Note: Updated to reflect the launch of the new U.S. "Kitchen Nightmares," airing Wednesdays at 10 p.m. on Fox.
Scrunched, red, and as wrinkled as a shar-pei's behind, Gordon Ramsay's is the face of someone whose every expression has left a mark. He has the laddered forehead of the born worrier, with every line etched and ready for springing back into action with the next frown. Even his somewhat rarer smiles have left their imprints.
He's a weird mix. At just past forty, the famous British chef easily looks ten years older than his actual age, yet he also conveys an oddly boyish pugnacity and athleticism, as well. In other words, as finalist contestant Bonnie Muirhead put it in this season of Hell's Kitchen, "I'll have nightmares about Chef Ramsay yelling at me for the rest of my life, but he's still kind of hot."
Ramsay, especially in tyrant mode on Hell's Kitchen, is certainly something of an acquired taste. The first time I watched the show, I actually flinched when Ramsay launched into one of his famous tirades, screaming a blue streak of bleeped obscenities at the hapless contestants.
"What is that guy doing?" I asked my friend nervously. "Does he always scream at them like this?"
I found myself both riveted and repulsed by Ramsay's over-the-top shouting, screaming, cursing, and shoving. He threw things at people. Threw. I couldn't believe it. This was what reality TV had come to. It was like I was watching the boss of my worst nightmares. Even Ramsay's hair seems perpetually enraged, standing up from his head in a mess of blond spikes.
And yet, I couldn't look away. I've kept watching. Something about the show, and Chef Ramsay, resonates with me. The guy is charismatic, for one thing, and he's obviously passionate about the business, as well as the art, of food. He cares how it is prepared, and dislikes having to suffer fools along the way (everyone can empathize with that one). Adding Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares to my Tivo list also helped to add dimension to the guy. He can be charming and effortlessly likeable on that show (while still showing the typical Ramsay blue streak), and often exhibits unexpected moments of kindness, as when he's encouraging a hapless restaurant owner, or complimenting a shy sous chef on a lovely dessert.
But I admit it, I've grown to love the yelling, the endless bleeps, the infinite variations on the F-word. The breadth and variety of his insults is superb, and when it comes to profanity, Ramsay is a king in his domain, an entertaining, colorful and endlessly inventive wordsmith. Watching Ramsay cuss out a contestant on one Hell's Kitchen episode last season, in which he used an iteration of the F-word more than 34 times, I was reminded of that line in Jean Shepherd's A Christmas Story, when Ralphie talked about his father working in obscenity the way most men worked with clay. That's Chef Ramsay for you.
His food may be divine — I don't doubt the three Michelin stars — but what Ramsay was really born to do? Rant. The man was born for it.
"It tastes like gnat's piss!" he cries. It's the unexpected humor in the delivery that kills me. "It's a f*cking carrot, you donut!" he shouts to another clueless, trembling contestant. On yet another occasion, he moans that a girl has "a palate like a cow's backside." He compares a contestant's fried quail eggs to "plastic silicone implants." It's all weirdly awesome. The worst dishes receive the most scathing comments of all: "It looks like f*cking Bovril and baby vomit!" he screams, quivering in outrage at a contestant's attempt to please him with a favorite recipe. "It looks like regurgitated dog sh*t!"
For me, the end-all, be-all Ramsay moment arrived when he screamed at season two runner-up Virginia Dalbeck last season that her scallops wouldn't stick to her pan because it was non-stick. "That's why they call it non-stiiIIIIIiiick!" he shrieked. And with his voice ascending to the heights and then actually cracking in all-out desperation in the end, oh, it's one of those sublime moments that defies description, hilarious and touching all at the same time. You almost feel bad for the guy, endlessly saddled with these clueless incompetents. (Ramsay almost achieved this same level of perfection this season when he yelled, "I can't stop the ChuuUUuurch!" over the bumbling preparations for a wedding banquet — but the voice crackage just wasn't quite as good.)
In a perfect world, and on those rare perfect occasions when only an insult will do, I too could thumb my nose at the world with this kind of snark and impudence. As it is, I'm simply awestruck. And parked in front of the TV every Ramsay night (Mondays, when Hell's Kitchen's airing, Wednesdays for the U.S. Kitchen Nightmares, and Thursdays, for the BBC version) in semi-religious fervor.
With Ramsay, all the emotions are high-powered — even the low ones, and sad Ramsay is just as funny as angry Ramsay. "Deeeeearrr. Oh, dear," he'll moan in tragic tones, delicately poking his fork at a burned or sodden mess of salad, chicken or crab. The genuine sadness and disappointment in his voice doesn't make it any less funny to watch. It just makes you feel a little evil for laughing.
But Ramsay doesn't just verbally abuse his hapless subjects on Hell's Kitchen or Kitchen Nightmares. He mixes in praise, support, forgiveness, and exasperation with neverending bouts of inventive affectionate (and not-so-affectionate) name-calling. Contestants aren't just poor performers, they're Donuts, Bimbos, Gremlins, and Monkeys. And, of course, his most common designation (and my personal favorite): Donkey.
So anything Ramsay is now must-see TV for me. I'm not sure when it happened — maybe the tenth time he called someone "donkey," or the fiftieth time he said "f*ck," but somewhere along the lines, it hit me. I loved this guy. Adored him. I knew I'd still be petrified to be in the same room with him, mind you, but his insanity actually had started to make total sense to me. And it didn't stop there. I'd been TiVoing Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares as well, just to see what all the fuss was about on the other side of the pond. And before you knew it, I was a diehard fan of all shows Ramsay. (This fall's U.S. version of Kitchen Nightmares? So far, so good -- it's got all the gross food, incompetence, and Ramsay profanity you've been waiting for -- and more.)
And what's not to love? The guy simply will not accept mediocrity. He sneers at the ordinary. He expects something special from every single person around him. I love that. Our world, so often, expects so little from people. So many of us work at computers or small desks, shoved in cubicles, often in work that is mind-numbingly mundane. I have to like a guy who cares so deeply and so passionately about something that he will not accept anything less than the best, from himself as well as those around him. Sure, he can be a raging jerkwad. But there's a depth and resonance to his behavior, and (I'm quite sure) a deliberate drama as well. Ramsay's problem (if it is one) is simply that he cares too much — about everything. You can't imagine this guy being blase on a single subject. Quality matters.
He cares most of all about the customers, but he also won't play games with those who throw tantrums just because they can. Last season on HK, he famously told a woman who was rather obviously playing to the camera to "get her breasts off his counter." This season, he reacted to a snooty customer by telling his faithful Maitre'd Jean-Philippe to "take the giraffe back to the table, please."
But these are exceptions — most of the time, his interactions with customers seem surprisingly gracious and low-key, especially on the BBC's Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, where he often seems almost messianic, doing his best to save the entire British Empire from bad food, one restaurant at a time. In the kitchen, in the swelter and bustle of his particular domain, perfection is possible. The food has to be simply yet elegantly prepared, and it's got to taste delicious. As he hovers over a contestant's sauce or tastes a restaurateur's latest hideous concoctions, the fear in Ramsay's prematurely lined face is palpable. Everything has to be right. In each episode, the irritation, dread and exasperation actually seems to come off him in little squiggly lines as he wonders what the donkeys will put the poor customers through this week.
So for me it's not about the yelling, although it's often so stagey that I either find it hilarious or I can't take it too seriously. Because he's not indiscriminate. He doesn't yell at someone who doesn't know how to make something, for instance, he yells at those who screw up when they should have known better -- at the experienced and formally trained chef who nevertheless burns the scallops, overlooks the rancid crab, or overcooks the risotto.
For Ramsay, the worst offenders are always those who should have known better. I'm still amazed that we didn't see a small mushroom cloud over Hell's Kitchen on the day when contestant Jen Yemola tried to serve pasta she'd thrown in the trash and then reboiled. Only the quiet remonstration of Julia Williams (famous as this season's capable, quietly wonderful "Waffle House" contestant) saved the hapless customer from that tasty little confection. The worrisome part for me was the way Jen rattled off the temperature of the water as a sure-fire way to make things okay ("Two-twelve kills the bacteria," she said matter-of-factly), something that still makes me wonder if she's done it before. But even before Jen's ouster from the show, I knew she had to be doomed. Nobody was going to give a restaurant to this girl, no matter how capable a chef. Not to someone who thought it was okay to serve food straight out of the trash, ON TELEVISION. Not ever.
On Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, which just had its new U.S. spinoff debut last night, what's surprising is not that Ramsay can cook, but that he's a sharp and perceptive businessman with a special brilliance when it comes to PR. He may love food, but he never loses sight of a restaurant as a business that depends on cleanliness, cuisine, and customers to make a go of it. When it comes to turning a restaurant around, Ramsay is perfectly willing to scrub floors and deep-fryers, train (or re-train) staff, revise a menu, or even come up with a winning PR campaign (like his smashing "Campaign for Real Gravy" idea to help revitalize the Fenwick Arms pub). Even in the more pugnacious U.S. version (the ads are of course, like Hell's Kitchen, all about the yelling), Ramsay is surprisingly complex. He can use the f-word twelve times a sentence, sure, but it's usually while scrubbing out a dirty stove or tossing bad food. And he can still demonstrate professionalism, humor, and quiet confidence, in this case ironically serving as a hotheaded Italian-American family's peacemaker in the opening episode.
But unlikely as it is, he does have a perceptive side -- even on Hell's Kitchen as well. In between rants, he's perfectly capable of seeing right through those on the show, for instance, who appear to be there more for the "I'm on TV!" or PR opportunities than for the actual cooking. "You're standing there like some jumped-up little cavewoman!" he yelled at this season's Melissa Firpo, who with her long matted hair actually did unfortunately rather resemble a cavewoman at that particular instance. When someone like Melissa, who obviously had some cooking skills, seemed more interested in plumping her breasts for the camera, or arranging her waist-length auburn hair in new and exciting ways, Ramsay lost it, and justifiably so. (Ironically, the more Melissa did to her hair to call attention to it, the worse she looked. Like most people she honestly looked best when she simply stopped trying so hard.) And while Melissa's hair would have been an attractive feature for her if she'd been a beauty contestant, on HK all I could think every time I saw all that hair was, Please God, keep it away from the fooooood.
Ultimately, Ramsay's a little like Lou Gossett's character in An Officer and a Gentleman from ages back. He may be sparse with his praise, but when it comes (whether on Kitchen Nightmares or Hell's Kitchen), it's richly earned, and the recipient glows with it. It's a hallmark in the receiving person's life. When Ramsay finally bid farewell to Waffle House Julia on HK, not only hugging her and complimenting her for her performance, skills, and dedication, but actually offering to pay her way through culinary school, it was one of the best TV moments of my year. I may even have gotten a little misty-eyed. (But come on, it was Julia. She rocked. Even if she was a bit sour when returning for the finale.)
Gordon Ramsay's old school. In a world where mediocrity is celebrated, where so many people just don't seem to care anymore, Ramsay won't accept less than your best. And in his kitchen, the worst thing you can do is stop caring. This season, when he threw Josh Wahler out of the kitchen after a particularly terrible night of dinner service, he appeared to do so most of all because Josh was so paranoid, stressed, and nervous (frantically attempting to pre-cook multiple entrees to stay ahead, in a gambit that backfired badly) that he had stopped caring about the food.
In the world of Gordon Ramsay, you can't stop caring. You have a choice. You can be superb at what you do, and do it with pride, or you're nothing more than a donkey. It's not such a bad philosophy for life.
The colorful language, of course, is optional.
