Pete Patriarch’s Musings

October 25, 2007

Noted female chefs say that bias smolders inside the kitchen

Filed under: Uncategorized — Pete @ 12:07 am

Accomplished female chefs still face deep-seated bias in the restaurant business, seven prominent female chefs tell New York magazine.

Seven prominent and presumably accomplished female chefs claim to struggle against Teh Patriarchy when they skated in on their Pussy Pass? Will wonders never cease?

In the fine-dining atmosphere where restaurants are identified with their chefs, these female cooks contend with regular reminders that the industry isn’t comfortable with the idea of women in charge.

Here, naturally, the industry is wrong and the little princesses are right…

The chefs, all of whom have run well-known kitchens, describe situations in kitchens in New York or Paris where male colleagues insult or ignore their female counterparts.

And of course, male colleagues never insult or ignore their male counterparts, female colleagues never insult or ignore their male counterparts, and female colleagues never insult or ignore their female counterparts. Nope, no way. Or maybe they do, but its only notable when men do it to women. Its funny how the chefs find the time to be such good cooks when they’re patriarchally oppressing these poor widdle women all the time.

Chef and restaurant owner Anita Lo says that her mail is frequently addressed to “Mr. Anito Lo.”

Now that’s just hilarious.

Wary of the machismo found in the main kitchen, women are more likely to gravitate toward pastry, a relatively calmer and more traditionally female area.

Ah yes, can’t stand the heat, so they get out of the kitchen and whine about it. That is these women’s motto. The pastry area. Relatively calmer, more female dominated, pays less but the work is easier? Sounds like all the pink collar jobs women flock to in droves. And when women run HR, guess who they hire. And bonus, they then whine about “the pay gap” and want to be paid more for less work.


1 Comment »

  1. I suggest you look at this website:

    The site is about professional golddigging women and how to do it yourself.

    This is it, where my life took a ninety-degree turn toward shallow, drove as fast as it could toward mediocrity and swerved away a second before I became another statistic.

    There are 257 trophy wives in the greater Dallas area.
    Never directly engage a man you’re interested in

    My face isn’t tingly. In fact, everything feels quite normal, which isn’t normal, considering I just paid $600 for several shots of Botox, a deadly toxin, to be injected into my crow’s feet — my infant crow’s feet that I didn’t even notice until my friend, Aimee, pointed them out to me at lunch a month ago. I immediately became obsessed with them. Every time I looked into the mirror they seemed to be furrowing deeper and longer into my face. Soon I’d be looking like Barbara Bush on a bad day.

    Aimee is my age, 29, but she shows no signs of age because she’s done all the procedures – Botox, microderm, the blue face peel. Her skin looks airbrushed. She is unnaturally smooth. It’s like she has never smiled, frowned, or had contact with the sun.
    “I’m not supposed to try to squint or lie down for six hours, right?” I ask Aimee as I brush my fingers over my temples, feeling where the needles went in. I wonder what will happen if I squeeze the holes like a zit. Will deadly toxic puss shoot out and hit my mirror?
    “That’s right, honey. You don’t want toxic mold spreading around.”

    Aimee pushes down my hands, then sips her chocolate martini, and scans the room. We’re at Beaux Nash. In Dallas, this place is a gold mine. It’s brimming with trial lawyers, lobbyists, oil execs, techie sell-outs (when the selling was good) and other men of leisure, meaning men with a net worth of $10 million or more.

    It’s not as sexy as it sounds. For one thing, the place smells like old man, cigars, and shoe polish. A massive mahogany bar and green leather booths crowd the room. A huge glass vat of soaking pineapples with a spout overwhelms the bar. How much demand is there for pineapple juice at a place like Beaux Nash anyway? Yes, I’ll have a twenty-year-old scotch and a side of pineapple juice? The best part of the place, aside from the rich men, is the fresh potato chips, right out of the fryer. It’s impossible to resist woofing down a whole basket of them, especially if you’ve been caught in the open on one of those Nazi-like no-carb diets.

    We are husband-hunting. If you’re a Northerner by birth, like me, this is something you don’t quite understand about the South – people get married early and often, and for women it’s still quite acceptable to husband-hunt as a profession. Most of the Southern women I know spent $20,000 on their debutante dresses (Vera Wangs and Escadas), vowing to wear them again when they walk down the aisle. But they never do, of course. By the time the wedding comes around, they say the dresses are old-fashioned and out of date, come to think of it, like most of their marriages after a couple of years.

    The point is, in high school they were already unabashedly planning the perfect wedding, calculating it would happen in three to five years. In high school, I was convinced I’d never get hitched. I held on to that belief through college and for several years afterward. But the longer you’re in the South, the ideas of marriage and regular church going don’t seem so abhorrent more like benign details that give the South its quaint character the same way floral wallpaper, Laura Ashley pink duvet covers, and rusty water faucets give atmosphere to local bed and breakfasts. Here, in the land of conspicuous consumption, marriage isn’t considered a lifelong commitment. It’s the ultimate accessory. Your husband is someone whose name you can slip into conversations. He’s a reliable date, gift-giver, and someday car-pool-sharer. He’s not really your companion, because most married people I know have dinner with a collection of their same-sex friends. Men eat together at steak houses. Women lunch at sushi spots. A husband is like a Hermes bag or a Chanel coat, a good investment that will mature over time. If he no longer fits, you can trade up to a more luxurious model.

    There is no shame – and some would say there is honor – in divorcing once, twice, three, or more times. There are starter marriages. Children unions. Second-house-in-Aspen matrimonies. Private plane collaborations. Many women view multiple marriages as promotions to better stations in life. One particularly ambitious woman divorced her politician husband because he was a Democrat in the Texas state legislature and couldn’t afford to send her abroad. A week after the papers were signed, she walked down the aisle with a beer king in front of 400 “friends.” She was born-again, financially. Two years of well-placed political contributions later – Republican of course – and voila she’s an ambassador to some island republic under our protection.

    I’m not shy about wanting money. I have my needs like every other woman. But I’d like my marriage to have a little love in it. God willing, I’ll be walking down the aisle with a man who has a sizable bank account and also my heart. That’s what Aimee has promised me, at least.

    By day I’m a professional girl – a reporter for the Wall Street Journal and by night I’m a husband-hunter or, at least, I intend to become one. I’m fed up with the ramen-eating artist who can’t work a real job because he must think about creating. I’m sick of the relationship phobic professional who is great for the first month, then turns aloof and weird. He gets angry at you because you assume he’s your steady Friday night date and rebels against cuddling. I’m disgusted with the emotional vampire, the guy who leaches onto your own reserves and demands that you validate his whole existence. Yes, you are a great writer/lawyer/ politician, and great in bed and very very funny. This kind of man is never generous in return, neither emotionally nor materially. I should add that invariably in all these involvements there is some incident of cheating; one of them drunkenly kissed my friend at a party; another accidentally slept with an old girlfriend; till another became more of a partner with a male friend in the Vermont sense of the word than a beer buddy. I’m exhausted from the relationships I’ve endured, so I’ve decided to try it Aimee’s way.

    On youtube:

    New lows are reached each day.

    Comment by dd — October 28, 2007 @ 8:12 am

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