Top Chef, It’s Not Me, It’s You

by Matt Kirouac

Top Chef, we need to talk. About thirty-five seasons ago, you started feeling less like a TV show, and more like an emotionally abusive relationship. I want to like you, I really do. Please let me like you. Yet despite having long since surpassed Top Chef fatigue, I can’t look away, much like how I could not look away from the media coverage when Britney Spears had a head-shaving meltdown and started acting like a drunken Ninja Turtle. So unfortunately, this is what Top Chef has become: the culinary equivalent of a celebrity meltdown.

Way back in the earlier seasons, I genuinely loved Top Chef for its innovative premise, sleek quality, and roster of largely undiscovered talent. Those were simpler times, with no outrageous gimmicks or over-the-top product placements forcing Healthy Choice steamers down my throat. I miss the days when challenges weren’t sponsored by Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and chefs weren’t asked to cook with one hand tied behind their back, while bouncing around in a potato sack, or selecting mystery ingredients wrapped in aluminum foil. Excuse me, Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil.

Then there’s all the forced drama. This is supposed to be a food competition show, not The Real World With Knives. I am so glad viewers are given a glimpse into the chefs’ late-night cigarette sessions, where they bitch and moan about one another for no discernible reason. They bicker like children and curse like Mob Wives. Not cute. And in case that wasn’t enough, now Top Chef brings back contestants from past seasons, all of whom seem to have taken classes in un-likability since their previous tenures. Even eliminated contestants have a chance to come back into the show through some crazy thing called “Last Chance Kitchen,” which sounds more like rehab therapy.

Finally, we need to talk about Padma. She scares me. Over the years, she seems to have grown more and more femme-bot-like, and I get the feeling she slaps people when the cameras aren’t rolling. I love Gail, I love Tom, even most of the guest judges are enjoyable. But Padma is like a cobra amongst kittens. I think one of the key factors to having a successful reality show is to employ a host that people like. I understand that she is easy on the eyes, but so are blood diamonds, and blood diamonds are bad. She comes off like a spoiled, fame-hungry diva, and if Bravo replaced her with Naomi Campbell, the show would feel like Lamb Chop’s Play Along by comparison.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy that Top Chef has gotten so many people interested in food, but I worry that it is misconstruing what it truly means to be a chef. In ninety-nine percent of cases, there are no cameras, no glitz and glamour, no free Toyota Prius, no Wolfgang Puck to stroke your ego. It’s hard work, and you do it because you love it, not because you think it could lead to fifteen minutes of fame. So please, Top Chef, I implore you to cut the cord before you start to look like a bloated Saw franchise. Pack your knives and go.

Matt Kirouac is a Chicago-based food writer with more than five years of experience in freelance journalism, restaurant public relations, and blogging. Most recently, Matt served as the lead writer for Restaurant Intelligence Agency, and can currently be found writing for the likes of Front Desk, Serious Eats Chicago, The Local Beet, Tasting Table, and Daily Candy.