"iron chef" news and stories

It's been a few weeks since we checked in with the bizarre ritual/quite-possibly-rigged competition that is Iron Chef America. In that time, not only has the intermittently gaunt Alton Brown gained a little more color to his complexion, but also -- wonder of wonders! -- reigning Iron Chef Cat Cora was upset by Holly Smith in a grape face-off.

It was the first true Iron Chef loss this season, not counting the White House special where Bobby Flay and Mario Batali went head-to-head with non-Ironers. Would lightening strike twice? Would the Food Network judges reaffirm our faith that they're not, shall we say, stacking the decks?

Don't crack open the champagne -- or rather, the prosecco -- just yet. We mention the sparkling beverage because, in a fit of hubris, that's literally what this week's challenger did. Demonstrating a trick we've never attempted, venerable NYC chef Geoffrey Zakarian opened his prosecco with a few quick slashes of a chef's knife -- shattering the neck of the bottle while he was at it.

We knew going into this week's Iron Chef that we'd have fun. The only question was how much fun. Ace of Cakes professional goofball Duff Goldman as a competitor? Chocolate and chiles as the secret ingredients? Who needs the Super Bowl?!

Sure, it may have been a little brazen of the Food Network to slot one of their own superstars opposite the easygoing (and similarly cue-ball domed, chin-scruffed) reigning chef, Michael Symon. But, hey -- if you want to lure viewers away from one of the most-watched events of the year, you've got to bring out the big guns, right?

They didn't stop there: Not only did Duff get his own cheering section -- his Charm City colleagues and a bunch of screaming ladies -- he also got a super-celeb judging panel. The whole evening, in fact, seemed to be designed for the 25-to-40-year-old female demographic who, if we may be so bold, probably wasn't bothering with the macho-testosterone play-by-play over on CBS. Call it the "Women Who Appreciate Fine Dining and the Bald Lunkheads Who Love Them" hour.

If ever it seemed like they stack the decks over at the "Iron Chef" kitchen stadium, last night would have been high on the list. With the capable and mostly humorless Bobby Flay as your defending champ, are you really going to throw him a softball like avocado as the secret ingredient? Mr. Mesa Grill himself, denizen of all things spicy and southwestern?

It'd be like giving Morimoto seaweed or Mario Batali basil. Luckily, while the ingredient the producers chose wasn't much of a threat, their opposing chef was something of a curve ball: Floppy haired, unshaven Canuck Michael Smith, seen in the intro hiking around a field in a sun hat, plucking fruits from the vine like some sort of former draft-dodging hippie who decided he liked Prince Edward Island too much to leave.

Smith's casual demeanor belies his Beard-award-winning skills. We knew we liked him from the start, when he cut through the usual overwrought "Iron Chef" choosing-ceremony b.s. by goofily bulging his eyes and gesturing in the direction of Flay like a madman. Finally, we have someone to combat the imported histrionics of The Chairman with a healthy dose of irony!

Sunday night means so much to us Americans. It's a time for family feasts -- a time for reflection. A last chance for calm before the work week. Meanwhile, over on the Food Network, it's just another opportunity for shrieking, back-flipping, strobe-lit, fog-machined insanity.

Yes, another Sunday means another Iron Chef defending his or her honor in the futuristic appliance showroom that is the "Kitchen Stadium." In this season, at least, we've about given up on there being any shocking upsets, any major ripples in the order of the Iron Chef universe as we know it.

Even this week's defender, Chef Morimoto -- who, if you believe Wikipedia, has one of the lowest win percentages of any of the current Iron Chefs -- has seemed fairly invincible as of late. So we were hopeful when yet another random chef was plucked from semi-obscurity -- or rather, Minneapolis -- to attempt to ascend to the throne.

Was it just us, or did everything about last night's Iron Chef America match-up scream "a lamb led to slaughter"? We were trying our hardest not to judge a book by its cover -- er, an eager challenger by her appearance -- really, we were.

But from the instant the producers threw up the hand-drawn visage of the night's competitors -- the little-girl-next-door-ish Dena Marino, wearing a dainty little bob and a downturned pout to match, versus the streamlined, intense stare of reigning Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto -- we had a bad, bad feeling.

When The Chairman announced the night's secret ingredient -- figs! -- Marino looked like a fearful little puppy who was about to get spanked with a newspaper. The contrast continued as the chefs got down to business: While Marino was gingerly slicing fig meats from their skins, Morimoto was crucifying an eel, driving a spike through its head and fastening it to the cutting board so he could better get at its flesh. Let's just say something told us this challenge wasn't going to be a fair fight.