Jacques, my hero

Watching cooking shows these days can be a frustrating affair. And if you're like me, you watch then all the time. Of the Food Network crew I like Giada De Laurentis the best. Although at first I feared that her head would roll off her body, so large was it in comparison to her frail shoulders that my fiance and I called her bobble-head. All that's changed and I feel she's proven her mettle (knowing that she received a pastry certificate from the Cordon Bleu pushed that a long way into acceptance). I like the composition of her dishes, the beauty of the ingredients and utensils (love that dark wooden cutting board!). But mostly I like her enthusiasm for food. And she doesn't oversell herself like, oh say Rachael Ray with 23 cooking shows, a monthly lifestyle magazine, a talk show and God knows how many cookbooks. Which is not to say if Oprah knocked on my door and said would you like me to be your Fairy God Mother? would I by any means say no.

While I enjoyed De Laurentis' latest travel food show (man that girl can eat!) all it took was one PBS episode to put all of the FoodTV stars to shame. An episode by the name of Jacques Pepin's Fast Food My Way! What a thing of beauty that man is. 72 years old, chopping with a flourish, roasting and toasting, combining luscious ingredients and tossing in quick cheats that would make Martha grind her teeth. Like his recipe for a Pear Betty. He basically saves all the old pastries from the week - half a danish, a gnawed upon chocolate croissant, stale bread. These he chops into crouton-sized bites, combines with sugar, spices and fruit and pops the whole concoction into the oven. And voila! A crusty, oozy dessert begging for whipped cream.

What I like most is the sound from his kitchen. Not the voice, disarmingly gentle and persistently accented after decades of living in America. It was the sound of his spoon against a metal or glass bowl. A thud-clink as he mixed and finished ingredients for presentation. What a divine noise and boy does it make me drool something awful. As much as I love my cooking shows; Barefoot Contessa (what a glamorous life she leads - living in the Hamptons, cooking for all those gay men), Michael Chiarrelo (Dammit! Why doesn't my family own a vineyard?) they all fade away when it comes to one of the last living masters from the old cooking school.