I am completely in love with Gordon Ramsay. He is tall and intimidating and he has great hair. I love it when he shouts. I love it when he curses. Sometimes when I am slicing potatoes and celery for a pot roast, I imagine Chef Ramsay shouting at me angrily. I can’t help but beam. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face!” imaginary Ramsay shouts at me.
But there is such conflict in his brow, such tenderness in his soft blue eyes! He calls women “love” and “darling” in this perfect, inoffensively sexist way, except in the kitchen, where he’s all growls and snarls and pepper and fire. But he looks so sheepish when he accidentally breaks a plate—he cannot stop apologizing. He tries to disappear, but he can’t, because he is over six feet tall.
In the kitchen, Chef Ramsay is a benevolent dictator. “Would you just listen to him!” I shout at the television defensively. I cry during every episode of Kitchen Nightmares, and also at one episode of The F Word, the episode where Gordon Ramsay has to decide whether to slaughter a pig. I cannot understand how he is capable of furrowing his entire face; my heart breaks.
I think the reason I prefer Hell’s Kitchen to all the American Idols and Top Designers is, I have no opinions whatsoever. In Hell’s Kitchen, the only person I’m cheering for is Gordon Ramsay. Every contestant is a mess, and it isn’t as if I can taste the paella the Red Team bungled (“This is shit! Utter shit! Take off your apron! Get out!”). Until Magnavox invents Smell-o-vision, I’ll have to take it on Chef Ramsay’s word alone that the Red Team’s paella is shit. My only opinion is Gordon Ramsay’s.
In fact, my Hell’s Kitchen fandom is wholly predicated on my trust in Gordon Ramsay. He is impeccable; he has perfect judgement.