Iron Chef

It is a lonely experience wondering what’s real and what’s not and especially so without a formal psychiatric diagnosis that unfetters the imagination and allows the wonderer to feel rather at home when the issue of reality is called into question.  To be specific, why is there so much fuss about “Iron Chef?”  Years ago, when it was produced in Japan by Yukio Hattori, whom I actually met in a barn in Niigata one cold November night huddled over charcoal grilled salmon, the best I’d ever had, Iron Chef was a contest of wills and rather simple and focused.  But now, in the States, it’s another P.R. driven event as silly and wonderful as WWF or Brett Michaels, “Rock of Love.”  It has absolutely nothing to do with food or cooking.  If I see one more grinning chef celebrating his “victory” I’m going to scream.  And for chefs who are more comfortable with cooks, knives, and stoves, the experience can be awkward, to say the least.  Why is this important to note here?  Because I’m trying to minimize distractions.

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