This week, I have the (subjective) pleasure of working for a production company shooting a commercial for a Japanese product. This means that the agency, client, and several crewmembers will be – Japanese. I have no inherent problems with Japan, or Japanese people; and I especially have no problem with sushi. Unfortunately, God made me Woman, and Japanese men don’t really like women. At all. Unless they’re starring in Tokyo porno. 

The main problem posed by this work arrangement is as follows: the Japanese take culinary arts very, very seriously. I really don’t need to verify this in writing; all you have to do is watch “Iron Chef” on Food Network to see a grown man cry when his tobanyaki just isn’t quite as tender as that of his competitor. Being that Japan hosts an extremely chauvinistic society, those arts held in high regard – like said culinary arts – are reserved for men, and men only. Women don’t go near them. Now, we both know that when I work on set, I don’t make meals, just make snacks. I mean, seriously. It’s one thing when I’m at some rock legend’s house, whipping up stuffed tenderloin roasts with cranberry coulis, braised broccoli rabe, roasted beets with fennel and rosemary, key lime pie, blah blah blah. It’s quite another thing when I’m doing yoga on a commercial set by standing in some grip’s face, while he stuffs it full of whatever’s-on-this-platter that I just threw together. Snacks. Snacks. Snacks! But still…with the Japanese, I am inferior. 

I’m going to backtrack for a moment, so indulge my digress: I went to all-girl’s school for ten years. We’re not talking about Catholic school, with cute-sy kilts and bows in my hair. We’re talking about The Grooming Of Future Wellesley Women. Think Ann Coulter, Hillary RODHAM Clinton, and lots of other mean, homely women with thick calves and a questionable sexual history. I had feminism beaten into me every fucking day of my life for ten. Whole. Years. I have been bred to just do whatever the fuck I want, in my own way, because I damn well please. The women who molded my formative education may have burned bras at one time, and smiled at the thought of me growing up to be a ball-busting, pants-wearing diplomat or political commentator, but I took a great deal of their teachings with a boulder of salt. Don’t get me wrong: I love being smart, I love being ambitious, and I love being successful and effective. I also love being feminine, and I love men who are masculine; and I love allowing natural gender roles to take their course. 

What I don’t love is a philosophy of gender that dictates the following statement: 

“Because you are a woman, there are certain things you just cannot do. 
Cooking is one of these things. The reason you cannot cook is because 
you do not, and never will, taste food CORRECTLY. You do not taste 
food correctly because you have monthly hormonal fluctuations that 
increase the heat of your mouth and your stomach, therefore destroying 
your taste.” 

The person who said this to me was a sushi chef named Yoshi. This was my retort: 

“Okay, then I have a question. I would like to know how YOU taste food 
‘correctly’ if you drink Sapporo and smoke Marlboro Reds all fucking day?” 

Yoshi didn’t have an answer. The reason that this short tiff ever occurred was because he didn’t believe that I had celebrity clients for my personal chef business. Two weeks later, I beat him and his friends at an early-morning round of golf (from their tees, NOT the ladies’ tees). He barely spoke to me again. 

So, finally I make my way back to my predicament: I will be in the throes of foodie sexism for two days, receiving glares and rude comments. I’ll look forward to my well-earned paycheck. I will bring my laptop along for unbiased companionship. I also will not be able to make ‘hot food’ of any kind, even if it is pre-packaged (yuck! I make everything homemade!). They will not eat it. And coming from a country where turning anything down is incredibly rude – even if it’s some floozy’s purple belly button lint – that’s the epitome of disrespectful behavior. This means that grips and electrics will be very, very unhappy. These are dudes who just want to eat Twinkies fried in lard all day long….screw Roasted Corn Chowder! It’s vegetarian (and according to several ‘old-timers,’ anything vegetarian was Grown In Shit and – thus – inedible). 

Craft service vixen, sweet as can be…caught between two worlds: one sexist and scientifically retarded; another overweight and sexually deprived. I’m really glad that Seven Layer Dip is a winner in every culture.

To contact Lalla Robinson email: leslieisblonde@gmail.com
Or visit: http://www.a-wasp-by-any-other-name.com/