Going Tubal (16.3.11)

I am not a man of constant sorrow—unlike the Soggy Bottom Boys, but I am a man of few possessions. I have one tie and exactly two pairs of pants that fit me (Yes, the miraculous Ace Eating Plan will be blogged shortly.). I still have my autographed picture of James Brown from the night I sat in with him.

But no worldly good do I prize more than my DVR. You don't know what this is? Still watching your Betamax tapes, are you? Okay, Luddites, it's a satellite box that tunes in my stations and records shows, thank you very much. Lots of them. And even you could make it work!

I've got the last inning of Halladay's gem from the Phils last year; Norm Abram mortising (“use a nice shahp chisel”); much of “The Wire”; Prince Rogers Nelson doing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” at the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame. I can watch The Shawshank Redemption any old time I want.

Now that's livin'.

Plus, it automatically stores the last hour or so of what little I do watch live. I can replay a technical foul or Angie Harmon just walking into a room at will. Even watch it in slo-mo. Take that, Tim bleepin' McCarver.

I rarely miss a show. And I think that TV drama is better now than ever. I'm invested in cop series, heavily. I can hear the guffaws. Tune in Bridget Moynahan in the excellent new show “Blue Bloods,” featuring a crusty, avuncular Tom Selleck as an NYPD big cheese. I could watch her pop open a Fresca and kvell. Hey some of you golf, you wanna talk about wasting time.

Best of all, I zap through the commercials. This gizmo is so smart that when you fast-forward at triple speed and then hit play, it automatically backs up a second or two. I am getting fairly good at getting it right on the mark, gleefully skipping the Progressive girl (Jeannie C. Riley called; she wants her hairdo back.) and all the fake ItaloDreck I can eat at Olive Garden.

As an aside, I think we need tougher regulations on what marketers can do or say in commercials. Cripes, I saw a Taco Bell commercial where someone is flipping food in a … a skillet! This is akin to spotting Glen Beck at a PETA convention or Charlie Sheen at a juice bar. I think it only fair, by the by, to include Mr. Sheen in every column. The skillet you'll find closest to a Taco Bell is at Bed, Barf and Bidet down at the other end of the mall.

Why would I ever tell my doctor what drug I need? Doesn't she get paid for that? Don't these countless hours of placebo peddling actually raise the cost of mother's little helpers? There's one spot for a prescription med that treats depression. Of course, 75% of the slot is devoted to the contraindications. This one said, “May cause suicidal thoughts.” Hmmm, an anti-depressant that makes you want to go George Sanders. That's a cheering thought.

I can see the next batch, maybe for an anesthetic: “Before surgery, insist on Toxidol. Warning: may cause agonizing pain.”

Looking for a new car? You can lease a dashing Flakmobile for only $239 a month. Then try to read the terms, disclaimers and other balderdash (e. g., plastic windows, no glove box), which is flashed at the bottom of the screen for approximately one-half second in a font that van Leeuwenhoek couldn't read. Ditto the classic “Price as shown ...” which is $17,854 more than the skinny price you see in 72-point Helvetica.

The best news: I get all this for ten bucks a month. You can't buy a club sandwich at the Parthenon diner for that. C'mon over sometime. I've got some great episodes of “Bachelor Father.”

BAM! 5.3.2011

Nowadays, if you know which end of a spatula to grab, you can have a TV cooking show. They are proliferating like Charlie Sheen transgressions: a new one every day, it seems. Herewith, the PCI take on the best … and wurst.

Of course, I start at the bottom. As a disclaimer, I realize that all of these kitchen doyens (and doyennes) can cook better than I. I can also outshoot Shaq at the charity stripe, but that is something else again.

Emeril Lagasse has become a parody of himself. Back when his head was of a normal size, it seemed that he knew what he was doing. He was fresh, brash and full of boundless energy. He introduced the “BAM!” thingie, much to our delight. However, he has uttered this onomatopoetic stinger approximately 398,642 times since then. Or so.

Now, he has become more of a ballooned, self-absorbed raconteur, with a live band (why?) and adoring gaggles of Stepford descendants in the crowd. And umpteen wannabe chefs backstage doing the actual cooking.

In the large-noggin department, look at Giada De Laurentiis. This, of course, is her mother's surname, but when your gramps was a hot-shot movie producer responsible for making Fellini popular, you go with it.

I can't get past the eternal smile. Is she always that happy? Is there a coat hanger stuck in her yap? And must she slip into dialect when pronouncing every Italian term?

I do get a kick out of Alton Brown—who is really more of a comic actor-cum-food scientist than he is a cook. Some of his skits make me titter, while others seem more than little contrivances to keep him out of the kitchen. And I've never heard another highly paid professional (even NBA players) say “uh” more times per sentence.

Speaking of language, TV hashslingers have a new form of the future tense, the “imgonnagoaheadand.” As in, “I'm gonna go ahead and deglaze that pan.” Just a thought, but howsabout substituting, “I'll...”?

Rachel Ray, seemingly a conjoined Martha Stewart and Charo, is just too easy a target. We are lucky that a brilliant scribe, my good friend Bucky Hilts, has gone ahead and dished up the ultimate parody, “Every Freakin' Day with Rachel Ray,” a biting, hilarious send-up done in magazine format. Link here for this sidesplitter.

I do NOT need to hear from any chef the shopworn, “If you wouldn't drink the wine, don't cook with it.” Enough, already. Who buys wine they can't drink?

Ditto this: Your dishes are not “simple.” This term is as rampant on cooking shows as Gary Glitter is at college hoop games. No, Pierre, when you trot out a mise-en-place of 14 ingredients, including demi-glace (which all of us happen to have kicking around our larders) and a dozen apostles on staff, this is anything but simple.

I admire the techniques and provenance of Jacques Pepin. However, I must watch his offerings using subtitles. In fact, with his francocense-and-myrrh delivery, the captions should be automatic. I've been called every liberal epithet from brie-head to pantywaist, yet I opine that after 52 years in the U. S., M. Pepin could have learned a soupçon of English.

Mark Bittman doesn't do too much TV anymore, but you can catch him on the Times website, doing pithy, easy comestibles. I like his breezy style and endearing self-effacement.

I can also get through “America's Test Kitchen,” if for the reason that the talking heads show mistakes they've made … and how they arrived at the best version of a dish. The downside: Wan, bowtied majordomo Chris Kimball is the “Ascetic, Erect Yankee” from central casting. He's the type of guy who needs to get a suntan, if just once in his life.

I get the feeling that Mario Batali can actually cook. And I don't care about the orange Crocs.

Tony Bourdain cracks me up, the epitome of snarkiness (okay, birds of a feather …). But he rarely cooks. Still, “No Reservations” bites off a slew of megs on my DVR.

I avoid the competitive shows. Except of course, for the original Nippon version of “Iron Chef.” which is corny enough to make me watch occasionally. It only follows that Yanks have taken the show and made it serious, glacier swift and somnambulent with grim, self-important judges and your host, uh, Mr. Alton, uh, Brown.

“Chopped” exists to humiliate contestants. The premise is puerile and unworkable. Would-be winners must execute—quelle rapide—dishes using preselected ingredients that only a Venusian eatery would serve. You get, say, pork belly, macaroons, caviar and kiwi—now make something edible out of them. The judges make R. Lee Ermey look compassionate, ya jackwagons.

My three favorites all happen to be women of size—and rightly so.

“Two Fat Ladies” ran for but 24 shows in the late 90s. Co-host Jennifer Patterson passed in 1998. But she drove a big motorcycle (with pard Clarissa Dickson Wright in the sidecar) and wasn't above ducking out of the kitchen to toke on a Woodbine. Okay, every dish contained clotted cream and bricks of butter, but I love their Anglicisms and down-to-earth style.

Lydia Mattichio Bastianich is my all-time fave. It looks like she is cooking in an actual kitchen. Hey Lagasse, bone a chicken live the way she does. Most of all, her recipes are easily followed and she truly appears to love what she's doing. She's the only chef, I believe, who actually invites viewers into her kitchen. And that is a good thing.

Jeeze, I'm getting hungry. Hmmm, duck confit with a side of cornichons and whole-grain mustard? Or ramen?

Bon appétit, Julia.