The Wife:

I enjoy making fun of 90210 so much that my posts on that show are called “9 Lame Things About This Week’s 90210.” I think Hell’s Kitchen‘s sole function is to make me extremely angry. I came home last night from a lovely dinner at Elizabeth Faulkner’s Orson to watch a bunch of so-called chefs call a slaughterhouse disgusting, bitch and moan about having to butcher meat and, furthermore, not be able to identify where the fuck brisket comes from? I came home for that?! FOR THAT???????

These posts are now going to become: “The Wife Gets Angry About Angry Kitten.”

Really, “chefs?” Really? You walk into a slaughterhouse and are horrified by what you see before you? That’s where the meat you eat every fucking day comes from unless you’re purchasing your shit directly from a fucking farm where they butcher it themselves on site. (See Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma.) And if you think that slaughterhouse was disgusting, you don’t want to see others, because Ramsay took you to a nice one. In fact, he only took you to the part where the beeves were being cleaned and portioned which is the least horrifying part. I cannot believe that you purport yourselves to be chefs when you seem to be so thoroughly distressed by the sight of where your food fucking comes from. I hate you all.

And given your reaction to seeing where the fuck your meat comes from, I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised at how many of your failed Ramsay’s challenge. All he asked you to do was identify cuts of meat, which were somehow less grotesque to you on a plate instead of, you know, ON THE THING IT CAME FROM, and then show him where those cuts of meat came from on a cow. The boys managed to win this by providing the first person who could correctly identify all eight locations, although it was not Giovanni, the dude from the steakhouse, who scored this win. I think it was Ben, but I was too angered by failure to remember. I learned nothing new by watching this, as it only enhanced my suspicion that these people are dumb fucks. Really, Lacey? You honestly think NY Strip comes from the shoulder of a cow? Because I’m a vegetarian and even I know that’s not where NY Strip comes from. She got 6 out of 8 wrong, and Seth, that boy genius from the blue team, got 7 out 8 wrong. Many others fell within that range of failure, although there were some bright spots who only mislabeled two or three cuts, which is almost acceptable. But only almost. Why? Because if you are in the culinary industry, you should be able to identify where cuts of beef come from. Have none of these people been to culinary school? Honestly? Jesus fucking Christ these people are an abomination.

Because the boys narrowly won the meat-identification challenge, they were rewarded with a trip up to the Santa Ynez Valley for some steak’ums and wine tasting at Sunstone Vineyards, a winery I never once wrote about back when I was working at an industry rag in Santa Barbara. The women, on the other hand, were “punished” by being given a chance to improve their butchery skills by properly preparing cuts for that night’s dinner service. While this should have been an opportunity for them to learn more, they took it as a chance to bitch and moan, whining that they’ve never butchered a cow in their lives and that hauling the beeves off the meat truck was like hauling a dead body. Really, ladies? Because the last time I checked, a side of beef IS A DEAD BODY! I understand that not many chefs actually butcher their own meat, preferring, for ease of preparation, to buy their cuts from a butcher. That aside, you should still know how to break down an animal. Honestly, if you’re going to cook in a professional kitchen, I expect that you know how to fillet fish and break down poultry and butcher rabbits and cows. This is what I expect because I’m eating at your restaurant because I CANNOT DO THOSE THINGS. Thus, I expect you, the chef, to be able to do them for me.

Ramsay let the ladies have a little lunch break, where he once again forced a losing team to dine on the nasty bits of a cow. Watching all of these women cry and spit out their tongue and stomach bits into a barf bag only made me angrier. Look, I’m not saying you have to like the nasty bits, but I am saying that you need to understand the history of fine cooking. Long ago, these nasty bits were considered unusable and fed to the poor, so they had to find ways to make them taste edible. As the aristocracy fell away in, say, France, peasant dishes from the country became en vogue, so, suddenly, wealthy people started enjoying eating their nasty bits, meaning things like sweetbreads and tripe suddenly became foods for people with money – and because they are well-prepared and adept at rendering nasty things into culinary bliss, these things are often some of the most expensive things on the menu at fine dining establishments with an old world bent. Ramsay just throws this stuff on the table barely cooked, though, so I can understand how unappetizing it must be in its more raw forms. However, if you cooked anything on that tray up like a good chef would (and with the proper amount of cream), it would be divine. Most importantly, he’s making you eat these things for a reason: because eating them and knowing what they taste like will make you a better chef. Ramsay may be a dickmeat at times, but he knows what he’s doing.

Giovanni, continuing to fail.

Giovanni, continuing to fail.

For dinner service, Ramsay turned Hell’s Kitchen into a steak house, breaking it up into two dinner seatings during which one team would cook and one team would serve. Everyone suddenly became suspicious of sabotage from whichever team was running the floor, but I present that their paranoia is unfounded because everyone on this show is too stupid to even figure out how to sabotage the cooking team’s service. During the boys’ turn at cooking, Giovanni, the steakhouse chef, misfired steak after steak, making me question why the fuck he works in a steakhouse if he can’t fire a damn steak properly. On top of that, Seth, the boy genius, totally butchered his job at butchering a strip steak, which caused Gordon Ramsay to toss about 3 pounds of wasted meat at him, in a hilarious display of anger that I will remember forever. Because of this, Ramsay shut down the blue team’s service before they could feed all their diners, which is fine by me. The girls did marginally better, serving more entrees than the guys and therefore winning.

On the service side of things, Charlie for some reason decided that some patrons would want bacon in their water (how thoughtful of him!), and that got him sent home of dumb fuck Seth, who, like Lacey and COlleen, I cannot believe has survived this long. Ramsay, during service, noting COlleen’s inability to remember a proper count for salads, observed, in the understatement of the year, that, “She’s not normal.” I had hoped Seth might go home so I could make a joke about extispicium, prophecy by looking at spilled entrails, but I guess sometimes even ancient meat-spilling prophecies are wrong.

God, I hate these people.