Common Nonsense: All jacked up on fine dining

If you’ve never seen Food Network’s “Restaurant: Impossible,” let me tell you: You’re missing out.

The show’s host, Robert Irvine, seems like a great guy — your classic tall, dark, handsome and British Incredible Hulk type. And every episode, he barrels into train-wreck restaurants and whips them into shape through the use of brute strength and a heart of solid gold. One minute, he might flip an entire table of food onto the floor in disgust then berate a chef; but the next minute, you better believe he’ll sit down for a tearful one-on-one to uncover the real reasons behind why the chef’s food sucks so badly.

Irvine’s firm but, by God, he’s fair. Look into his eyes: You can tell he really cares.

And Grace’s Place Bagels & Deli, in Palm Coast, will get to see that empathy firsthand next month, when Irvine storms the premises (signature tiny T-shirt in tow) to put Palm Coast on the national-TV map once again. (Last time I remember seeing Flagler on the tube was when Ad Manager Jaci Centofanti and her husband, Ryan, had a full half-hour on TLC’s “My First Home.”).

How cool is that?

But I do have two problems with this latest feature. Problem No. 1: Grace’s Place was forever cemented into local history not two weeks back, when it was named in the Palm Coast Observer’s undisputed list of the “Top 5 best breakfasts in Flagler County.” Immortalized — maybe that’s a better word for it. But obviously, this oversight shows that “Restaurant: Impossible’s” vetting system is flawed, to say the least.

Has Irvine even tried Grace’s praline bacon yet? Amateurs….

And Problem No. 2: Besides the muscle and the fame and the presence and the talent and the know-how and the vision, what does Irvine have that I don’t?

Now, I’m not saying Grace’s should have asked me first how to save their business, but would a quick consultation have hurt? Maybe a breezy, daylong idea summit, or a casual, pay-by-the-hour marathon think-tank? I would’ve worked around them is the point. And after nailing those preliminaries, that’s when they’d get my version of the Irvine treatment.

I can see it now: I kick in the door at Grace’s, donning my signature sleeveless tank top, these pale-white Wiffle ball bats I call arms dangling at my sides, and I start barking orders at my crew of writing-school friends and other white-collar nerds I picked up at the library.

See? I’m already saving them money. Inexperienced workers means lower upfront costs. (The word you’re looking for is savvy.)

“Nerds,” I’d shout, “knock that that wall! Smash out that window! Drill through those tiles! Get me a sandwich!”

Next thing you know, after a quick montage, Grace’s is transformed. I transformed it — I don’t know, into an arcade or something. You have to understand: None of this is about the end result — it’s only the process that matters.

After all, who’s really going to care how the company does after Irvine hightails it and moves onto a new eatery? Not out-of-county viewers, that’s who. There’s no follow-up. No check-in. We take for granted that Irvine knows his stuff and that the world is better off because of it

Why should it be any different if I were in charge?

The point isn’t that I was doing some good in the community, helping out a family business or offering patrons quality meals at affordable prices. Who cares about that? People want to see change. They want to see progress. And I can deliver.

The point is that I had a sledgehammer — now you get it? And I wasn’t even a little bit afraid to use it.