Only in New York can a simple walk home from work turn into a television appearance. Yesterday, as I was enjoying a rainless commute, I noticed that the Desert Truck of East Village fame had been transplanted to 23rd and 5th. There were camera men scurrying about, a man with a backpack and a walkie talkie talking over everyone about release forms and try the deserts and this and that. What? I can be on television just for eating desert? Spoon please!
I couldn’t find out the name of the show (some upcoming series) but chef Claire Robinson was one of the chefs preparing deserts at breakneck speeds against a team of male chefs on the other side of the truck.
The cameras started rolling, the chefs tossed out a few lines of witty banter, and before I knew it I was standing at the table being handed a cup of ice cream overflowing with caramel sauce and brownie bits. I grabbed it completely aware of every every twitch in my body, every movement in my face.
I scooped mouthfuls of the melting vanilla bean in my mouth as two cameramen inched closer and closer. I was taking pronounced bites, as if my chewing could trasnmit the taste of the ice cream on film. You could say I milked it — my signature move being the bite and ponder. With every bite I’d pitch my head up to the skyline and squinting slightly as the setting sun. I did that a few times, until convinced that the cameramen had already noted it as their closing shot. Then I tossed the empty container in a trash can and walked off. By the time I reached the corner I was already wondering if anyone had ever looked like a bigger idiot eating desert.
We’ll have to wait and see.