The Final Table Season 1
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Now just because I binge-watched it doesn’t mean it’s good, okay? I call it “hate-viewing”, loving to hate the fools in reality shows, which is, of course, part of the design of the genre, no? I mean who could genuinely love a Kardashian?
The Final Table is one of those new Eurovision-styled talent shows that pretends to be global but is actually all just playing out in the US with its attendant brazen TV imperialism and ladles of bigotry and exclusion.
But unlike Eurovision, which celebrates its own Eurotrashiness, The Final Table takes itself very seriously. Especially if it’s French food, then very, very.
The first season features 12 teams of two chefs from around the world preparing national dishes from everywhere except that pesky Chinese land (where there’s no Netflix, so hey).
Each episode shines a ratty light in what looks like an airport hangar on a different specific, replete with mostly male judges, mostly male critics and supermodels.
Apart from an awkward format, this show is not shy about objectifying women, excluding women, smiling fondly at the memory of slaves creating dishes in the kitchens of sugar plantations etcetera and so forth.
You’ll love to hate it. Especially when you meet Ash.
here’s always an Ash, a brassy and un-PC white South African chick with a hoarse voice and gung-ho cooking style who puts her foot in it every time she opens her mouth. But let me not spoil it for you.
Try it for yourself. It’s fine dining in hell.