12 AUGUST, 2003
Tasty television - The Restaurant - Now That's Entertainment . . .
By Joseph Planta
(This piece originally was published on Now That's Entertainment . . . )
VANCOUVER – As he zips across the George Washington Bridge in his Mitsubishi, he surveys the skyline of the city in which he's supposedly the top celebrity chef. He is Rocco DiSpirito, executive chef at New York's Union Pacific, and a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. Food magazines have voted him one of America's top chefs, and People magazine considers him one of the "sexiest men alive." Producer Mark Burnett of the reality television icon Survivor is behind this effort, probably NBC's finest foray into the reality genre, The Restaurant.
Seven weeks is all DiSpirito has to take a location, bring it up to code, fill it with the necessary equipment and flatware; to staff the joint, as well go through all of the other things that one would need to do in order to have a restaurant. Real restaurants have a bit more time, as well as fewer cameras than this. Taken along for the ride, it's nothing short than exhilarating, bitchy, entertaining and from the looks of it, oh so urbanite. Simply put, The Restaurant is just like New York, and then some.
When the reality genre hit mainstream television with a vengeance a few years ago, I was not one of its loyal followers. I'm still not. But The Restaurant is an excellent distraction from all the flossy shlock that peppers our small screens – everything from asking women if they'd want to marry my dad, or asking scantily clad women if they'd want to eat a roach. The cast of characters on The Restaurant makes for entertaining television. People who aren't professional actors are just as dramatic and colourful, and better yet, because they're practically begging to be on television, they'll do anything.
The show claims to be reality television, but of course it is not. Like all reality shows, there are situations that occur that would seemingly not happen in real life. For example, when casting calls went out for those willing to staff the restaurant, whose development would be captured and recorded for television, 2,000 eager beavers showed up with resumes in tote. Come on, are jobs in New York restaurants that hard to come by? And so, the staff/would-be television performers set forth on making Rocco's on 22nd a success. Alas, had it not been for the cameras, I would suspect a restaurant like this would not be fraught with such drama.
Enter Laurent, Rocco's lieutenant who speaks English in heavily accented French, which is course for some snickering at the start, then outright mockery thereafter from a staff of pretentious, angry, bitter, presumably hard working, misunderstood, stylish, bad ass New Yorkers – your regular crop of wannabe actors and attention whores. As the general manager, Laurent has to do Rocco's dirty work, while the celebrity chef turns into full PR mode abandoning his responsibilities as the owner to schmooze with Fran Drescher or some hefty plus size models. Rocco also abandons his responsibilities in the kitchen, having his elderly Mama, roll meatballs, as well as breed bitterness the whole time, from the waiters who really can't stand their boss regaling in the attention of his own television show/restaurant, and leave them to precious little tips on opening night plus a whole hell of a lot of grief.
Some of the staffers that stand out are Caroline, the latina sounding waitress who speaks henglish that'd make Ricky Ricardo blush. Her mangled syntax would be bothersome if she weren't so sexy in that bitchy and grating way. Sparks fly, as Laurent can't stand the poor bitch and Rocco's patience is wearing just a little thin with her bad attitude. Sarcastic as hell, she's on thin ice. Not as on thin ice as Gideon, who fails as a waiter in the first episode and is sent downstairs as a busboy/slave. In the course of his demotion, he yields to the floor, slipping and breaking his arm. Not wishing to convalesce, because he's got rent to pay and expenses to meet, he's willing to work. Mixed signals prevail as he's called to don a suit and tie (all by himself mind you, with his arm in a sling), appears at work and is summarily sent home. Twice, this happens, not getting the message that he's not wanted there. And of course there's Topher. Flamboyantly gay, he's a good waiter and a favourite of Rocco's. The show starts with Topher mad for his boss, fiercely dedicated to the employ of Chef DiSpirito, alas by the series's fifth episode, Topher can't stand the pressure and the sadness that fills his precious little soul. Editing makes his quitting look premeditated, and in the pursuit of the same treatment had by Lola, who quit bartending, yet was bribed back with a Vespa scooter. Topher, as the editing would have you believe, wants an "F-ing SUV" for his crocodile tears.
Between the pasta fazool and the orecchiette with broccoli rabe and sausage, you see an eager television personality bred in the personable and telegenic Rocco DiSpirito. With this show, and the nearly $2 million bucks he's raked in for endorsements, NBC has created the next Emeril for the 18-34 year old demographic. The Restaurant is making Italian staples like eggplant, artichokes and octopus, as fashionable and pedestrian as meatballs and garlic sticks. It's also made me absolutely convinced that I could never be a waiter. And it gives credence to the late Fred Friendly's wise adage, that no one ever got rich stiffing cab drivers and waiters. Lest we forget that the next time a dim-mannered waiter hands us our bucatini with crab, just a tad burnt or uncooked.
To say the least, I'm hooked on The Restaurant. I like to eat once in a while, so this show gives the viewer his fill of fine dining, high drama and hijinks as well as the urban life that we love to loath once in a while. The Restaurant is a bright light in this seemingly dark summer of television, what with the reruns and the unbearable reality of reality television. It's fun and with the bad food and all, it's a veritable serving of tasty television.
*************************
©2003 Joseph Planta.