By Mari Taketa
Yesterday morning I get a call from Ming Tsai's office in Boston. They seem to think I've asked for an interview. They're looking for a way to squeeze me in.
No no, I say. I'm doing a photo gallery with captions that tell a story. I'm not interested in a Q&A. Thanks anyway.
Gradually the day's first caffeine seeps toward my brain, carrying news of what a moron I am. Five minutes later I'm jumping for the phone. It's too late: Ming's running in for his cooking demo at Macy's and running out for his flight back to Boston. There's no way. But they'll save me a seat.
Slipped through my fingers! An interview with the (almost) next Iron Chef, only two days after his elimination over fatty pork fat! If before I was moderately interested in tasting and passing judgment on a cuisine that nearly made it to Kitchen Stadium, now my appetite is whetted.
Bring it, Ming! If you can't talk to me, show me what's in your pot!
Here’s a quick video I shot of Ming. Someone in the audience asked him something. Or maybe they didn’t. At one point he paused, plunged an imaginary knife into his gut, and started talking — for nearly nine minutes. (The woman you hear laughing is not me.)