Who Is All Of This For?

TV cooking shows and self-reflection

Author

Jesse Raub
August 26, 2024

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Other writing:

Looking into nothing

When I came up with the title of this newsletter, I was focused on one thing: the way food is portrayed on TV in scripted series, cooking shows, and cooking competitions. That was a newsletter I meant to write back in June after reading this take on The Bear’s third season. But I haven’t watched that season. And then more I stared at the words WHO IS ALL OF THIS FOR, the harder it was to, well, not just apply that entire question to this newsletter in general.

I gotta be square with you: I don’t really like using this newsletter client. It feels… off. BEEHIIV: THE PLATFORM FOR GROWTH. I see that everytime I log in. It’s 100% wrong. I have a newsletter, but I haven’t gained a subscriber in two years. It’s supposed to be a place where… well… what is it supposed to be?

I’ve messed around with so many iterations of Good Ones that I’m not convinced it’s supposed to be anything anymore. I thought I was going to be writing about three songs every week, talking about their musicality as well as their cultural relevance. That was hard to maintain. I thought I was going to write insightful, researched pieces centered around professional interviews with other beverage professionals, but that died pretty quickly once I got my MS diagnosis. I reformatted and reformatted, thinking that pivoting to general cultural missives and short recommendations was a vibe that people would get more mileage out of. I have no proof of that working, and like all previous versions, the newsletter has now become a chore.

There’s a core issue at stake here:

  1. I started writing a newsletter because I wanted to get into better writing practice and I wanted to push myself towards becoming a published writer.

  2. I now have a sizable amount of pieces out there after spending a year as a product reviewer and landing a handful of pitches at some really incredible outlets.

It’s hard for a newsletter to be practice in case I get writing work when I’m in the process of getting writing work. And after a little break there, I just picked up some more product reviewing work that’s a. pretty fun, and b. pays. Sorry to the 5 people (including my dad) who subscribed to the first version of this thing when I tried to monetize it, but in general, this newsletter costs me money to run.

That sounds bleak! But what I’m trying to say is that actual assignments from publications are always going to get top priority from me over this newsletter. And when I don’t have any assignments, then, well, maybe I’m too depressed about that to write about it.

Good Ones doesn’t have a strict publishing schedule, but that’s also a problem. Missing a week or two makes it easy to miss a week or three and just keep pivoting and pivoting until hey, what newsletter. But I got some really good advice the other day: if you want to be writing, then write. Everything else is a fractional part of the process.

I also had to remind myself that this isn’t what I’m good at. I’m good at writing fiction. So there’s another wrinkle. Time spent on the newsletter is time not spent on reading or writing assignments or writing fiction. And I need to get better about incorporating that into my day-to-day life.

So….

Well….

Let’s talk about cooking on TV. Or let’s not talk about cooking on TV. I had an argument laid out in my head that was in opposition to the linked Defector piece above that was structured around the idea that most fine dining chefs are extremely working class even if their entire existence is built around incredible expensive tasting menus only enjoyed by the richest people in this country. I still think that there’s a good argument there, something about how being a chef is more akin to being a part of the patronage system of the arts. You want to push boundaries and create something new and fantastic, and yet, without capital directly supporting you there isn’t the opportunity to display your art. That’s where the breakdown between “chef” and “restaurant owner” comes into play. Plenty of chefs do become restauranteur and own their own restaurants, but when you turn on Top Chef and watch some of the most inventive and unique cooking broadcasts on TV, well, a lot of those contestants just cook for work. But what I really want to get into for the rest of this stupid thing is the latest season of Top Chef.

For one, I was in it. Briefly. Set in Wisconsin, the show filmed two days in Madison. Ashley got intel on what days and times they were going to Whole Foods, and like a couple of weird creeps, we wandered the aisles in view of the cameras with hopes we would be asked to sign a waiver allowing us to be in the shot. We were, and we did. It was easy to spot myself in the background of the shot: Ashley and I were the only two people wearing a mask in that grocery store.

Being disabled is strange in ways I never would have predicted. I don’t really think of myself as disabled because I don’t have many physical limitations the way other MS-afflicted folks do. Today, I did a full workout with dual 35lb kettlebells, repeatedly deadlifting, cleaning, pressing, and squatting 70lbs in a multiple-set circuit. But I am disabled. I have MS. I don’t have any feeling in my fingertips anymore, I’m mostly blind in my right eye, and I frequently have disabling bouts of MS-related fatigue that knock me on my ass for days at a time. And I never felt more disabled than when I saw contestant Dan Jacobs on this last season of Top Chef.

He doesn’t have multiple sclerosis. He has Kennedy's Disease, which is essentially a slowly progressing ALS. To put it plainly: Over the next 20 years, with the medication that I’m on, I will likely be able to keep MS from progressing and retain most of my general motor functions. For Dan Jacobs, he will not be able to.

Watching Dan cook on the show was revelatory. He had issues moving quickly around the kitchen when young chefs were darting back and forth to the pantry. He had issues with his hands cramping and losing feeling while repeatedly chopping vegetables at his station. And he got tired. For the first time ever in my life, I saw myself on TV.

I don’t know how it hadn’t happened before: I’m a straight white man, and the TV is lousy with us. But none of those portrayals ever hit for me because none of those people on TV, much like myself before my diagnosis, ever faced any form of discrimination. What was I supposed to identify with? A loose association of people who just keep winning at everything?

Identity politics are often maligned in the discourse by centrists and conservatives (and a hearty fuck you to every right-leaning shithead who might be reading this), but they matter. People who face adversity in their everyday life deserve to see their stories reflected back to them. And here’s a secret: I didn’t ever use the word “disabled” to describe myself until I saw a disabled person on TV cooking in a competition. I just didn’t quite have the ability to process that information.

Dan’s run on the show was unique. He struggled in many of the Quickfire Challenges, and while the show never spelled it out, it is 100% because he is disabled. With only 30 minutes to cook an inventive dish, Dan was either playing it safe to ensure he could get something on the plate, or he was stuck trying to finish some ambitious idea while being hampered by his ability to work fast. At the same time, his expertise and experience as an older contestant meant that he won many of the elimination challenges with a unique approach to well-thought-out and simple dishes.

He even made it to the finale.

Against the odds, Dan Jacobs was cooking an incredible meal. All three chefs stumbled during their execution, and this year’s last challenge seemed to be who could fuck up their meal the least. Dan had one misstep early on with one of his dishes, but the judges all loved his food. Cleaned their plates. Talked about how his food exhibited a form of hospitality by welcoming them into itself.

On Top Chef, people often get The Edit. If you’re going to be eliminated, the shot will feature you throughout the episode talking about your home, your family, how much you miss them, how hard the competition has been, and how it’s been difficult to truly find your voice in the competition. There’s also a version of The Edit for winners: you see fewer of their mistakes at the judges table, you hear triumphant music when the judges are tasting the food, and overall the contestant is set up with enough plausible momentum that it’s not a surprise when the judges call their name as the winner.

Dan Jacobs was getting The Edit. The winning one. And I was sitting there, on the couch, on the absolute verge of tears. Representation means something. For me, it meant watching a disabled person rise against their limitations and work through the challenges to win one of the coolest honors in their field. It made me think, for a brief moment there, that my disability can’t hold me back from achieving anything I want to as a writer.

And then they called Danny’s name as the winner.

And I was crushed.

Danny is young, creative, energetic, and talented. Danny was set up to succeed on this show based on everything he had going for him: determination, dedication, and a body that let him run for miles at a time through the streets of Milwaukee for exercise effortlessly before each day’s challenges.

Top Chef really fucked it up. Who knows why? Maybe they wanted the announcement to be more of a surprise. Maybe they thought the show was balanced in how the judging was displayed. Either way, the message I got was this: You can try as hard as you want, you can work as hard as you want, but no matter what, the deck is stacked against you.

And that feeling fucking sucks.

I mentioned earlier that my MS killed off a previous version of this newsletter, and I think it’s important to talk about why. MS is a neurological disorder where my B cells produce antibodies that attack the protective coating around my spinal column. I’ve got scar tissue now in three separate spots that hinders my ability to process information. Every thought I have has to work 100x harder to make it from my brain to my limbs now, and while I’m lucky to not have many physical disabilities, I get tired. I get sore. I move slowly, and I can’t think on my feet as quickly as I used to.

Those factors 100% affect my ability to write. They also affect my ability to read, and reading is tantamount to getting into the headspace to write.

But there’s always the phantom ticking clock: no one knows what my future will be like. Before the disease-modifying therapies that are now often prescribed, MS would almost always progress to a worse version of MS, drastically affecting people’s mobility and motor skills. That means that I’m constantly flickering back and forth between physical activity and mental exercise: What could I lose first? My ability to write, or my ability to go kayaking? Both are theoretical; neither option is predictable.

I’d be lying, however, if I said that MS is the main reason I struggle with writing. I’ve always struggled with writing. It wasn’t until my diagnosis that I started taking writing seriously, either.

I guess that means so fucking what if Dan Jacobs didn’t win Top Chef. In any other world, it would have been incredible that he made it as far as he did.

It’s a fact that multiple sclerosis has put a ceiling on my abilities as a writer.

But I never thought I was going to be a Nobel Prize-winning novelist.

And maybe it’s important to keep that perspective every morning.

Read

  • Cuckoo by Gretchen Felker-Martin

I don’t read as much as I used to, but one thing I’ve been trying to do is grab books that will draw me in quickly and propel me towards their conclusion. Cuckoo reads easy like horror literature should, but Felker-Martin’s portrayal of a traumatized group of queer teens struggling to rescue themselves from a not-what-it-seems gay conversion camp is truly, stunningly, beautiful. I don’t know if I want a “beach read” that doesn’t absolutely challenge me in some wy, shape, or form, and Cuckoo really nails the details of what it’s like to a be a human, which is incredibly important when they’re constantly tested by something that’s not.

Watch

I’m not sure how a London investment bank that reads like a grown-up Euphoria ends up feeling more like High Maintenance crossed with Friday Night Lights, but there you go. Industry treats it’s horrible characters with a level of empathy I’m not sure I’ve ever seen in TV outside of High Maintenance’s brief character studies, but it’s longform plotting hits all the highs and lows of a prestige soap opera in a way that’s intensely satisfying. Also, the show is horny as hell and everyone can’t stop doing drugs all the time. But in a way that’s not shamed or glamorized. Which, in itself, is also fascinating.

Listen

In 1980, Robert Palmer wasn’t quite the swaggering pop-rock icon he would become in the early 90s. At the same time, his album Clues hints at that persona emerging through most of its songs as a departure from his New Orleans funk/soul Sneaking Sally Through The Alley. Thusly: “Johnny and Mary” is an absolute standout. Built around a drum machine and synthesizers, the song feels closer to a Sparks/Kraftwerk jam in that sort of semi-robotic-yet-emotional push. It’s a catchy tune and definitely passes the vibe check.

Consume

Scotch is one of those highly miscast players in most people’s drinking regimens. Heavily peated and smokey Islay scotches (like Laphroig) become a sort of challenge to see who can choke them down, while blended bottles (like Johnny Walker) become status symbols. Neither is really worth your time when Bunnahabhain’s 12-Year is less than $70 at most liquor stores. As an Islay scotch, it’s distilled and aged on an actual island, with a hefty amount of peat used to fuel the still. That gives it a smoky quality, but the smoke is subtle and blends well with the other flavors. Sweet, spicy, complex, and thoroughly underrated, Bunnahabhan’s 12-Year is really one of the best bangs for your buck you can find out there. It’s fuller and rounder than most Highland variants, and it touches to a type of richness that Speyside whiskys can only dream to aspire to.

Artwork by Ashley Elander Strandquist. You can view her illustration work here and check out her printing business here.