TV chefs February 4, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Lukeski is clearly semi-serious about becoming a Jamie Oliver with a tortured, Slavic soul as he has started putting up recipes on his site. Either that or he’s settling down. Anyway, we’re a bit of a foody household here. Not majorly foody, but we rarely eat shit. We do occasionally eat very simply and rushedly, if time or effort is at a premium, and yesterday was one of those days. As I sat beavering away – not – at a translation, the Russian slaved in the kitchen and managed to create delicious smells when it in fact turned out that he was just rustling up some mushrooms for us to throw on top of pasta. Perfectly nice, but I had visions of him coming up with various dead animals. Maybe he’d scoffed them all in the process. Anyway, perfectly nice mushrooms on pasta. Perfectly good lunch.
This morning, both up at crack of dawn, for no good reason, the subject was raised, by the Russian, of what a perfect person he is. Gold, he called himself, if only I’d just open my eyes and see the obvious. His speech reminded me a touch of Mrs. Hfuhruhurr’s wife in The Man with Two Brains who, while being an utter cow, lists all the things she does for him. “I’m your cook, your housekeeper, your lover.” He then listed the delicious lunch. “Was it a Jamie Oliver recipe?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The vagaries of Russian mean that Oliver must decline, whereas Jamie won’t. “Olivera?” he asked back, sleepily. “Famous TV chef,” I snored back. He didn’t seem to have noticed Mr. Oliver’s impact on the world, and more power to his elbow for that. But he had heard of one British TV chef, or so he claimed. “No, it was that female TV chef of yours, the black one.” Could he possibly, in just our few years of acquaintance and with only three trips to England to his name, have become so well informed that he even knew about Rustie Lee? I couldn’t believe it, and let him muddle on for a while, wondering if he had somehow got Oprah mixed up in his mind with Englishness and TV cookery. “The one whose recipes your sister was using for Christmas dinner,” he trudged on. “Delia Smith?” “Yes, that’s the one. Black. Big.” I suppose I should almost find the colour-blindness encouraging.