by Allen Salkin
Saint Sara handled it: “Oh, Ralph, get a life.”
Sara herself was not encouraged by TVFN to have a life. Four months into her nightly stint, she informed Joe that she’d be taking two weeks off in August to visit her parents’ farmhouse in Massachusetts.
“You can’t go,” Joe told her. “You’re doing a live show.”
“Do repeats,” she said.
“We don’t do repeats,” he insisted. “It’s a live show.”
“I’m going on vacation.” Sara was enjoying her new role, but did not take it terribly seriously. Who knew if the network would survive? This was a lark. She doubted her show would last six months even if the network did survive.
Joe brought in chef Michael Lomonaco as a substitute. Sara returned and reclaimed her show, but by January, Michael had his own show, his own set, his own graphics, and his own knives with Michael’s Place written on them. She was still on the set of In Food Today with no oven. The next year her August replacement was the Boston chef Ming Tsai, an expert in Asian fusion. By January, he had his own show and set. Two men, two new sets. Sara began to think there was a bias against women chefs at the network. The men got their own music and signature knives while she had canned tunes and dull hardware.
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As tight as the network was with budgets, it lacked the proper infrastructure to manage some of its cash and other resources. Reese had hired a former stripper, Betty Harris, as the chief financial officer. Betty had attended accounting school once her dancing days were done and tried her best to maintain rational books, but keeping tabs on production costs, license fees, and food bills at a start-up network where inexperienced staff were lax about paperwork was a sometimes overwhelming task. Susannah Eaton-Ryan, the head of operations, kept a safe under her desk with thousands of dollars in petty cash. So many different producers had been given the combination that almost anybody could get into it. There was an honor system, but little honor. Producers would leave a note: “I took two hundred dollars to buy bok choi in Chinatown,” “Five hundred to pay for taxis for camera crew on Dining Around,” and the like. But the notes rarely reconciled with the cash. Thousands of dollars were stolen. Other items, like chef’s knives, routinely went missing from the kitchen.
Cooks complained to Joe about the ongoing thefts. One night he groused to George Babick, “It’s like we’re all in this situation of simultaneously producing programs, hustling advertising, and worrying about getting heavy cream and Irish butter delivered.”
George, a veteran of the CNN start-up, laughed and told Joe to let the bitching bounce off him. In the intervening years, George had worked at Tribune, where the hierarchy was rigid, but now as a top-level ad man, he was having a ball trying to land $50 for two-minute daytime spots from HairDini. A wild ride was to be expected. “There are start-up people and not start-up people,” he said. He suggested that non-start-up people “find jobs at Xerox.”
Joe couldn’t resist trying to solve the crimes. He installed a wall clock with a hidden video camera near the safe. The first thing the tape showed was time being stolen: footage of Jonathan Lynne reclining at a desk with his feet up in the middle of the day, perhaps following a late night at Tramps.
When some of the young production assistants became suspicious of the new clock’s positioning, they discovered the camera and cut the wire. The staff demanded an emergency meeting with executives, claiming their privacy was being violated and that the network was stifling creativity. A lot of the anger was directed at Joe, whom many of the young staff saw as a lackey for the moneymen in Providence, their invisible and tight-fisted corporate overlords. It was not common knowledge that without Joe there would be no TVFN, and he rarely mentioned it.
Reese called the staff into his office and let each one have his say.
“I feel like I was part of something, and all of a sudden I realize you just think of me as an employee,” said one.
“I’m putting everything I have into this and now you’re spying on me like Big Brother?” said another.
Reese apologized. Joe, never one to spend time fighting over his reputation, remained silent. The clock disappeared.
Joe, now forty-seven, was living in an apartment on the Upper West Side, which he had sublet from Julia Child’s assistant, Nancy Barr. He rarely got home until after 11 p.m. and lived on takeout pizza, takeout Brazilian from a restaurant near the network, or takeout Peruvian from a chicken place around the corner from the apartment. The young staff might not have appreciated him, but he was less concerned about making friends than lending a hand backstage or tinkering with ideas in his cluttered office. His would become some of the most pivotal work done at TVFN.
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For Reese, meanwhile, the most important thing was to hold fast to his plan no matter what crises developed. His inflexibility could be maddening, especially when he erupted in rage at someone who was defying him, but more often Reese’s steadfastness kept the network churning slowly forward. As the network operation became more complicated, Reese sometimes tried to exert extra control over the areas he knew best. Food wasn’t it. News still was.
For instance, the staff of Food News and Views grew bone-weary of Reese’s renewed insistence that they keep coming up with fresh news about recombinant bovine growth hormone. He remained sure that TVFN could build an audience by becoming must-see TV for anyone interested in rBGH if only the network would stick with the story long enough and consistently deliver scoops. “No one cares,” the staff protested, after months of calling every rBGH activist, industry source, and regulator. “There is no new news.”
Then, one day Reese’s nose for news paid off. Before noon on October 3, 1995, Reese rushed to the newsroom, where he found John McGarvie, the news director, doling out assignments for the evening show. “What the fuck is everybody still doing here!” Reese yelled.
John shot Reese a glowering look, as if to say, “What are you talking about now, Reese?”
The president of the network bellowed, “It’s the fucking OJ case! Why are we not out!”
The staff looked gape-mouthed at him, wondering what OJ Simpson had to do with food. Like most everyone else in the country, they knew that the verdict in the infamous murder trial was due to be read at 9 a.m. Pacific time, but what did that have to do with them?
Reese narrowed his eyes at John. “You’re making a mistake. Get these people out, get them in bars.” He nodded at Rochelle Brown and another producer. “Rochelle, get to Times Square. You go downtown to the Village.”
As Rochelle walked to Times Square with a cameraman, she thought Reese was crazy. It was one thing for him to tell her to use a cardboard box for a desk, but this was ridiculous.
But at a few minutes before noon New York time, she saw that drivers had pulled their cars to the curb to watch the verdict read on the jumbo television mounted at the southern end of Times Square. Rochelle watched as a pizza deliveryman slid a pie through the window of one of the parked cars, and then another. It was as if people had been sitting on their couches nervously watching a football play-off and compulsively ordered pizza. She told the cameraman to start shooting. Reese was right: The OJ verdict had a food angle. Rochelle and the other producer rushed back to the studio with their tapes. The downtown tape showed patrons at an Irish bar in Greenwich Village guzzling beer in the aftermath of the not-guilty verdict, some expressing anguish and some jubilation, everyone drinking. It was the lead story on Food News and Views—the emotions of the day expressed in food.
A less brilliant ploy to bring the news to the network was TVFN’s Election Night coverage in November 1996. Hosted by Michael Lomonaco and Sissy Biggers, a former NBC programming executive, the special featured demonstrations of recipes like Jimmy Carter’s Cheese Ring (sharp cheddar, mayonnaise, chopped pecans, and strawberry preserves), Dolly Madison’s Potato Rolls, and Kennedy Chocolate Chiffon Mousse. The famed baker Sylvia Wein
stock made a sheet cake of the United States. She frosted each state as returns came in during the two-hour show, red for Republican states, blue for Democratic. At the end of the night, Clinton had retained the presidency, but TVFN did not win many viewers.
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Some less-news-based programming stabs were proving more fruitful. When Los Angeles chefs Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger appeared on Food News and Views in 1994 to promote their book Mesa Mexicana, Reese called and asked them if they would take a turn on Chef du Jour. After apprenticing at prestigious restaurants in France, the pair had turned a tiny café attached to an eyeglass shop into an L.A. dining destination, using little more than a cutting board and a hot plate. They put out dishes like pickled veal tongue with lobster sauce and pear. It was still unusual for women chefs to rise to the top of any culinary scene, but since Alice Waters had blazed a trail with Chez Panisse, the climate for women had improved. After opening a bigger restaurant in 1985, they followed it up with the Mexican-focused Border Grill. In 1992, they appeared on Julia Child’s Cooking with Master Chefs, where Emeril had also made his debut. The show was shot in Mary Sue’s home, and Julia introduced them as “a lively pair of teachers.” Shep’s CD project pairing their recipes with music also helped boost their national profile.
In New York, Mary Sue and Susan aced Chef du Jour. Reese called them a week later. “Do you want to do a show on Mexican food?” he asked. “We think you could do something called Two Girls from South of the Border.” Mary Sue and Susan, being Midwesterners originally, thought the name was inappropriate. But they agreed to the general idea. A friend of Susan’s came up with the name Cooking with Too Hot Tamales.
Reese flew out to California to meet with Mary Sue at the restaurant of the Beverly Hills Hotel. “We want you to do sixty shows to start,” he said.
It sounded like a lot to Mary Sue. “You don’t want to rerun shows,” Reese explained. “It has to be fresh like, um, fresh produce. You present it once and it’s over.”
Reese agreed on the name Too Hot Tamales and insisted on keeping the rights to it. You never knew when you were going to have to swap out hosts.
Mary Sue and Susan were as close as two friends could be. Susan had long ago divorced her husband and come out as a lesbian. For the first five years they knew each other, Susan watched Mary Sue endure boyfriend trouble, suggesting with each breakup that she might like to meet her ex-husband, Josh. Finally, Mary Sue agreed to hire Josh, sight unseen, as an architect for their second restaurant. Three weeks after they met, he moved in and they were soon married. For the debut of Too Hot Tamales, Josh dyed two chef’s coats different shades of red, matching the colors he’d chosen for the Border Grill. They shot the first run of shows in about two weeks at 1177 Sixth Avenue, using Mario’s set, but with more colorful backdrops. No one Mary Sue or Susan knew in L.A. subscribed to a cable provider that carried TVFN. But when they came back to New York to shoot another run of shows, the pair was amazed when a squad of firemen came running out of a building on Sixth Avenue and recognized them. “Oh, my God! It’s the Too Hot Tamales!” one cried.
“What are you doing in there?” Mary Sue asked the firemen. “Is there a fire?”
“No, don’t worry,” the smiling men in uniform replied, watching from behind as the shapely Tamales walked up the street.
One early episode of Too Hot Tamales, to which the firemen might have paid particular attention, showed the women preparing a geoduck clam chowder. The geoduck clam has a unusually long, thick, fleshy neck muscle that has to be dipped in boiling water before the skin can be peeled off its meaty shaft. As Mary Sue flopped a particularly long, steaming geoduck down on a cutting board, the male cameramen began giggling. Mary Sue knew about the no-stopping rule, but as she pulled back the flesh on the neck with her long feminine fingers, this off-stage noise was so loud, she expected Pat, who was producing the show, to yell “Cut! Cut!” She glanced over at Susan, who was caught in a fit of hysterical laughter. No one yelled “Cut!” so Mary Sue soldiered on, describing the recipe. As she raised a heavy knife and brought the blade down through the meat, hacking it into bits, the cameramen grew silent.
A year later, Mary Sue was at a book signing and a male fan remarked on the geoduck episode. “I had a lot of explaining to do to my son,” he said.
They were being noticed everywhere. In the gay and lesbian–focused magazine The Advocate, the controversial academic Camille Paglia (who had herself been a guest on Talking Food where she prepared a “quick and easy bouillabaisse”) published an essay in April 1996, showering the Tamales with praise:
With their energy, ingenuity, adventurousness, practicality, and cordial warmth, Milliken and Feniger are wonderful contemporary role models for American women. Feniger in particular has broken the mold of TV hosts and proved that lesbians aren’t all tempeh-, tofu-, and granola-eating puritans.
As the Tamales’ star rose, Shep rushed in to make a merchandising deal with Reese. Shep’s promise to Mary Sue and Susan was the same one he’d made to the other chefs: “I will make sure that wherever you appear, your name will be on the marquee with the other stars.” Shep told Reese he wanted it mentioned in the show credits that the Tamales had a line of chilies. Shep argued this would help the network get more exposure in supermarkets. Reese agreed and the brand was launched.
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Meanwhile, Bobby, who had no agent, just his wits, continued to make frequent appearances on Talking Food and was given a turn on Chef du Jour. Amongst his chef friends, he had started hearing disdain for TVFN: “I’m a chef,” they would say haughtily, “not some TV clown.” They would never sell out. They’d never deign to be on some channel with the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous guy.
Bobby was more coldly calculating. The other chefs could posture, but he could not see a downside to this gamble. “I don’t mind going on TV and letting people know where my restaurant is,” he thought. He saw that Mario was getting on the air poking pasta and chatting with increasing ease on camera, his restaurant name flashing in the credits. Mary Sue and Susan had done Chef du Jour and had their own show cooking spicy stuff.
Bobby wanted in. What? he thought. Am I going to be left behind? Not this bronco.
As Bobby’s hands were busy at Mesa Grill, he tried to come up with an idea for a show of his own. Southwestern? What would it be called? Did he need to figure that out? Something about grilling. Something he knew. The next time he showed up for an appearance at the network, in the fall of 1995, he brought a folder containing a list of dishes he might make on a show. Handing it to Joe, he said, “This could be a show.”
Two months later, Bobby got a call from the network, but there was no mention of the folder. “We want to talk to you about a show. You know this guy Jack McDavid, who’s a friend of yours?”
Bobby did not know how they knew he knew McDavid. The two had met at a Super Bowl weekend charity event in Minneapolis where chefs from every NFL city were invited to cook. McDavid had a barbecue restaurant in Philadelphia but hailed from the mountains of Virginia. Every other chef was dutifully wearing a chef’s jacket, toque, and checked pants, but Jack wore a hat that read “Save the Farm,” and overalls over his whites. Jack pulled out a six-pack of beer and in his deep country voice asked Bobby, “You want some?”
“Yeah,” Bobby said.
Jack cracked open a bottle and handed it to Bobby. He took a sip—“ACCCKKK!” and spit it out. It burned his tongue and throat like boiling gasoline. “What the fuck is that?”
“Son, that’s moonshine.” Jack had poured the stuff into beer bottles so he could carry it on the airplane without arousing suspicion. The country boy had cojones. Bobby’s second sip went down easier. They became friends.
“Yes, I know him,” Bobby told the TVFN exec.
“We’d like to do a grilling show about the two of you. Like, a city guy and a country guy, grilling. We know that you have a house in
the Hamptons. We could shoot it there.”
Bobby did not own a house in the Hamptons. He rented a cheap summer house there with a bunch of other restaurant people. Flip-flops, a few mattresses, and a deck with a kettle grill. “That’s my share house,” he said. “I can’t shoot there.”
“Okay, but anyway, could you call Jack McDavid? See if he wants to do a show with you?”
He called Jack. “You want to do it?”
“Sure!”
Bobby came in for a meeting with Reese, Pat, and Joe. “We want to do, like, hot dogs,” Reese began. To Reese and most other Americans, grilling was hot dogs and hamburgers, nothing else. “Hold on,” Bobby protested. “I have different ideas. I want to raise the profile of what grilling is.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Joe pulled out a folder absentmindedly from the pile on his lap and withdrew a sheet of paper with recipe ideas for a grilling show. “Uh, here’s some ideas,” he said.
Bobby couldn’t believe it. “Wait a minute,” he said, “that’s the paper I gave you.”
Joe did not acknowledge that they were Bobby’s recipes. Bobby took this to mean Joe was trying to take credit for them. But Joe just wanted to get things moving. He knew it would be better if Reese thought the idea came from the programming side. Reese didn’t trust chefs much when it came to programming.
“Dude,” Bobby continued. “That’s mine. Those are my recipes!”
Joe handed Bobby back his recipe folder. “Fine. Here. Just do it,” he said. Reese nodded.
Reese swung a deal to use space on the back lot of the Home Shopping Network in Florida, where it was warm enough to shoot outside in winter. The locale would be an improvement over David Rosengarten’s grilling episode of Taste. David’s show was full of terrific tips about brands of charcoal and the advantages of an adjustable-height rack, but it required an apology from the host at the outset: “Despite the fact that I’d like to be outside with a bottle of beer,” David told viewers as effervescently as possible, “I’m actually in a studio here and the fire department might not look too kindly upon open flames on the thirty-first floor of this building, so I am not going to be able to show you any live coals, but there are lots of things I can tell you and show you about cooking over live coals, so let’s use our imaginations, shall we?” At the end, David displayed a nicely grilled steak, but did not actually grill one.