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overexposured they become, and the more they are turned into weird and annoying caricatures of themselves. Initially cute phrases become overused tag lines. The anecdotes get more far-fetched. The special episodes become more heavily costumed and thematically insane. The joy and passion for cooking become forced, the smiles wider, the eyes more dead. Odd guest stars are trotted out. Veneers and hair extensions and plastic surgery rear their heads, making everyone look likethe Madame Tussauds wax version of who they used to be. There are more and more competition shows devoted to finding new hosts, the casts of which mostly range from mildly annoying to Machiavellian. The solution seems to be to just keep adding shows, perhaps in an attempt to keep the hosts themselves interested, but really just further diluting their appeal.
    People who were easy and entertaining their first couple of seasons, now a decade or more in, are painfully unwatchable. Very few have escaped becoming bobbleheads. Nigella Lawson is one, and she is one of the few I still TiVo. Especially since she did an event with Patrick, and I got to spend half a day with her. She is luminously beautiful, and just as smart and funny and humble as she appears to be on television. Plus, all her recipes actually work, which is rarer than you might think for people who make a living cooking on TV. Jamie Oliver is another, although he walks a fine line sometimes and I don’t hold great hope for him in the long run. Some of the new faces on the Cooking Channel are hanging in there, although some of them started full-on bobble and aren’t getting better. And as far as I’m concerned Tom Colicchio can do no wrong, and I wish someone would give him a cooking show—I can’t imagine him going bobblehead. But the Food Network as a whole has pretty much completely jumped the shark, and at least 30 percent of Patrick’s colleagues on Food TV are bobbling, and the network is only five years old. Which is really troubling, since they are looking into launching a sister network themselves, because what America really needs is four channels devoted to twenty-four-hours-a-day food television.
    Patrick is very easy on camera, and has so far been able to just stay himself, at least the fun, happy, nice, competenttelevision version of himself, which makes his shows still relevant and is why all the talk shows love him. The daytimes love his ability to banter and do a cooking demo simultaneously, and the nighttimes love his quick wit, willingness to laugh at himself, and the fact that he is up for anything. Letterman especially loves to have him on, even occasionally having him do a “man on the street” segment. I’ve always been enormously grateful to a certain Italian mama’s-boy chef whose on-camera cringe-worthy devolution and subsequent need to completely resurrect his career and re-form his face have meant that Patrick has both turned down all offers of reality shows and stayed far away from the Botox.
    “Thanks, Alana-banana. I felt good about it, especially that last episode. And I love what you did with the French toast, the brûlée-ing idea was a genius move.”
    We wanted to do French toast for the brunch, but acknowledged that it is a dangerous item for a special event where people might be dressed up. Patrick had an awesome recipe for the toast itself, using day-old Challah, melted vanilla ice cream as a main ingredient in the soaking liquid, and just a hint of sea salt. I had come up with an alternative to the sticky drippy-down-your-front maple syrup problem by mixing equal parts maple sugar and demerara sugar, and having him sprinkle this on top of the already-cooked French toast and doing a quick brûlée under the broiler, giving the toast a thin crackly maple sugar shell. All the sweet and smoky taste, nothing ruining your mother-in-law’s favorite silk blouse.
    “Glad you approved. But even gladder that you finally managed to do it without setting it on