Nothing but leftovers in ‘No Reservations’
By Julie Brown-Micko

A Hollywood makeover has such great appeal that it has grown beyond fashion magazines and talk shows to encompass restaurants. Humble cafés and bistros are overhauled on the food network’s “Restaurant Makeover.” And the wickedly wonderful Gordon Ramsay puts restaurants under the knife in “Kitchen Nightmares.” But this mania for makeover is not such a good idea for food movies. No Reservations, a recycled version of 2001’s Mostly Martha, has been buffed, shined, and polished to perfection, but lacks any of the grit that makes the story worth watching.

The tale remains the same, with a few cosmetic changes. Set in Manhattan’s West Village, Kate (Catherine Zeta-Jones) lives the seamless, busy life of a successful chef: up at 4:30 a.m. to get to the fish market, create brilliant dishes, execute them to the highest standard, and go home only to sleep. Her predilection for perfection serves her well at work but not at all in her personal life. What seems like a two-fisted tragedy—the arrival of her orphaned niece, Zoe (Abigail Breslin) and upstart chef Nick (Aaron Eckhart)—is actually an opportunity for growth, and, yes, love. Not without a few predictable cuts, bruises and burns along the way.

What should be an irresistible tension (and attraction) between Kate and Nick feels contrived. Anal-retentive Kate runs a tight, quiet kitchen, never raising her voice but ruling with absolute authority. Nick wins over the staff with his boyish charm, singing opera and cracking wise, while turning out dishes the equal of Kate’s. There should be fireworks, but instead, there is just the sluggish inevitability that these two good-looking people ought to be together. Oddly, we get the same feeling about the food: it’s very pretty, but it doesn’t make you particularly hungry. This is a rather attractive, but sterile examination of the workings of romance and cuisine.

The chic restaurant kitchen we see has no basis in any reality I am aware of. In the No Reservations Hollywood dream kitchen, the glossy locks of the staff need never be covered by hats or bandanas and the new copper pots are never dented or tarnished and there is (gasp!) elbow room to spare—even an extra prep table (!) for Zoe to lounge on. I would enjoy the spectacle of this fantasy if the film offered anything else genuine or realistic to hang onto (i.e. believable romance or family struggle). But everything is so chrome-shiny-slick that it coolly slips away.

A few bit parts get the juicy bits. Patricia Clarkson shines as the impeccably coiffed and honey-tongued restaurant owner, always juggling touchy staff and demanding customers. Bob Balaban brings in some needed humor in all-too brief scenes as Kate’s therapist.

But the small bites do not make a meal. And in the end, this glossy remake is just reheated leftovers. No thanks, No Reservations.