Orange just works for meI'm sorry. Fanta Pants. That so fits Mario Batali. It's kind of a term of endearment, like Sugar Tits or Lard Ass. (Not that the Iron Chef is any of those things, at least as far as we know.)
I can kid around like this because I know I can't afford to eat in the Spotted Pig or any other of Batali's establishments; he can ban me all he wants. I wasn't planning on coming in anyway. Gordon Ramsay is not so lucky, but for once it wasn't his dick that got him into a jam; it was his big mouth - and his even bigger ego.
The spat between the two started when Mario panned Ramsay's cuisine and said he "didn't get" New York. Ramsay reached into his bag of tricks and came up with ... Fanta Pants. (snicker snicker) Crude, but funny.
Mario's not laughing, and he's not forgiving the slight. He says until Gordon reaches out to him to make peace, he'll have to make other plans. He won't be welcome at his restaurants. Gordon would do well to extend that olive branch; since he's a prime minister now he'll need some diplomatic skills.