Every Thursday from 2 to 7 p.m., Bobby Flay torments me.
It doesn’t matter if it’s coq au vin, chicken and waffles, or seafood paella; he always wins. The name of his show–Beat Bobby Flay–remains an empty promise as his eyes radiate the conceit of his victory in high definition. His Instagram-model-lush eyebrows waggle as he triumphs over pad thai, green curry, veal schnitzel, and the unlucky hack who dared challenge Bobby to recreate her signature dish. This unfortunate chef must go home to her children and admit that the owner and operator of Mesa Grill, Bar Americain, and a slew of Burger Palaces has stolen the most precious thing she had: dignity.
It makes me sick.
For years, I have watched Mr. Flay strut around backyard barbecues in crisp denim aprons and offer “fresh” takes on brunch classics, and for years, I have been waiting to destroy him. The time has at last come for me to Beat Bobby Flay, but first I must perfect “my signature dish,” the one food I must master before I can show up to Food Network studios to thoroughly dismantle Mr. Flay’s Iron-Chef-clad ego.
I have chosen the humble noodle.
I am a renowned connoisseur of farfalle with decades of industry-experience slurping Classico Four Cheese Tomato sauce straight from the jar. It’s the obvious choice, but I can’t very well serve boxed angel hair if I am to thrust Bobby Flay off his pedestal and into the depths of culinary hell. I had to make my own, and I had to practice until it was flawless.
While practicing my feat in my kitchen, I imagined I was immersed in the intensity of round 2 against Bobby. I poured flour onto the countertops and cracked eggs on top, imagining Alex Guarnaschelli next to me inspecting the shells. “Perfect,” she’d say. “Not too many ended up in the dough and that is the key to beating Bobby Flay.” Geoffery Zakarian appeared to me in a hallucinatory vision. “Bobby Flay has never even heard of pasta, which is why you will beat him so bad that all the hair on his body falls off,” he told me, and I believed him.
I kneaded, and cried, and yelled, and hollered, and rejoiced, and sweat, and kneaded again. At one point, my mound of dough resembled Flay’s soft, lumpy mug and I imagined him staring at me from across the studio kitchen, taunting me with his Irish curls and baby blues.
My hatred toward Bobby almost borders on love.
“Do not succumb to the Flay!” I told myself, rolling out my dough like a wildebeest. I stretched the dough until it was as thin as paper, and chopped it up into thick strands. “I don’t think you can hide behind your precious ancho chiles on this challenge, Bobby!” I cackled, fondling my pappardelle.
Finally, I knew that I was ready to face the Man of My Nightmares so I set out into the night, toward Food Network studios. “I–must–beat–Bobby–Flay,” I wailed the entire way there, panting and jangling my pasta like chains. The sky opened up like a Chopped mystery basket as thunder rolled through the cayenne-pepper-colored sky. Angels sang, or was it a chorus of heavenly Emeril Lagasses yelling “BAM?” Was it rain falling on me, or a cascade of oregano from a Rachel Ray 30 Minute Meal?
I dropped to my knees and banged on the studio door with my flour-coated fists.
“I–must–challenge–Bobby–to–the–death–”
I was told that after making this proclamation, I passed out. A Food Network intern found me sprawled upon a bed of dirty pasta and called an ambulance to take me to New York Presbyterian Hospital, where I lay now. The doctors want me to recuperate before they can release me, but I cannot.
It’s a Thursday afternoon.
Beat Bobby Flay is on, and I will not rest.
Images via Sarah Clapp.