bourdain todo esto era cierto. Pero claro, no era un obsesivo gastronómico. Era un cocinero de línea que ascendía de rango, más feliz comiendo, viajando y escribiendo sobre eso que cocinando. El problema es que muchos chefs realmente obsesivos, los que compiten constantemente para restablecer la agenda culinaria, un juego de pinzas pulidas metidas en sus blancos, son, bueno, un poco aburridos. Cocinan por lo que son. Final de.

Jamie Bissonette de Toro en Nueva York prueba un tipo diferente de salsa en Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Fotografía: Vice

Con las diversas vertientes de Vice no ha sido un problema, porque esas nunca superan su bienvenida. Solo 18 minutos de material bien filmado y editado inteligentemente sobre un cocinero del que nunca has oído hablar, la mitad del cual en realidad es pornografía de comida de cocina, es manejable. En un próximo Chef's Night Out que presenta al chef de Filadelfia con cabeza de bala Marc Vetri, es principalmente él y sus compañeros conduciendo por una ciudad nevada comiendo cosas y diciendo "mierda, eso es bueno" (que es solo una pequeña variación de la acción del chef convertido en rapero El programa de Bronson cuyo propio programa de Munchies se titula Fuck, That's Delicious). Mientras que un perfil de Margot Henderson, esposa de Fergus Henderson de St John en Londres y una cocinera talentosa, es bastante más divertido porque en realidad es muy buena.

La mesa del chef de David Gelb para Netflix vive y muere por la calidad de su tema. Massimo Bottura de Osteria Francescana de Módena, Italia, de tres estrellas Michelin, que disfruta enfureciendo a sus compatriotas rediseñando los clásicos italianos de las mamás, es encantador. (Su mito de origen: comer tortellini crudos que dejó caer su abuela mientras él se encorvaba debajo de la mesa mientras ella los preparaba arriba. Solo sabes que Bryan Singer podría divertirse mucho con eso). La comida preparada por Niki Nakayama del restaurante japonés de gran prestigio N / NAKA en Los Ángeles se ve fabulosa, pero casi lo clava cuando dice: "Mi comida es muy expresiva de quién soy". Gracias a Dios por eso, porque no parece especialmente interesada en expresarse.

Y luego llegamos al querido Dan Barber de Blue Hills, con su espíritu de la granja al plato y su campaña para llevar la zanahoria más sabrosa a sus clientes, que pagan $ 198 antes de impuestos o servicio por el placer. Ahora es el momento de poner los ojos en blanco. Se ahoga porque el trabajo de toda su vida para encontrar los ingredientes principales le impidió ver a su hija el domingo anterior. En ese momento, solo desea gritar en la pantalla: “¡Controla, hombre! ¡No eres bombero ni paramédico! ¡No eres más que un tipo que prepara el almuerzo para los asquerosos ricos! Ve a ver a tu hija ". Parece que cuando se trata de chefs de restaurantes de alto nivel, un mito de origen solo puede llevarlos tan lejos.


Chef & # x27s Table es otra porción de & # x27cool culinary & # x27 mitos

El nuevo programa de Netflix centrado en los chefs crea mitos sobre el origen de algunos de los creativos culinarios más respetados del mundo, pero ¿ha ido demasiado lejos la revolución de los chefs geniales?

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Última modificación el lun 13 de agosto de 2018 12.23 BST

En el febril mundo de los medios alimentarios modernos, era solo cuestión de tiempo antes de que los encargados de perfilar a los chefs acudieran a las páginas de Marvel Comics en busca de inspiración. Naturalmente, el chef como Superman debe tener su propio mito de origen. Con Spider-Man fue la picadura de una araña radiactiva. Con Batman fue el trauma de presenciar el asesinato de sus padres. Con Dan Barber, chef de los famosos restaurantes de campo a tenedor Blue Hills, tanto en Nueva York como en el norte del estado, fue, er, una gran cantidad de espárragos.

Aparentemente, un día de 2000, Barber ordenó en exceso la verdura larguirucha. Decidió incluirlo en todos los elementos del menú esa noche, incluido el helado, y el crítico Jonathan Gold lo aclamó como la figura decorativa del movimiento de alimentos liderado por ingredientes.

No, realmente no se compara con la vieja araña radiactiva, pero tienes que trabajar con lo que tienes. La historia aparece en una nueva serie de perfiles de chef para Netflix de David Gelb, director del aclamado documental Jiro Dreams of Sushi, una película sobre un maestro de sushi japonés y sus hijos. La serie de Gelb, Chef's Table, es solo la última etapa en la elevación del cocinero de un restaurante de alguien que es interesante por lo que cocina a alguien que es interesante simplemente porque cocina.

Es una noción que ha sido investigada repetidamente por Munchies, el sitio de comida del imperio Vicepresidente. Ahí está su Munchies Presents. serie de perfil de chef, así como las más de 100 películas de la serie Chef’s Night Out. Cada uno de ellos comienza con cocineros en sus cocinas e invariablemente termina con ellos boca abajo en una barra de buceo rodeada de chupitos de sambuca vacíos. Porque si hay un tipo que sabe cómo divertirse es ese tipo que acaba de voltear tu bistec.

No solía ser así. Los chefs eran como soldados, definidos y respetados únicamente por su función. Tenían el uniforme y su sala de guerra, la cocina, donde cocinaban cosas, y estábamos felices de que existieran en esa burbuja. No nos importaba cómo eran cuando se quitaban los blancos. Entonces apareció Anthony Bourdain y pinchó la burbuja. Su libro de memorias Kitchen Confidential, publicado en 2000, le dio una voz a cada cocinero sucio, con marcas de quemaduras y tatuado que alguna vez había trabajado en la línea. Su libro no trataba sobre micro berros y espumas. No se trataba de pasión culinaria. Se trataba de hábitos de golpe, tragos de bourbon y la autoinvención de inadaptados en alguna tribu guerrera pirata. Él solo hizo que ser un chef chico malo fuera genial.

El mismo chef genial, Anthony Bourdain. Fotografía: Heathcliff O & # x27Malley / Rex

En 2006 teníamos el programa de telerrealidad Top Chef. Antes de la tremendamente popular serie de Bravo, los concursos de cocina de televisión eran generalmente sobre seres humanos normales que aspiraban a triunfar como otros profesionales de la cocina del mundo. En Top Chef y su spin-off Top Chef Masters (revelación completa fui juez en las dos primeras temporadas de la última), los profesionales de la cocina se vieron obligados a presentarse, al menos en parte, como seres humanos normales. El drama no se trataba solo de quién hizo la cosa más emocionante con el erizo de mar esa semana. Se trataba de cómo lidiaron con la presión, a quién insultaron en los dormitorios y si se lavaron lo suficiente. Después de todo, un superhéroe que realiza milagros solo es realmente interesante si también tiene una historia de fondo muy humana.

Entonces, ¿por qué deberíamos estar ahora tan fascinados por la vida de los cocineros? En parte se debe a que, en una época cada vez más urbanizada, son nuestros últimos artesanos genuinos. Ellos toman las materias primas y las manipulan directamente para nosotros, lo que casi nadie más hace. Más importante aún, como señaló Bourdain, pueden tener todas las trampas de una pandilla obscena, solo una segura que no se dedica a la metanfetamina de cristal ni lleva a cabo asesinatos por encargo. Ser cocinera es delincuencia ligera, mezclada con un poco de crianza y maternidad.

Oh querido. Con Bourdain todo esto era cierto. Pero claro, no era un obsesivo gastronómico. Era un cocinero de línea que ascendía de rango, más feliz comiendo, viajando y escribiendo sobre eso que cocinando. El problema es que muchos chefs realmente obsesivos, los que compiten constantemente para restablecer la agenda culinaria, un juego de pinzas pulidas metidas en sus blancos, son, bueno, un poco aburridos. Cocinan por lo que son. Final de.

Jamie Bissonette de Toro en Nueva York prueba un tipo diferente de salsa en Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Fotografía: Vice

Con las diversas vertientes de Vice no ha sido un problema, porque esas nunca superan su bienvenida. Solo 18 minutos de material bien filmado y editado inteligentemente sobre un cocinero del que nunca has oído hablar, la mitad del cual en realidad es pornografía de comida de cocina, es manejable. En un próximo Chef's Night Out que presenta al chef de Filadelfia con cabeza de bala Marc Vetri, es principalmente él y sus compañeros conduciendo por una ciudad nevada comiendo cosas y diciendo "mierda, eso es bueno" (que es solo una pequeña variación de la acción del chef convertido en rapero El programa de Bronson, cuyo propio programa de Munchies se titula Fuck, That's Delicious). Mientras que un perfil de Margot Henderson, esposa de Fergus Henderson de St John en Londres y una cocinera talentosa, es bastante más divertido porque en realidad es muy buena.

La mesa del chef de David Gelb para Netflix vive y muere por la calidad de su tema. Massimo Bottura de Osteria Francescana de Módena, Italia, de tres estrellas Michelin, que disfruta enfureciendo a sus compatriotas rediseñando los clásicos italianos de las mamás, es encantador. (Su mito de origen: comer tortellini crudos que dejó caer su abuela mientras él se encorvaba debajo de la mesa mientras ella los preparaba arriba. Sabes que Bryan Singer podría divertirse mucho con eso). La comida preparada por Niki Nakayama del restaurante japonés de gran prestigio N / NAKA en Los Ángeles se ve fabulosa, pero casi lo clava cuando dice: "Mi comida es muy expresiva de quién soy". Gracias a Dios por eso, porque no parece especialmente interesada en expresarse.

Y luego llegamos al querido Dan Barber de Blue Hills, con su espíritu de la granja al plato y su campaña para llevar la zanahoria más sabrosa a sus clientes, que pagan $ 198 antes de impuestos o servicio por el placer. Ahora es el momento de poner los ojos en blanco. Se ahoga porque el trabajo de toda su vida para encontrar los ingredientes principales le impidió ver a su hija el domingo anterior. En ese momento, solo desea gritar en la pantalla: “¡Controla, hombre! ¡No eres bombero ni paramédico! ¡No eres más que un tipo que prepara el almuerzo para los asquerosos ricos! Ve a ver a tu hija ". Parece que cuando se trata de chefs de restaurantes de alto nivel, un mito de origen solo puede llevarlos tan lejos.


Chef & # x27s Table es otra porción de & # x27cool culinary & # x27 mitos

El nuevo programa de Netflix centrado en los chefs crea mitos sobre el origen de algunos de los creativos culinarios más respetados del mundo, pero ¿ha ido demasiado lejos la revolución de los chefs geniales?

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Dan Barber y su personal en Blue Hills, hablando de espárragos (probablemente). Fotografía: Netflix

Última modificación el lun 13 de agosto de 2018 12.23 BST

En el febril mundo de los medios alimentarios modernos, era solo cuestión de tiempo antes de que los encargados de perfilar a los chefs acudieran a las páginas de Marvel Comics en busca de inspiración. Naturalmente, el chef como Superman debe tener su propio mito de origen. Con Spider-Man fue la picadura de una araña radiactiva. Con Batman fue el trauma de presenciar el asesinato de sus padres. Con Dan Barber, chef de los famosos restaurantes de campo a tenedor Blue Hills, tanto en Nueva York como en el norte del estado, fue, er, una gran cantidad de espárragos.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Chef's Table is another slice of ɼool culinary' myth-making

Netflix’s new chef-focused show creates origin myths for some of the world’s most respected culinary creatives, but has the cool chef revolution gone too far?

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Last modified on Mon 13 Aug 2018 12.23 BST

I n the feverish world of modern food media, it was only a matter of time before those tasked with profiling chefs would turn to the pages of Marvel Comics for inspiration. Naturally, the chef as Superman must have its very own origin myth. With Spider-Man it was the bite of a radioactive spider. With Batman it was the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder. With Dan Barber, chef of famed field-to-fork restaurants Blue Hills, both in New York and upstate, it was, er, an awful lot of asparagus.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Chef's Table is another slice of ɼool culinary' myth-making

Netflix’s new chef-focused show creates origin myths for some of the world’s most respected culinary creatives, but has the cool chef revolution gone too far?

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Last modified on Mon 13 Aug 2018 12.23 BST

I n the feverish world of modern food media, it was only a matter of time before those tasked with profiling chefs would turn to the pages of Marvel Comics for inspiration. Naturally, the chef as Superman must have its very own origin myth. With Spider-Man it was the bite of a radioactive spider. With Batman it was the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder. With Dan Barber, chef of famed field-to-fork restaurants Blue Hills, both in New York and upstate, it was, er, an awful lot of asparagus.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Chef's Table is another slice of ɼool culinary' myth-making

Netflix’s new chef-focused show creates origin myths for some of the world’s most respected culinary creatives, but has the cool chef revolution gone too far?

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Last modified on Mon 13 Aug 2018 12.23 BST

I n the feverish world of modern food media, it was only a matter of time before those tasked with profiling chefs would turn to the pages of Marvel Comics for inspiration. Naturally, the chef as Superman must have its very own origin myth. With Spider-Man it was the bite of a radioactive spider. With Batman it was the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder. With Dan Barber, chef of famed field-to-fork restaurants Blue Hills, both in New York and upstate, it was, er, an awful lot of asparagus.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Chef's Table is another slice of ɼool culinary' myth-making

Netflix’s new chef-focused show creates origin myths for some of the world’s most respected culinary creatives, but has the cool chef revolution gone too far?

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Last modified on Mon 13 Aug 2018 12.23 BST

I n the feverish world of modern food media, it was only a matter of time before those tasked with profiling chefs would turn to the pages of Marvel Comics for inspiration. Naturally, the chef as Superman must have its very own origin myth. With Spider-Man it was the bite of a radioactive spider. With Batman it was the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder. With Dan Barber, chef of famed field-to-fork restaurants Blue Hills, both in New York and upstate, it was, er, an awful lot of asparagus.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Chef's Table is another slice of ɼool culinary' myth-making

Netflix’s new chef-focused show creates origin myths for some of the world’s most respected culinary creatives, but has the cool chef revolution gone too far?

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Dan Barber and his staff at Blue Hills, talking about asparagus (probably). Photograph: Netflix

Last modified on Mon 13 Aug 2018 12.23 BST

I n the feverish world of modern food media, it was only a matter of time before those tasked with profiling chefs would turn to the pages of Marvel Comics for inspiration. Naturally, the chef as Superman must have its very own origin myth. With Spider-Man it was the bite of a radioactive spider. With Batman it was the trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder. With Dan Barber, chef of famed field-to-fork restaurants Blue Hills, both in New York and upstate, it was, er, an awful lot of asparagus.

Apparently, one day in 2000 Barber over-ordered the spindly vegetable. He decided to include it in every menu item that night, including the ice cream, and was hailed by critic Jonathan Gold as the figurehead of the ingredient-led food movement.

No, it doesn’t really compare to the old radioactive spider thing, but you have to work with what you’ve got. The story appears in a new series of chef profiles for Netflix from David Gelb, director of the highly acclaimed documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a film about a Japanese sushi master and his sons. Gelb’s series, Chef’s Table, is just the latest stage in the elevation of the restaurant cook from someone who is interesting because of what they cook to someone who is interesting simply because they cook.

It’s a notion that’s been investigated repeatedly by Munchies, the food site of the Vice empire. There’s its Munchies Presents. chef profile series, as well as the 100 plus films in the Chef’s Night Out series. Each of those begins with cooks in their kitchens, and invariably ends with them face down in a dive bar surrounded by emptied sambuca shots. Because if there’s one guy who knows how to party it’s that guy who just flipped your steak.

It didn’t use to be this way. Chefs were like soldiers, defined and respected solely by function. They had the uniform and their war room – the kitchen – where they cooked stuff, and we were happy for them to exist in that bubble. We didn’t care what they were like when they took off the whites. Then Anthony Bourdain came along and pricked the bubble. His memoir Kitchen Confidential, published in 2000, gave a voice to every dirty, burn-marked, tattooed cook who’d ever worked the line. His book wasn’t about micro cress and foams. It wasn’t about culinary passion. It was about smack habits, bourbon shots and the self-invention of misfits into some piratical warrior tribe. He singlehandedly made being a bad boy chef cool.

Mr cool chef himself, Anthony Bourdain. Photograph: Heathcliff O'Malley/Rex

By 2006 we had the TV reality show Top Chef. Prior to Bravo’s wildly popular series, TV cooking competitions were generally about normal human beings who aspired to make it as other worldly kitchen professionals. In Top Chef and its spinoff Top Chef Masters (full disclosure I was a judge on the first two seasons of the latter) kitchen professionals were forced to portray themselves, at least in part, as normal human beings. The drama wasn’t just about who did the most thrilling thing with sea urchin that week. It was about how they dealt with the pressure, who they swore at in the dorm rooms, and whether they washed enough. After all a superhero who performs miracles is only really interesting if they also have a very human back story.

So why should we now be so fascinated by the lives of cooks? Partly it’s because, in an increasingly urbanised age, they are our last genuine artisans. They take raw materials and manipulate them directly for us, which almost nobody else does. More importantly, as Bourdain pointed up, they can have all the trappings of a ribald gang, only a safe one that doesn’t deal in crystal meth or carry out contract killings. Being a cook is delinquency lite, mixed in with a bit of nurture and mothering.

Oh dear. With Bourdain all of this was true. But then he wasn’t a gastronomic obsessive. He was a line cook who rose through the ranks, happier eating, travelling and writing about it than cooking. The problem is that a lot of really obsessive chefs, the ones constantly competing to reset the culinary agenda, a set of polished tweezers tucked into their whites, are, well, a little dull. They cook therefore they are. End of.

Jamie Bissonette of Toro in New York tries out a different type of sauce on Vice’s Chef’s Night Out. Photograph: Vice

With the various Vice strands it’s not been a problem, because those never outstay their welcome. A mere 18 minutes of well-shot, smartly edited stuff about a cook you’ve never heard of, half of which really is kitchen food porn, is manageable. In a forthcoming Chef’s Night Out featuring the bullet headed Philadelphia chef Marc Vetri, it’s mostly him and his mates driving around a snowy city eating things and saying “holy shit that’s good” (which is only a slight variation on chef-turned-rapper Action Bronson’s show whose own Munchies show is titled Fuck, That’s Delicious). While a profile of Margot Henderson, wife of Fergus Henderson of London’s St John and a gifted cook, is rather more fun because she is actually very good.

David Gelb’s Chef’s Table for Netflix lives and dies by the quality of its subject. Massimo Bottura of Michelin three star Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, who enjoys enraging his countrymen by re-engineering Italian momma classics, is charming. (His origin myth: eating raw tortellini dropped by his grandmother as he hunched under the table while she prepared them above. You just know Bryan Singer could have lots of fun with that). The food prepared by Niki Nakayama of highly regarded Japanese restaurant N/NAKA in Los Angeles looks fabulous but she pretty much nails it when she says “My food is very expressive of who I am.” Thank god for that, because she doesn’t seem especially keen on doing any expressing herself.

And then we get to dear Dan Barber of Blue Hills, with his farm-to-plate ethos and his campaign to bring the tastiest carrot ever to his customers, who pay $198 before tax or service for the pleasure. Now it’s time to roll the eyes. He gets choked up because his life’s work finding prime ingredients has stopped him seeing his daughter the previous Sunday. At which point you just want to shout at the screen: “Get a grip, man! You’re not a firefighter or a paramedic! You’re just a chap cooking lunch for filthy rich people! Go see your daughter.” It seems that when it comes to high-end restaurant chefs, an origin myth can only get them so far.


Ver el vídeo: A Day with Dario Cecchini


Comentarios:

  1. Birj

    Que frase tan maravillosa

  2. Seafra

    Escucha.

  3. Botewolf

    Debes decir que estás equivocado.



Escribe un mensaje