Confession: I have never eaten a restaurant entrée in which I could not tell what the plate was intended to be. Call my tastes pedestrian, but I like to know what I’m eating, y’know? After 42 Grams, however, I have to rethink my stance, because I couldn’t identify a single dish. Heck, I could barely identify any single ingredient on a single dish – who makes banana butter? Who shaves cashews? And yet, it all looked wonderful. Yeah, I’d eat here if I had a spare ticket to Chicago, several hundred dollars in need of liberation, and a time machine.
Have you heard of underground dining? Underground restaurants? Well, I assume -like me- you know how to eat, so let’s start there. I had never heard the term “underground dining” until this film. The underground restaurant is often somebody’s home. In this case, the home belongs to Jake Bickelhaupt, a self-trained master of cooking so talented he can make beets palatable. Once a month, he’d host a private select few invitees for a very expensive meal. Usually, I hate portmanteaux, but I in this case, “Guestarant” is spot on. And he named the venue “Sous Rising.”
Now I know you’re thinking: “Sous what?” And you have a point. This is a documentary about a guy who has a hobby as chef. Yeah, I like making home fries sometimes; that doesn’t mean I should have my own documentary. The difference is Jake is more talented at making mouths water than Pavlov. And he’s a perfectionist on the order of Hermione Granger. Just ask his wife (and part-time employee), Alexa Welsh. She tolerates being his service monkey once a month for Sous Rising. And now they’re opening a real restaurant across the street entitled 42 Grams. Uh oh. Hope you’re a good sport, Ms. Bickelhaupt. Those place settings aren’t going to measure themselves. [I’m not kidding on that last senetence.]
I didn’t think I’d be into the skeletal creation of a restaurant. Seems pretty boring to me. “There’s a chair. There’s a menu. There’s a pee corner. Yippee.” Well, seemed. I’m not sure Jake knows jack about interior decorating, and the only true (non-food) aesthetic pleasure in the café-sized former chicken joint is Alexa’s cork collage. “Alexa: can you tell me why you’re making cork art?” Hmmm. But, OMG, the food! And the term “food” itself doesn’t give justice to the eye candy Jake has created. I have never truly appreciated the chemistry that goes into a meal. Every single dish presented by Jake Bickelhaupt is a visual artistic work in itself. Obviously, I have to take the Michelin Stars Guide to vouch for the other senses Jake has tamed, but I have little doubt that what he’s made ranks among the forbidden delights of taste and texture thus unknown to me. Judging by the meager portion size, btw, I would guess “42 Grams” refers to the weight of an average meal at the restaurant.
One common sporting truism these days is the understanding that a particular athlete has a poor skill set for the same reason that they cannot imagine why their particular skill set is lacking. i.e. your limited understanding of the sport you play is the same reason you’re not as good at it as you could be. This is me in my understanding of Jake Bickelhaupt. I cannot
even fathom the levels upon which his understanding of taste is greater than my understanding of taste. All I know is his game is on the All Star level.
That said, he’s a dick. Pretty big dick, too. That I can fathom real easy. Even a loving rah-rah documentary can’t hide the overbearing and monstrous treatment of underlings. At one point, he “confesses” (there isn’t a hint of shame in it), that he’s gone through twenty-five assistants before the place has even opened. He knows he’s demanding, but, dude, understanding is only half the battle. And if you’re unwilling to work on your people skills, that seems even worse, no? You come off as a primadonna on the highest order. Is there a portmanteaux for “diva chef?” Because you earned it, pal.
I’m not a foodie. I probably never will be. But this quiet documentary is the kind of film that makes me wish I were … and then made me happy that I’m not. If that’s the price of taste, I’ll stick with my own poor tastes, thank you. Pass the chips; the game is on.
High cuisine yields defensive tease
Yet my palate will feel no squeeze
It cannot be beat
For each meal I eat
Is endorsed by the Honorable McCheese
Not Rated, 82 Minutes
Director: Jack C. Newell
Writer: Jack C. Newell
Genre: Come for the food; stay for the berating
Type of being most likely to enjoy this film: Foodies
Type of being least likely to enjoy this film: Fasties
