I finally rolled out of bed and responded to all the emails I’d gotten, asking what I thought of the indie food film Chef.
Here’s what.
Jon Favreau could rattle off the auto mall listings from the Yellow Pages and be irresistible. The actor/director (Iron Man), wrote, directed and starred himself in this feel-good road trek following a gifted but volatile chef as he quits his designer restaurant gig for a questionable foray into the world of real food served up from a food truck.
Armed with his can-do sous chef Martin (John Leguizamo), his estranged son Percy (Emjay Anthony) and fresh ideas about Cuban pork sandwiches, our Chef heads back home to LA from Miami, with scenic pit-stops at the grills, bbqs, and watering holes of New Orleans and Austin. Everything tweeted along the way, to the delight of a growing fan base.
But then you know all that, because all of you reading this have already seen the film. And you also know that Chef is a shameless, if appealing, promo for Twitter.
Chef simmered slowly, especially when Favreau attempts to “bond” with his son. Long passages were out and out boring. But the emotional charge of cooking, the sex appeal of finessing great dishes loaded with innovation, came through during most of this enjoyable, small film.
Two things: this is food porn at its best. Some of the shots of drizzling sauces, slicing of meats, spreading of condiments were downright lascivious. But even more sultry—almost as sultry as Favreau’s ex-wife’s cleavage (thanks to Latina bombshell Sofia Vergara)—were the scenes of Cuban mambo king musicians— Perico Hernandez, among others— seducing our aural tastebuds.
The camaraderie of the line was authentic, thanks to hilarious and authentic repartee between Favreau, Leguizamo, and Bobby Cannavale as another of the high-wired line chefs.
Fun, harmless, no biggie, but Favreau is infinitely watchable. So there!
