Gordon and Vergé went to have dinner at the hotel restaurant; Roy Yamaguchi was cooking. When they arrived, the maître d' said, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Gordon, we have a rule that the owners won't let the help eat in the restaurant. But I'll give you a free meal at the bar with Mr. Vergé" — to which Gordon replied, "Wait. You didn't pay him, you gave him the shittiest room in the place, you charged people hundreds of dollars to eat his meal, and he's the help? I thought the help gets paid."

That's when Gordon told Vergé that if he spoke to any of these people ever again without calling him first, he would personally choke Vergé to death. "I cannot see you treated like this," he told the chef. "I'd rather see you dead."

___________________________

So I happen to be at Ground Zero of empty celebrity chef-hood. I lit into a buddy on Sunday for taking me to a place where I'd have to wait in line to spend $14 on a breakfast with black beans, quinoa and sorrel in it. We had a blow-up fight about Chef's Table, which I consider to be a cause, not a consequence of bullshit like $7 donuts. According to Google the closest grocery store to me is that horrific new millenial-pitched Whole Foods concept which I actually sort of went to by accident without knowing it was the ItThingOfTheMoment. So the LA-ness of LA is driving me up the freakin' wall right now.

But.

I'm not sure I'd go back to the dark ages of Julia Child and the Endless Horizon.

But maybe I would.

Still grappling.