Before I kill you Mister Bond, try the amuse-bouche
Its three o’clock in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I’m attempting to watch the 1971 cheesefest “Diamonds are Forever”.
This, it seems to my sleep deprived mind, may be the nadir of the whole Bond vigesology. It’s not just the bad hair, cheap satin mass produced nonsensical party dresses, and plot-advancing close-camera shots of Jill St. John’s bikini-clad buttocks. It’s not just that the rumpled Sigfried-and-Royesqe villains, Mr. Kidd and Mr. Wint, are badly in need of a tailor, a barber, a chiropractor, a hairpiece, and a six week intensive assertiveness training course.
It’s not even that the psychopathic villain’s lair ‘o evil, an abandoned oil rig with some machine guns, is covered in Workers Comp approved safety notices: “No Smoking”, “Danger: Caustic Chemicals”, “Remember to Wear Eye Protection”, “Be Safe: When in Doubt, Ask”.
It’s the food. Why did they try to sell fondues, shish kebabs, and an explosive laden ice cream cake (a Bombe Surprise) as haute cuisine?
It occurs to me that the whole point of the bloody explosion-laden adolescent bimbo-centric franchise is the glamorous spy fantasy. The fashion and explosions have gotten better, but they still don’t do a good job with the food.
Maybe they should use big name chefs as villains. Masaharu Morimoto would make an excellent assassin-henchman, and I think Bobby Flay has the necessary narcissistic megalomania to be an acceptable arch-villain.
Bond: The Foie gras is to die for, and the Kobe beef is spectacular. However, I still need to stop your evil plan to rule the world.
Flay: You loose Bond! Nothing can stop me now!
Flay laughs maniacally and leaps on table. He steps on the electrified cutting board, and dies.
Flay: Aigh!
Morimoto: Now you die, Mr. Bond….
Bond: However, the lobster contains too much cumin.
Morimoto: What! Give me that!
Morimoto tastes the dish and starts choking
Morimoto: Oh No! This isn't lobster, it's badly prepared Fugu! Aigh!
Morimoto dies
Bond: Excellent. Now for dessert
Julia Child: Oh, James! Ooo!
This, it seems to my sleep deprived mind, may be the nadir of the whole Bond vigesology. It’s not just the bad hair, cheap satin mass produced nonsensical party dresses, and plot-advancing close-camera shots of Jill St. John’s bikini-clad buttocks. It’s not just that the rumpled Sigfried-and-Royesqe villains, Mr. Kidd and Mr. Wint, are badly in need of a tailor, a barber, a chiropractor, a hairpiece, and a six week intensive assertiveness training course.
It’s not even that the psychopathic villain’s lair ‘o evil, an abandoned oil rig with some machine guns, is covered in Workers Comp approved safety notices: “No Smoking”, “Danger: Caustic Chemicals”, “Remember to Wear Eye Protection”, “Be Safe: When in Doubt, Ask”.
It’s the food. Why did they try to sell fondues, shish kebabs, and an explosive laden ice cream cake (a Bombe Surprise) as haute cuisine?
It occurs to me that the whole point of the bloody explosion-laden adolescent bimbo-centric franchise is the glamorous spy fantasy. The fashion and explosions have gotten better, but they still don’t do a good job with the food.
Maybe they should use big name chefs as villains. Masaharu Morimoto would make an excellent assassin-henchman, and I think Bobby Flay has the necessary narcissistic megalomania to be an acceptable arch-villain.
Bond: The Foie gras is to die for, and the Kobe beef is spectacular. However, I still need to stop your evil plan to rule the world.
Flay: You loose Bond! Nothing can stop me now!
Flay laughs maniacally and leaps on table. He steps on the electrified cutting board, and dies.
Flay: Aigh!
Morimoto: Now you die, Mr. Bond….
Bond: However, the lobster contains too much cumin.
Morimoto: What! Give me that!
Morimoto tastes the dish and starts choking
Morimoto: Oh No! This isn't lobster, it's badly prepared Fugu! Aigh!
Morimoto dies
Bond: Excellent. Now for dessert
Julia Child: Oh, James! Ooo!