Dear Mark,
I am addicted to Shark Tank. And because I am too lazy to jump through the hoops to get on the show and present my idea, I’m using the power of my pudgy fingers to reach you. Let’s pick and roll:
I walk on the set of Shark Tank. “Daymond John, you are so out,” I say. “Barbara, if I wanted to sell my cellulite-reducing sous-vide hot dog you’d be my best friend, but I’m keeping it to myself. You’re out.”
I watch the other sharks glance around, really scared at this point, and go for the kill. “Kevin, don’t even open that ugly mouth. You’re out. Robert, you can buy me dinner after the show but, for now, you are dead to me.”
Cameras swing: Close-up of Cuban. Music swells.
Mark. We live in the same city. We love the same teams. More importantly, we eat in the same restaurants. Last night, our city’s finest chef, Bruno Davaillon of the Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek, lost Best Chef in the Southwest at the James Beard Awards in New York City to a young chef in Austin who appeared on Top Chef. It has been 18 years since a Dallas chef won this title. We need a local version of Shark Tank geared towards Dallas restaurateurs. That way, you and I can work together to tighten up our game and turn it around. We have the talent, we need the exposure. And that exposure shouldn’t have to come from the Food Network or Bravo.
I propose we put together a panel of experts and ask restaurateurs to pitch their ideas BEFORE they decide to sink their life savings into an upscale seafood and sushi restaurant in a bad location. Let’s kick the steak house wannabes to Fort Worth. Mark, I’m asking you to invest whatever it takes to help us bring the talent of the Dallas restaurant community to the international scene. In exchange, I offer you fifty percent of my idea. Oh, and you can keep the Mavs.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
Nancy
P.S. If this helps illustrate my talent: I promoted women’s basketball in Dallas before the Mavericks were a thought in your brain. Just ask Nancy Lieberman.
After further investigation (read: Facebook stalkage), I found this donut with the caption: “Our very own Gay bar.”
If you missed this episode, boy do I feel sorry for you. Bev kicked a lot of @$$.
Crazy BRAVO, I guess, was tired of hot-weather Texas and decided to see if the Top Chefs (Paul, Bev, Sarah, and Lindsay) could survive in the frozen tundra of British Columbia. They might as well have been in Siberia. All the chefs, sporting longer hairdos from a couple months off, immediately start hating on Bev the second they reconvene inside Whistler Olympic Park. Sarah’s resolution to “be a really nice person” (… right) turns into a big flop and outcasts Bev from the start. When the final four meet the judges again, Padma begins to explain their elimination challenge, The Culinary Games, which is split into three parts. At the end of each round, one person must die. (Kidding, kidding. Too bad this isn’t “The Hunger Games.”) The winner of each round wins $10,000 and a guaranteed spot in the final three.
Let the games begin!
As I was writing the post about Michael Costa getting evicted from The Office Grill, Teresa Gubbins at PegasusNews received a press release from Costa. The Spin Doctor begins with: “In case you didn’t get the memo…” Oh my…jump.
UPDATE: I received a voice mail from Richard Chamberlain. “Michael Costa worked for us briefly 16 years ago,” he said. “In his release he insinuates he is associated with us and that is not the case.”
In August 2008, I traveled to Savannah, Georgia where I dined at Paula Deen’s restaurant Lady & Sons. We ran a post titled “Paula Deen Wants to Kill You.” I wrote:
I can still smell the rancid butter that hit us in the face when we walked in the door. I’ve got to find the pictures I took of the food I ate–everything was dripping in butter. I remember the chicken pot pie was big enough for four and almost everything was fried. OK, she admits she’s “not your cardiologist,” but she really is contributing to the delinquency of dieters. The night we went, at least 75 per cent of the diners were beyond overweight–they were obese. It was sad–like people watching at the slots in Vegas–everyone was gambling with their lives.
Last week Paula Deen confirmed the rumor: she has Type 2 diabetes. I wonder how many of her dedicated fans also suffer from Type 2? This really chaps my sass because two members of my family didn’t have a choice: they both were diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when they were young. They have to continually monitor their diet and control their blood sugar. However, Ms. Deen, and other people who put on blinders and continue to fill their body with fat and sugar, had an option. Like not eating a burger made with Krispy Kreme donuts. It’s now rumored that Deen may become the spokesperson for Novartis, a company with a drug designed to treat diabetes. If she personally profits from developing Type 2 diabetes (Hey yáll, I’m your endocrinologist!), I’m going to go berserk. I can already see the talk show circuit lighting up. It makes me sick.