Chapped By "Chopped"

I'm a little miffed by the Food Network show "Chopped," which in general, I enjoy immensely, but am irked by its panel of judges.

The show's premise is brilliantly attention-commanding. Four non-celebrity chefs are each given a "mystery basket" containing three (or four) oddball ingredients that in an ideal world would never be served on the same bill of fare, much less combined into a single entrée. Havarti, yams and eel. Tongue, rhubarb and marshmallows, etc. The chefs must then "think on their feet," and improv these nauseatingly disparate factions into a tantalizing gourmet treat within a hellishly brief 30 minutes.

The maddening preparation intervals are edited to a more reasonable chunk of time, so that the entire show isn't consumed by a single round. There are three; Appetizer, Main Dish and Dessert. With each round, the chef that conjures up the least palatable dish, is eliminated, or "chopped." By the third round, the Dessert round, the competition has been pared to two competing chefs, slugging it out for the judges' favor. The last chef standing is declared "Chopped Champion."

The judges, whom are each given brief yet epic introductions ("... the Grand Wizard of the Sauté Pan"), get to sample each chef's creation and then enjoy informing him/her what a disgusting, back-alley scavenger plate of wet garbage they've toiled upon.

Here's where I really have a problem.

Most of the time, the judges' critiques boil down to the same pair of complaints: the dish is A. undercooked, and B. weird.

Hello??? You gave them ingredients that Lizzie Borden wouldn't throw in a pot together to serve to her parents, and only 30 minutes to plan, gather additional elements from a spaceship-like "pantry," combine and cook in whichever manner the chef is proficient, and then "plate" – arrange in an esthetically pleasing presentation. Any dish birthed in this environment is bound to be somewhat rushed and a tad strange! Needless to say these chefs have bulging neck veins and soulless staring gazes after the conclusion of each round.

And the judges apparently can't discern anything out of the ordinary about this kitchen equivalent of a bad LSD trip. Maybe in their world, it's normal.

The judges, by the way, also get to watch and comment during the preparations, which I'm sure endears them to the contestants even more. Not to mention the show's host, Ted Allen, who may be a gourmet in his own right, but on this show fills the role of studious shmuck with microphone, standing in the way, asking each chef for a play-by-play. "I'm putting a lid on the sauce to simmer, bitch. What does it look like I'm doing? Get away from me!"

And just as the nightmare seems almost over, the judges ask each chef to describe – in a style not unlike a job interview – what they have cooked.

"I've seared the GORILLA THIGH in extra-virgin olive oil to offset the power of the TANG brûlée, and garnished with GUMMI BEAR wedges on a bed of chopped bacon and field greens. Enjoy."

Each judge takes a demure mouthful, with a far-off stare of contemplation... suggesting in some cases that these Master Chefs could taste-test anti-matter and savor it with professorial aplomb... then unloads on the embattled foodsmith.

"I think you're a very creative person... but in all honesty, you could have dropped trow and grunted out a butt-fudge enchilada on this plate and I'd have respected you more."

The victimized chef must keep retort to a minimum. "Ah. Umhm. Yes, I understand."

"You're a fraud and a whore. This is just a step removed from boiled vomit."

"Email that online culinary school and demand your 20 bucks back."

"Memorize this, because you're going to need it: 'Pull to the next window please.'"

I will never be on this show, because frankly, I'd lose it. I don't mean I'd lose the Championship. I wouldn't even get that far. I'd. Lose. It. With. These. People.

It would go down like:

JUDGE: "Your pasta is underdone."

ME: "And you're make-up is coming undone."

JUDGE: "Your fromage filling is running out onto the plate."

ME: "And your teeth are about to spill out onto the floor."

JUDGE: "I find this dish frankly unacceptable."

ME: "The ingredients you made me use were Whale Semen, Spinach and Mini-Butterfingers. A dung beetle would find that dish unacceptable!"

The Food Network should rename this show "Meet The Asshats."

Chef Dave, sorry, you've MET THE ASSHATS. Goodbye.

An eliminated contestant is always filmed walking down the "hallway of shame" back to the dressing rooms. I'm waiting to see when a "chopped" chef flips the bird to the camera... I'm sure the editor has a collection.

Again, I am kind of addicted to this show.