BOBBY FLAY, APPLE OF MY RIBEYE

Find a complete transcript of my mind-boggling conversation with Bobby Flay at the end of this post.
What do you give the girl who’s eaten her way through life--now that she’s grown up? Whose father whisked her up and down the D.C. corridor for pickled plums & wasabi, Korean barbecue & dim sum, who grew up coaxing cilantro seeds and believing Phyllis Richman (food doyenne at The Washington Post) had the ultimate job, and whose most-prized possession is a signed copy of Julia & Jacques Cooking at Home?

Why, floor tickets to see Bobby Flay, of course!

Do you smell something burning? Look at me, I can hardly stand.

He was in Norfolk last Friday filming a Throwdown with Wood Chick’s BBQ, a hot local phenom (www.woodchicksbbq.com ). I braved the I-95 corridor by myself with toddlers (don't worry, I left them in good hands) for Saturday's demo.

“What do you mean you’re going to 'see' Bobby Flay?” people asked me for several weeks prior. “What is he going to do?” I guess the implication is that he was…"just" going to “be Bobby Flay.”

Which is pretty much the definition of celebrity.

Look, any breathing woman who is worth her kosher salt & in viewing distance of The Food Network has at least a first-degree crush on Bobby Flay. BUT, do you know WHY?

It’s a funny thing I’ve observed, observing his celebrity evolve over the past twelve years: people somehow assume he must be a roué, a cad with tongs, the devil in the crabshell your mother warned you about (okay, okay, this would not be inaccurate of my own past tastes), manning the grill at the FN, easy on the eyes and inciting to the palate...yet they positively salivate with wonder: Can there be any meat--any substance?

Digest this: Bobby Flay has meat to spare—and a sweet underlying vein of marrow, to boot.

We settle into our chairs, and my father leans in, gesturing to the big screens and laser-swirl of lights, “This is weird. It’s like... he’s a…rockstar.”

The celebrity chef phenomenon—(let’s face it: it’s the Food Network’s genius doing) is nothing short of bizarre. As Bobby Flay narrates and cooks, people nod furiously (to prove they knew enough about food to agree with him?, or that they themselves already employ that technique at home?) People, quite frankly, lose their minds. And it's not just because they're high on the smoke from the spice rub and the indoor grilling.

"Oh no, now everybody's going to start coughing,” he rasps charmingly. “Sorry. Indoor grilling—what a great idea" he says, as fragrant plumes of spice-rub roll out over the crowd, over me. Perplexingly, someone takes him seriously—“Okay, you realize I was just kidding about the indoor grilling being a good idea, right?” he later clarifies.

It must be uncanny to have people hang on your every morsel.

Okay: this is like worm-holing to a Beatles concert crossed with the cutest guy in the world tossing pizza dough in the window, the summer you’re fourteen.

I can also see that his life must be peppered with endless, celebrity-seeking questions (though he’s far too gentlemanly to use such an assessment), which he handles deftly & gently, folding in answers to audience-questions like lump crabmeat. The questions he is asked seem pretty...self-serving (note: I cannot be responsible for the continued and unconscious use of food terminology) and, exasperatingly, many of them are inane riffs on “Can I come down and be your little helper?” (um, hello, sous-chef?), posed by females in the crowd.

Yet he continually reveals himself to be skilled & perfectly generous, with the crowd--and with other chefs. Another part of his appeal. “People think that Emeril just throws stuff in the pot and yells BAM!, but let me tell you something: Emeril can cook his ass off.”

And then, "The Dreaded Cilantro-Hater" pipes up. “Am I missing a gland in my tongue? Because it tastes like soap to me.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” he says--but instead of fleshing that out (as he could) to say, "I knew because every single cookbook and food blog on this planet lists a soapy taste as chief complaint," he simply disarms her by shrugging and saying:

"I grew up eating a lot of soap, so it doesn't bother me. But cilantro is definitely an acquired taste."

He also cleverly gave her the absolution she was seeking, however subconsciously—because not only do we have food celebrities, but we live in an age of celebrity foods:--cilantro, pomegranate, truffle oil, kobe beef. It’s like we need permission not to like them, or to be unable to afford them.

And then somewhere in the middle of making this killer lobster-avacado salad ("Okay, it's basically a Bloody Mary with lobster and avacado," he says), with enormously appealing amounts of horseradish, Bobby Flay does two things. He praises the lowly ribeye, and woos my father, all in the span of two minutes.

He walks us through a spice-rubbed, chipotle-glazed ribeye, a cut I was delighted he endorsed. "I love it, because it's got a lot of fat," he says (oh, me too, me too!), and I am smitten to hear him rhapsodize over a piece of meat other than the more obvious supermodels of cuts. "If you don't see any marbling, I can guarantee you of two things,” he said. “One, no flavor, and two, no moisture."
And no meat thermometer required to check my temperature--because of course I immediately extrapolated his praise of the ribeye to mean he cannot possibly be shallow in any other area of his life.

I can't help it: I'm big on the metaphor.

And then he went and pulled out The Tarragon Card. And of course, the resulting anise-reference. Not the workhorse of herbs, but the mac daddy of style: tarragon.

(And he had to go and mention Paulie and Henry's razor-thin garlic trick from Goodfellas...is there any other movie?)

To my right I could feel my father (who was tucking little sprigs of tarragon into my first-grade chicken salad plates) relaxing and approving.

As if to say: So, maybe there is something my daughter sees in this Flay fellow, more than simply...Chef Bad-Ass.

The boon to our seats was the backstage pass (for all practical purposes) which allowed us to thread through a long line to meet Bobby Flay and his magical Sharpie.

Now. I coulda-shoulda told him how much I loved his restaurant.
Devastated we missed his visit to the Las Vegas MESA Grill by a mere week this November, I, well, grilled the waiter mercilessly:

“Well, what would Bobby have?”

He threw back his head and laughed.“Bobby would have a steak three meals a day.”

I closed the menu.
I have been diligently trying to replicate his sweet potato chicken hash with poached eggs, that made me swoon that morning (and I may have been the only person in Las Vegas without a hangover).

And whatever the orange-red sauce is (Smoked Red Pepper? Red Tomatillo?) I would like to bathe in that please, in the big tub at The Bellagio.

It's much better when he makes it.

I could have told him, in fact, that the very best thing about my MESA Grill experience was every little thing. The enormous number of touches everwhere the color of smoked paprika (sigh: my favorite color), the lighting warm yet utterly alert, the way even these fabulous tiles on the bathroom floor are set at this very subtle & compelling angle which made me grin.

That sitting in his restaurant feels exactly like a silky spoonful of his Pumpkin Soup with (good Lord, I am only human) Cinnamon Crema going down.

It is a satisfying complexity which starts in the primordial pleasure of the lizard brain, then radiates out into your limbs. And then if you’re me, you walk around on a gnocchi-light cloud all day, not caring too much about losing at Craps.

By far the most impressive thing about MESA Grill is that everyone who works in the house (front and back, from my furtive observation) is HAPPY. Slammed to the gills, but ultra-focused & collectively engaged in a damn happy thrumming process. You can tell a lot about who’s at the helm by the way everyone else acts when he’s away. It occurs to me without warning that, though I’ve no idea what the price per pound could possibly be on a stay-at-home mom with a palate for all and an eye for minutia, in some alternate life I would very much like to work for Bobby Flay.

Copy you will see on his site and beyond: "Bobby Flay possesses a remarkable ability to create and maintain the individual character of each of his projects, insisting on uniqueness and integrity."So when you ask--how does he do that? (i.e. Why is he Bobby Flay), that's how he does it. It appears that he's plating and eating life on those terms. Bold moves.

I finally reach Bobby Flay. He is sitting at the table, a little oasis. I hand him the copy of the MESA Grill Cookbook I'd intuitively flung into the diaper bag the day before. I’m okay with the fact that I didn’t bring Bold American Food for him to sign.

I had planned on perhaps thanking him for affirming & espousing the ribeye, on possibly talking hash, but this is what I came up with:

"So...thanks a lot---now we'll never get in to Wood Chick's."

Always putting the mock in mock turtle soup, I am reduced being a six-year-old girl who socks her playground love in the arm—hard--and skips away.

But his face cracks open like an egg into that smile. (I’m your humble reporter, but I am only human, people).

"Oh man, you should have told me last night--it was PACKED."
Which is the scant teaspoon of encouragement I need to go here (are you ready?):

"So," I drawl, "What about pears? Yay or nay?"
Where did THAT come from?

Actually, I know just where it came from: I'm not going to insult Bobby Flay by tritely asking him what to do with a tomatillo (or for goshssakes how to grill something); I know what to do with a tomatillo--mostly. And, I don't have a tomatillo tree at home. I have a forlorn, overbearing pear tree. And Pear-Patron Granita sounds really good, but ultimately self-limiting.

"Paris?"
He looks bemused, confused, but also, slightly…enthused.

"No, pears."

I laugh easily, though I am squirming inside. Jiiiiiicama, he thinks I’m some crazy food-groupie who's asking him to go to Paris!, and then it occurs to me: this must happen all the time. Food hussies attempting to proposition him to foreign lands.

"OH, PEARS."And now there is simply no stopping me. I am holding up a gigantic line of people who look like they want to come at my throat with William Henrys if they could only hear this conversation.

"I want you [here I cross my arms & arch my brow, take a step back] to tell me one thing I should do with them. An assignment.”

What am I doing?! To my surprise I am not tripping over anything or passing out. I am volleying his smirk and shamelessly holding up the rest of the line, demanding a culinary homework assignment from Bobby Flay.
And, he's off!

"Well, what I like to do is....poach them in some red wine....something, something, something...”

[insert dizzy, disbelieving part where I am seeing myself from above, trying to listen but not stare, even though he is only looking at me because I asked him a question] "…something, something…star anise"(which he pronounces ah-nees, and I have always pronounced ann-is)"...finish with Blue cheese.”

Screeeeech! I repeat him like one would winning lotto numbers and visibly swallow. “Blue Cheese.”

"Oh, he nickers softly,"You like blue cheese?"
Is he joking? What's not to like?

Revealing the new classic recipe for "Poached Paris," flicking some imaginary star anise into the pot.

Yet there is something so languidly nice about this conversation, his limbs, his language. It's like he has an extra lung taking extra breaths, and frankly I am glad someone is breathing, because I cannot. Actually, STOP. Okay, I am exaggerating, as I am wont to do...

Look--What if I told you the truth? That talking to Bobby Flay—even with the security goosing you along was, well...as easy as pie?

Another reason I'm impressed. Plus, he zigged when I thought he would zag—in the eighth of a second which represented presence of mind before I asked The Pear Question, I completely expected him to suggest a smoldering pear salsa, but this is even better because a) I didn’t expect it and b) it involves blue cheese. And I certainly NEVER expected a personal recipe.

Finally, I ask, with a lot of Italian hand-gesturing, “Can we do...the picture thing?”
Now who's harnessing the word “bold?!”And to my shock, he gets up, comes around the table, wraps his arm around my waist, and turns perfectly to the camera (I, in the other hand, stand directly under the same fluorescent light in the most unflattering angle possible for my aquiline nose, which makes me look like a roman vampire).
Still, rarely have I been so grateful for the little things in life:12-hour deoderant, the invention of

chlorophyll-based gum, lycra.

Gone is the frivolous & sexy crush of a petite filet, replaced by some bolder, substantial admiration for the ribeye.

I gnaw on that.

Something I might share if I had the right food analogy.