Kay McFadden / Times staff columnist
'Iron Chef' lights anew this fallen foodie's fire

	AP Chef Bobby Flay, whose specialty is Southwestern cuisine, prepares a dish during competition on the Food Network's "Iron Chef America."
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It was like this: I boarded the plane in Denver after consuming pasta and sausage at a local chain. By the time Alaska Airlines Flight 197 pointed west, my stomach had announced a different itinerary. Others would see Mount Rainier; my views were restricted to a plastic toilet seat and the occasional concerned flight attendant.

Like so many eaters who came of age in the '80s and '90s, I have been a true-blue foodie. It wasn't entirely voluntary. You couldn't have a conversation in those days without knowing the best new restaurant, the latest hybrid fruit and the early warning signs of a shift from Bistro to Diner.

During that gastronomic era, chefs became gods and Food Network their temple. The cable channel, launched in 1994, soon grew popular enough to make stars of lesser-known cooks from America and beyond.

	Wolfgang Puck

Even in pre-TV-critic days, I devotedly watched Food Network. I also went to the movies and saw everything from "Tampopo" to "Chocolat" — films that specialized in layering elementary appetites into mille-feuille fantasy.

But celebratory as these efforts meant to be, elevating our most basic cravings to gourmet status sometimes had the perverse effect of calling their appeal into question. Need had been turned into decision.

The chilling effect of too many options has been well documented of late. In his widely reviewed book "The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less," author and psychology professor Barry Schwartz suggests 21st-century consumers are prisoners of picking. Whether it's what to eat or whom to eat it with, constant sorting has sapped our juices.

These thoughts were going through my head as it rested against the lavatory door. Maybe food and I needed a break. It was possible to overdo a good thing, though I had never known anyone to throw up from too much sex.

Bless Christine, whose last name remains a mystery. She's the Alaska employee who muscled my wheelchair through Sea-Tac, where small children stared at the woman cupping an air-sickness bag to her face as if it were an oxygen mask.

The cab driver was a doll. En route, he offered to go to a hospital, then sorted through his limited stock of English to ensure I took proper care.

"The pink stuff," he said as the taxi pulled up at my building. "The pink stuff?" I dumbly echoed. "Take it and you will feel better," he coaxed. Pepto-Bismol: My epicurean experiences had come to this.

	Masaharu Morimoto

For the uninitiated, Pepto-Bismol is not necessary. Food poisoning is its own cure. Your body pursues the simple course of discharging everything it's ever contained, possibly going back to 1978. Your soul is merely along for the ride.

Atkins, South Beach — ha. Try never wanting to get within smell distance of a meal again. Food poisoning is the "Clockwork Orange" of diets.

(Note: I know it can be serious. The last time I ate something that disagreed so violently, a friend phoned to warn that severe vomiting could trigger a heart attack. "Call if you need anything," she said cheerfully, then hung up.)

For a week after returning, work treated me like the ascetic I had become. The daily mail delivered programs about the Holy Grail, undertakers and British detectives. My stomach only lurched watching the news.

Then a press release from Food Network heralded a weekend-long series of "Iron Chef" specials, tape to follow.

My first urge was to ignore it for the nonthreatening "Plainsong," this Sunday's CBS Hallmark movie about a schoolteacher whose depressed wife has run away and whose two young sons befriend an eccentric spinster. Dinner appeared unlikely to play a role in the story line.

Besides, anyone interested in cooking already knows the "Iron Chef" series, which originated in Japan. Two renowned hash-slingers face off with the same ingredients and a limited span in which to create a panel-pleasing culinary triumph. The competition takes place in an atmosphere of pugilistic bravado and arch sporting references.

However, duty beckoned. Food Network is one of Seattle's top-rated cable channels.

The salient feature of "Iron Chef America: Battle of the Masters" is its international sense of skirmish. In four matches, airing at 10 tonight and Saturday and at 9 and 10 p.m. Sunday, the United States squares off against Japan. (Hors d'oeuvres lovers can watch a making-of special at 9 tonight.)

I popped in this evening's tape, which pairs Iron Chef champion Hiroyuki Sakai and Southwest master Bobby Flay. Future battles include Masaharu Morimoto versus Mario Batali and Wolfgang Puck, and a grand finale involving all the combatants.

At first, I could barely stand to look at the ingredients. A flopping trout proposed not the sweet, juicy promise of spring, but a simulated reprise of my gut-wrenching ride through unfriendly skies.

Gradually, though, the process began to seduce. Velvety cream, simmering cauldrons, sauce-stained fingers and mouths: the entire conjugation of arousal that separates man from the possums content with mere roadkill.

To put matters succinctly, it was porn and I was falling for it. Again.

In her new tome "Booty Food," Jacqui Malouf — best known as Flay's sidekick on Food Network's "Hot Off The Grill" — explores the link between meals and relationships. She gives recipes for all phases, from "the Marathon of Lust" to what to prepare when one of you gets sick.

"My only hope is that after spending some time with 'Booty Food,' you are inspired to leave the office behind for the night, grab someone you love, and get busy on the kitchen counter," writes Malouf.

Fine advice, to be sure. The contents are much better than the tacky title indicates.

But for those of us temporarily rendered inactive by a partner's out-of-town trip or toxic excess, there are shows like "Iron Chef." If food be the music of love, watch on.

Kay McFadden: kmcfadden@seattletimes.com

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