Blame it on Colonel Sanders. Blame it on the kiddie play areas at McDonald’s with the multicolored ball pits. Blame it on the good ol’ American attitude that bigger is always better, and so supersize is the only option. Whatever the culprit, the unavoidable fact remains: obesity in the United States is an epidemic. And if you want proof of this beyond ballooning statistics about heart disease and the KFC Double Down, I offer you the ultimate sign of the times: The Food Network.
The Food Network has become successful enough that its stars can get students to line up for hours, as Georgetown saw last week with a guest lecture by Duff Goldman, cake decorator extraordinaire and star of Ace of Cakes. (I guess the promise of cake afterwards didn’t hurt.) But where did that success come from? Sure, Americans love to eat. But as far as television ratings tell us, they also love violence, drama, and Simon Cowell. And while Ace of Cakes does introduce viewers to the treacherous, suspenseful world of high-end cake deliveries, it’s hardly CSI: Miami. Where’s the mass appeal?
The answer, I believe, is what I like to call the Emeril Effect. On first glance, Emeril Lagasse is anything but a national television star. He’s not particularly attractive or even physically fit. In fact, the only thing special about him is that he’s a chef. But with The Essence of Emeril and later Emeril Live, he became the Food Network’s first bona fide celebrity chef, complete with excited studio audiences, his own line of cookware, and an endorsement deal with Crest. The reason for his success can be summed up in one word: “Bam!” Normally, something like adding a dash of cinnamon to sautéed potatoes isn’t exactly riveting, but when a jolly, charismatic chef is pitching the spice at a sizzling pan, yelling “Bam!” amid the cheers of an audience, it adds charm and entertainment value. And that translates to ratings.
Post-Emeril, the successful Food Network stars have all followed suit. As far as “in the kitchen” shows, the most widely-known hosts are those with big enough personalities that the audience won’t feel like they’re watching their mother stir a pot of Prego. Paula Dean’s southern-housewife charm and artery-clogging affinity for butter is endearing and addictive. The perpetually peppy Rachael Ray was inescapable for a while, with three Food Network shows, a talk show, a magazine, and her giant, toothy face on every Dunkin Donuts billboard in the country. The network’s blander chefs, by contrast, usually fall out of rotation pretty quickly. Ever heard of Melissa d’Arabian, Texan mom and host of $10 Dinners? Exactly.
Of course, Food Network isn’t entirely about watching people boil water, but the same concept carries over to the rest of its programming. Its competition shows were pioneered by Iron Chef, one of the first programs to actually pit chefs against each other. And all this drama didn’t just go down in a kitchen. Oh no, it went down in Kitchen Stadium, ground made hallowed by the presence of the mythic figures of Hiroyuki Sakai, Kenichi, and Morimoto. It was ludicrous. But that’s what gives these shows their appeal: the crazy hosts, the zany characters, and the edge-of-your-seat moment on Food Network Challenge when you don’t know if someone’s going to drop that 50-lb cake he just spent eight hours morphing into the exact likeness of Mike Wazowski from Monsters, Inc. It’s mindless and a little ridiculous, and that’s the golden combination for great TV.
But because no rule is without its exceptions, I have to mention the one snag in the cult of successful TV-chefs with magnetic personalities: Giada DeLaurentis. But she wears really, really low-cut shirts. Smoked prosciutto and cleavage: now that’s quality television.
Check out Leigh’s spice rack at lfinnegan@georgetownvoice.com
