The Cutprice Guignol

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Guy Fieri wore his sunglasses on the back of his head. Second, there was a part of him, and I didn’t know how dominant that part might be, that thirsted for briscuit. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.

Yes, sorry to hit you with it right there in paragraph one, but I’m in love. It feels so good to finally come clean and say it: I know some of you will find this difficult to accept. Some might say our love is impossible because we’ve never met and have apparently nothing in common; to those naysayers, I say I too was once as cynical. Then- well- what can I do? I saw him and everything went away. I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love. I’ve doodled Mrs Louise Fieri everywhere and have perfected the art of deep frying every meat under the sun as this seems to act as a siren call to my beloved.

Guy Fieri presents Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, a show where he pootles around America checking out local eateries. I discovered it in a petulant argument with my best friend wherein he wanted to watch a Trivium playlist on a music channel, I didn’t, won control of the remote control and stroppily hammered a few buttons, bringing me face-to-screen with the man of my dreams. My obsession grew when I was horrendously, humiliatingly ill for a week, charmed by Fieri’s endless enthusiasm and refusal to take the dainty little bites every other food presenter does. Even though the food turned my already unhappy stomach, something about the way he chowed down a specialty burger drenched in cheese stirred something in me I thought would be asleep till I met Helena Bonham Carter in person. In my fevered state, I began to picture us driving round the USA, getting hands-on in the kitchens of local diners, then getting  my hands on him in the back of his convertible like a gastronomic Bonnie and Clyde.

He’s completely unpretentious about food, guzzling hot dogs, fries, seemingly endless burgers and a frankly disturbing amount of pancakes. Although I am almost certain that pure grease pumps through his veins, there’s something genuinely endearing about his wild enthusiasm and positivity over food which is usually viewed as slurry for the masses.  A gastronaught he is not, having apparently mastered the art of unhinging his jaw to fit an entire meal in it at once (a skill I’m certain I could find use for elsewhere), but he knows what he likes and has somehow convinced someone to pay him to film it. That’s more proactive than my last three romantic interests combined.

So there it is: I’m in love with a man a man who thinks fine dining should come with wipe-down tablecloths and neon lights. I regret nothing.