BAM!

Friday, October 26, 2007

As much as I may try, I will never forget the day George Bush, Dick Cheney and Condi Rice were contestants on “Top Chef”.

You may or may not have seen the show- it’s one of a slew of new ”reality” contest shows on cable television. They start with a dozen professional chefs, and each week they get them all together in a big studio kitchen facility and give them a limited amount of time to make a specific type of meal. At the end of each show the loser gets kicked off, and everyone else comes back and tries again next week. The point is to be the last person standing once everyone else has been eliminated. It’s sort of like serving as a cabinet member in the first Nixon or Reagan Administrations, except that in this case the contestants all have large, sharp knives. Well, ok, so it’s a lot like serving in the first Reagan Administration...

Anyway, some numbwit in the Press Office thought it would be a great idea to have George, Dick and Condi do the show. I guess the thinking was that once your poll numbers hit the low thirties, almost any publicity is good publicity as long as it doesn’t involve video of you burning pictures of the Pope or strangling live kittens. It’s a good theory, but as it always seems to, reality reared its ugly head and took a big bite.

“Sounds like fun,” George said to me when I told him about it, digging a “Kiss the Cook” baseball cap out of his desk drawer and sticking it on his head. “As long as they don’t want us to cook anything French. That wouldn’t be right. It would be wrong. And anyway, French food is over-hype-enated. Did you know there is no word in French for ‘hors d’oeuvre’ ”?

We arrived at the set shortly before lunch.

Dick immediately made a beeline for the table with the biggest knives and wrapped his arms around it. When Condi approached he hissed at her. She took up a station across from him, and the two of them stood there, brandishing their Wustoffs and glaring at each other.

George ambled over to a table near the bank of stainless-steel-fronted refrigerators, and then started rummaging through one of them, looking for a snack.

The floor director got the cameras rolling, and Emeril, who was acting as a special guest host, ran onto the set and shook hands all around. “I’m so glad to be here!” he burbled. “I’m so glad to see all you fine folks here!” He turned to the camera. “We’re gonna do some hot cooking tonight, boy, and just when you think we’re done...” he wound up his face and then delivered, at full volume, his trademark exclamation- “BAM!!!”

Poor Emeril... George and Dick immediately dove for the floor in a shower of clattering pots and pans as six secret service agents sprang from the rafters, guns waving. Two of them gang-tackled Emeril while a third jumped on Condi. After they got things sorted out, and George and Dick got out from under their tables, and we pried the secret service agent off Condi (he seemed reluctant to release his grip), things settled down and they started taping.

For this special episode they had a chili cook-off, which was right up George, Dick and Condi’s alley. The rules were simple- they had two hours to work, and you could only use the ingredients in the kitchen. What the poor simpletons who set this up were thinking I’m not sure. Dick immediately ran over and stuffed all the beef into one large pot and took it back to his table, and then proceeded to sell Condi some of it for $50 a pound.

“Law of Supply and Demand,” I heard him say when she objected. I didn’t quite catch her reply, because at that moment George started turning on all the electric power mixers, but I think she made some sort of helpful suggestion about where he could stuff the beef.

I had to leave for a while to have lunch with Hilary Clinton and Steven Spielberg to talk about a new game show Steven is planning for Hilary called ‘Where’s Bill Now?’, and when I got back they were taping the judging segment. It seems that all three contestants had cheated. Well... now I love George, Dick and Condi like they were my twins, but I have to say- what the fuck were the producers expecting?

It seems that Dick had sent his personal bodyguards out to buy some special ingredients.

“You can’t do that!” Emeril told him. “It’s against the rules.”

“Whose side are you on?” Dick asked him, glaring and brandishing his knife. “It’s talk like that that gives aid and comfort to the enemies of America. The Paprika in the kitchen was defective, and I have evidence that the chili powder had been compromised by Al Quaeda.” He waved his knife under Emeril’s nose. “Whatever I may have done to the ingredients was done with the best interests of America in mind, and was done with the full support of our intelligence community.”

Emeril took a look at the knife, and at the two Secret Service agents looming over Dick’s shoulder, and turned to Condi.

“Now, Ms. Rice,” he began, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but the chili you made is about the worst I’ve ever tasted.”

Condi didn’t even bat an eyelash. “No, it’s not,” she said firmly.

“You put oranges in it,” Emeril said, holding up a tomato-soaked orange wedge with his fork.

“That an onion,” Condi said evenly.

“It’s an orange,” Emeril said, sniffing it and wrinkling his nose.

“It’s an onion. Are you saying I’m lying?” Condi snapped.

Emeril shook his head, “No, but-“

“Then I think we have an agreement. That is an excellent chili, isn’t it?”

“But Ms Rice-“

“Is it or isn’t it? It either is or it is not, there is no in-between. You either believe me or you don’t. You are either with me or against me. If you agree I am not a liar, then you also have to agree that my chili is the best you have ever tasted.” Condi folded her arms and sat back, a small smile playing across her face. Emeril blanched and turned to George.

“Mr President,” he began.

“Call me George,” George said, graciously.

Emeril nodded. “George. Well, George, Mr. President, sir, I couldn’t help but notice that your chili came in a container marked ‘Big Al’s –Houston’s Best Chili’, and that it was brought in by a Secret Service courier about ten minutes ago.”

“So what?” George asked.

“But that’s against the rules, Mr. President,” Emeril said.

”But I’m the President,” George said. “However it got here, that’s the President’s chili, and if I say it’s mine, nobody can say it’s not. I have the power, in time of war, to make chili any way I see fit. That’s good chili, American chili. It’s not French chili, it’s my chili, and it’s all right because I say it is. The American people want a strong President, and a good chili, and that’s what I gave them.”

George smiled. “Laura and me, we always watch your show,” he said. “Could you do that ‘Bam’ thing you do again?”

Emeril frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

George started to look pouty. “But I’m the President. If I ask you, you have to.”

“Bam,” Emeril said softly.

“No, no, you know, the way you usually yell it.”

Emeril shrugged, looked around, and then let it go at full throttle-

“BAM!”

This time when the Secret Service agents gang-tackled him they dislocated his shoulder, which pretty much brought the proceedings to an end. The good news is that Emeril is not going to sue us. The other good news is that I made a few phone calls and was able to make sure the episode would never air, not that the producers needed much persuading.

“I thought that went real well,” George said in the limo on the way back to the White House, “I like that Emeril fella, he seems like good people.”

George leaned back. “BAM!!” he suddenly shouted. Condi jumped and George grinned.

“Gotcha!” he said proudly.

They say that when your poll numbers crater, any publicity is good publicity, and it may be true, but then again, the person who said that may never have worked for George and Dick and Condi.

BAM!!