From Scratch
Page 39
Starting in 2005, John Sykes, the president of network development for the MTV Networks division of Viacom, was exploring four or five possible new digital cable channels with Comcast. The idea behind Gusto was to recapture the more food-centric crowd that Food Network seemed to have abandoned as it chased a broader audience. Marketing materials explained the comparison Gusto was trying to draw: Food Network was Walmart. Gusto was Whole Foods.
Instead of Sandra Lee, Paula Deen, and competition shows, Gusto promised urbane programs hosted by personalities like prize-winning food critic Jeffrey Steingarten and wine expert Josh Wesson (one of the stars of David Rosengarten and Tony Hendra’s long-ago PBS pilot Three Men in a Kitchen). A teaser reel created to explain Gusto inside Viacom and Comcast included a dinner party scene. Around a table imbibing leggy wines and dark meats were the kind of stars the network would tap: Gabrielle Hamilton, owner of the pioneering East Village “nose-to-tail” restaurant Prune; Pete Wells, a food writer at Details magazine who would soon move to The New York Times; Drew Nieporent, an erudite New York restaurateur; and, of all people, Susie Essman, a comedienne known for her recurring role as a profane, but clever, wife on the HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm. Gusto eventually died when Comcast decided it did not want to move ahead with a Viacom partnership. But the threat of it, or of another network, like Discovery, launching a rival food channel, increased the pressure on Food Network executives to deliver what the viewer research studies had concluded was needed—shows that were less Walmart, more stimulating.
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Bob Tuschman was made head of programming when Kathleen Finch became head of DIY Network. Whether it was nerves over the newfound responsibility or a bad bug going around, Bob spent some of his first days at home sick. While he recuperated, he popped pilots that Kathleen had been considering into his video player. One was called “Fuck You, Let’s Bake.” It was based on a stage show performed by Duff Goldman, the irreverent owner of a Baltimore bakery, involving a sexy assistant, a punk rock guitarist, and stunts in which Duff would make soufflés while fighting ninjas. Bob didn’t like the name—if Scripps had a problem with the fuzz of a peach in a bus shelter ad, no variant of F.U. Let’s Bake would fly—and he thought the content a bit too rough for Food, but he liked Duff’s youthful ’tude. The pilot evolved into Ace of Cakes, a show focused on Duff’s workplace, Charm City Cakes, chronicling his team of wisecracking artists as they created ornately decorated cakes.
An unscripted show with so many characters was far more expensive to produce than a typical half hour, about $160,000 an episode, but the network went for it. It helped that Duff was being championed by a recent hire in the programming department, Charles Nordlander. Brought in to develop new concepts, Charles had come from A&E, which had been moving away from the biography-bound network Brooke had overseen into one more reliant on buzzy docuseries like Dog the Bounty Hunter, Growing Up Gotti, and a confection Charles had created called Flip This House.
Also in Bob’s video player was a tape Charles and Kathleen had been developing that would become a series in which Paula Deen’s adult sons, Bobby and Jamie, traveled around the country meeting homespun food purveyors.
Another, from Bobby Flay, called Throwdown, had been created when Brooke told him she was not interested in seeing him on another show like FoodNation. It might be okay for the Deen boys, but she needed something new and more complex in prime time. “Bobby,” she’d said. “I’m not looking for a ‘let’s travel around the country learning interesting things about food.’ We have a lot of those shows. We need to come up with some new concepts, be a little more compelling, a little more competitive, something that would be stickier, keep people watching longer, that would have a beginning, middle, and end.”
That was the advice her father had given her. The bit has to be complete.
She gave the same speech to the other on-air talent, but unlike most of them, Bobby listened and said little.
Over the next few weeks, he thought it over. What existing show on television held the viewer’s interest? What could he use as a model?
It came to him: Punk’d.
In MTV’s hidden-camera hit originally hosted by Ashton Kutcher, celebrities were the objects of practical jokes. On one episode, Beyoncé Knowles visited a group of children for Christmas. When she attempted to put a star on the top of the tree and it fell over, ruining the presents, she was convinced she’d caused tears and mayhem. On another, Bow Wow was accused of losing jewelry he was given for a photo shoot and had to pay for it. At the end of each segment, the exasperated victim was told, “You just got punk’d!”
At the most elemental level, what Bobby liked about the show was the surprise and the ending. If only he could translate it into the food world. Okay. He broke Punk’d into parts. First, there was a smart host who could roll with what was happening and improvise easily under pressure. Okay, check, Bobby could do that. So what other elements are there? Ashton had celebrities. So I’ll take Emeril, Mario, I’m going to take all the stars of the Food Network, and I’m going to punk them. . . . But it’s limited, he thought. Why don’t I go after the sort of celebrities of each community in the food world? In their own communities, they’re gigantic.
Instead of a random practical joke each time and hidden cameras, which would have been a real pain to set up, the target chefs would be convinced they were going to be featured on television for cooking their specialty. This would explain the cameras. There would be a beat in each episode showing Bobby preparing for each contest beforehand at the Food Network kitchens. Then, as the target chef was setting up to cook his or her special dish on location, Bobby would walk in and challenge them to a cooking contest in front of the chef’s colleagues and friends. Bobby’s original title was Cook’d.
The ending of Punk’d was always the reveal that a joke had been played. In this case, the reveal to the target chef would happen halfway through when Bobby showed up. For Cook’d, Bobby thought the ending would be interviewing spectators at the contest as they tasted the results. Like a good movie, the show would fade to black, leaving viewers to decide who had made the better version.
He and Jon Rosen asked Food Network for funds to make the pilot. If the network didn’t want to pay for it, Bobby would pay for it himself, and shop the pilot on the open market.
The programming department wasn’t unwilling to pay, but they asked for changes. They did not like the name and they wanted a winner. Keep everything else, but bring in a judge or judges. It was better television.
Bobby didn’t think so. “It makes you think,” he argued with one of Bob’s lieutenants, Kim Williamson. “Punk’d, what’s the result? It’s a laugh.”
“Let’s put it this way. We gave everybody who we challenged every possibility to beat me. Didn’t happen all the time. Me going around the country beating everybody is not a good thing for anybody. . . . Some other chefs say to me, how do you go around losing? How can you do that? And I’m like, Who cares? . . . It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about the people.”
—BOBBY FLAY
The debate lasted about a month, but Bobby finally acquiesced. During a meeting with his production partner, Kim Martin, they came up with a new title, Throwdown, to intensify the idea of the contest. “It sounded like a fight, or a match,” Bobby explained.
Five months later, Bobby delivered a pilot in which he challenged a New Jersey barbecue champion, Butch Lupinetti. The chance to cook against a famous TV chef like Bobby clearly delighted the man. An impartial judge gave the victory to Butch. Beating Bobby gave Butch joy and eternal bragging rights. His way of life was being celebrated, and Bobby was a gracious loser, unsparing in his compliments for Butch’s smoky chicken, ribs, and hog.
Throwdown included the element of competition but made it friendly. Plus, it recast Bobby as a champion of the people, making him an even more appealing personality for the network to promote.
In April 2006, the network revealed a new slogan for the evening hours: “Food Network Nighttime: Way More Than Cooking.” Throwdown and the other shows were unveiled, among them the new Nigella Feasts. They were finally bringing Nigella Lawson, who had inspired so many copycats, into the fold.
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Personalities mattered more than ever, but those who were less motivated than Bobby to adapt lost their place. About a year after Iron Chef America debuted as a regular series, Bob Tuschman went to see Mario at his pizza spot on lower Fifth Avenue, Otto Enoteca Pizzeria. Although Molto Mario was still airing in reruns, he had not produced a new episode since around 2005. Mario thought Bob was there to offer him a new series.
“You know, I think we’re done,” Bob said. “I think we’ve run our course.”
“All right, Bob,” Mario said, accepting the new reality. He did not do like Bobby and invent a series to save himself. He thought the network was aiming more for college kids and tailgaters and believed his audience craved something more literate. He had already made a deal for a PBS series in which he would drive around Spain with Gwyneth Paltrow, Spanish actress Claudia Bassols, and food writer Mark Bittman, exploring the historical and artistic roots of the cuisine.
Food Network had helped him get where he was, and he liked where he was. The network called back soon after and asked if Mario would continue to appear on Iron Chef America. This was a place his strong personality and fame still worked on the network, and he enjoyed the competition. He, Ladner, and Anne won a lot more than they lost. If he could have fun appealing to college kids, then okay. He said he would.
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Ever hungry for more studies that could help her hone the programming and marketing, Brooke authorized two more in 2007. The first, a “Food Media Platform Study,” concluded that for most viewers, as long as they felt stimulated by the ideas shown during cooking shows, they were satisfied with turning to the Internet for the actual recipe details about how to reproduce what they saw.
“This integration enhances the experience and benefits of each,” the study noted.
More than a thousand people who reported being interested in food were asked: “Which of these are reasons why you like to watch the Food Network?” The answers showed that some people still wanted to learn, and about the same number just wanted to be entertained.
64% I get inspired, ideas, new things to try.
56% I learn a lot from their shows.
54% It’s just simple entertainment for me.
47% I find it relaxing.
45% It gets me excited about cooking.
44% I have particular chefs that I like.
For the second, a “Brand Lens Study,” a group of devoted Food Network viewers were asked not to watch Food Network or use its website for two weeks. The addicts had a hard time.
“The first couple of days,” said one viewer, “I kept thinking, ‘Oh, this will get better.’ . . . As the first week ended, my husband was ready to hand me the remote to turn on Food Network. . . . I have never seen myself walking around in circles like that!”
Another: “To not have [the Food Network] on wasn’t normal. . . . I was just like, ‘Oh, God!’ So I wound up even switching the TV totally off, trying not to watch cooking stuff.”
The visual equivalent of methadone didn’t work for another either: “To fill in the time, I did get back and see some of my old series, programs that I used to watch like ER and a few others. But it was just . . . I knew that they were just filling in. It was this whole mental thing. It was terrible. I didn’t realize it was so bad.”
But foodies who felt abandoned by Food Network’s “Walmart” appeal—viewers who might have tuned in to Gusto’s programs, and those who were watching Top Chef—had some suggestions for improvement.
“Put real people on the air that people can relate to.”
“Bring more diversity in both personalities and menus.”
“Always try and be on the cutting edge of what’s going on in the food world.”
“Food is sexy and dangerous and should be reflected as such. If I wanted safe I’d watch PBS.”
—A SURVEY PARTICIPANT IN “BRAND LENS SURVEY,” 2007
The report acknowledged that the safety and comfort viewers liked about Food Network were exactly the qualities that had created opportunities for other networks. A chart showed that Food Network’s programming was higher on the “family-friendly and accessible” side of the comfort continuum, while Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, and No Reservations were “exciting and edgy.” What’s more, a significant slice of regular Food Network viewers admitted they love those edgier shows. Forty-four percent reported that they “truly enjoy” watching Top Chef.
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Top Chef’s success and the threat of a Gusto-like rival increased Brooke’s resolve to do more with her network’s prime-time hours. She had Unwrapped, Throwdown, the still strong Good Eats, the American and the Japanese versions of Iron Chef, and The Next Food Network Star, but she was hamstrung if one hour every night was taken up with the expensive production of Emeril Live, whose audience was getting older and whose star had an agent who kept pushing for more money.
It wasn’t as if the network hadn’t tried. In the last year, Emeril had been encouraged to do more away from the studio, even as the network invested in a new set. Ken considered himself a friend of Emeril, but he asked Brooke if the show needed to end. As much as Scripps had increased the programming budget over the years, it did not spend heavily on production. If Food wanted to do anything new or improve the lighting and look of its existing shows to match the sleekness of Top Chef, keeping Emeril Live was going to be very difficult. Brooke had already tried to explain some of this to Emeril, but, unlike Bobby, he didn’t want to hear that it was time to find a new act. Research confirmed that even those viewers who still wanted cooking shows wanted them in the daytime, not in prime time. Emeril Live was basically a cooking show. No matter how much Jim argued that Emeril Live should be considered as inviolable as The Tonight Show, the network was looking at the fact that Unwrapped, Good Eats, Iron Chef America, and Throwdown were what younger audiences wanted in prime time, shows with food elements and cooking, but with interesting formats that felt more contemporary. They got higher ratings and generally cost less.
With all the evidence against keeping Emeril Live, the network’s agonizing over canceling it showed just how strong a connection it still felt to the star and his show. No one was unaware that for years Food had been the Emeril network, and many had a hard time accepting it no longer was, especially Emeril. If he had invented a new show for himself, almost a new persona, there might have been a way to keep him center stage. But Emeril didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t.
Despite all the nonchefs who had flooded into the ranks of network hosts, Emeril still looked at the name Food Network and saw the word Cooking in it. He was a chef. He was the chef.
During the final season, Brooke tried to soften him for the end. “This will probably be the last run of it,” she told him.
“You’re full of it,” he’d replied.
Emeril thought Susie’s suggestion that he make an occasional appearance on Iron Chef was like his asking a chef at one of his restaurants to accept a demotion to dishwasher. It just wasn’t done. You find a bigger role for a great employee if change is necessary, not a lesser one. Loyalty mattered.
Susie was being loyal in her own way, but
Emeril didn’t see it. To her, Iron Chef could perform the magic Emeril needed, recasting him as gritty, newly energetic and inventive, as it had done for others. From there, who knows what new ideas might present themselves for him?
Even though Emeril had been aboard from the first days of the network, he made the mistake that many others with less experience had made, believing that the soul of the place was like the soul of a restaurant—when it is really ticking it is more than a business, it is something beautiful and family-like, where the most important person (besides the customer) is the skilled chef, who delivers the culmination of everyone’s efforts on the plate.
How could he have misunderstood his employer so completely? Because he had spent a decade at the center of the network, surrounded by applause, assistants doing his bidding, Super Bowl tickets, backslapping, women fawning and baring their breasts, his agent assuring he’s going to work it out. It was not the network’s job to teach or to have a conscience or a memory or to always put something beautiful on the plate. The network’s prime directive was to sell as many Ginsu knives, boxes of detergent, Corollas, and breath mints as it could for paying advertisers. Ken Levy, the Johnson & Wales administrator who planted the seed of an idea in Joe Langhan’s mind that became TVFN, had backed his school out of the deal in the early days because he recognized that it was not going to fulfill his institution’s core mission: to educate.
Shortly into the run of The Next Food Network Star, David Rosengarten, who had been publishing a widely circulated and much-loved newsletter about the culinary scene called The Rosengarten Report, received a call from one of the show’s producers.
“Hello, David, my name is Amy with the Food Network. We do a show called The Next Food Network Star, and your name has been suggested as a possible candidate.”
“Really? You want me to go on a show to see if I’m going to be the next Food Network star?” He had been off the network, what, five years, and already forgotten?