So I decided I won’t be blogging about Top Chef Masters, after all.
The whole thing just strikes me as Bizarro Top Chef, a shameless attempt by Bravo to capitalize on a name brand series.
I mean, it has a lot of the same elements in place: the music, the Quickfire and Elimination challenges, the judging table, but something just feels kind of off, ya know?
Here's who I really feel sorry for: NotPadma ™, aka Kelly Choi. Look, she’s a lovely woman—a former Ford model and a popular New York television host. But trying to walk in Padma’s shoes (gladiator sandals? Louboutin pumps?) is a tall order. You’re like the act who shared the stage with the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show. You’re like the model who came on the runway after Gisele. You’re like Jennifer Aniston. (I kid, I kid. . .)
NotPadma ™, poor dear, you never had a chance.
That being said, it is nice to see foodie goddess Gael Greene as one of the judges. (I still can’t believe NY Magazine let her go.) Maybe she can migrate over to the real show next season. . .
I apologize in advance for this. I know, I know. . .I haven’t updated this blog in God knows how long and now I’m writing about . . . basketball?
I promise, I will get back on the reality TV blogging bandwagon in a few weeks with the return of Project Runway and Top Chef. (Not sure if I’m blogging about Top Chef Masters, although NYC Prep does hold a certain allure. . .)
But I have to defend my man, Kobe Bean Bryant, aka The Black Mamba, aka (in my house, at least) The Kobester.
Mind you, if I had to defend Kobe every time some highly biased, unfair, or just plain mean-spirited ink was spilled over him, it would be a full time job. . .with lots of overtime.
(I already had a major rant about his unfair media treatment here.)
But today I simply have to chime in about a subject that has been lighting up sports websites and blogs across the nation.
I am referring, of course, to Kobe’s face.
In the course of these NBA finals, Kobe Bryant has rolled out a new facial expression, above.
His teeth are bared, his jaw is jutting out, his eyes are glaring. He looks a bit like a cross between a pit bull and a really frustrated toddler. (Kobe may intimidate with his game, but his face is just a little too choir boy to really be an effective weapon). In all my years following Kobe as an athlete, he has never pulled out this face. Early in his career, during his slavish-MJ-emulating days, he trotted out the tongue. Since then, there have been a host of post-basket gestures: The Dikembe finger-wag, the fist pump freeze, the airplane takes flight, the my-balls-are-bigger-than-yours, etc.
I have no idea what this face is except to say this:
When you’re Kobe Bean Bryant, always the most intense guy on the court, where do you go when you want to amp the intensity just a little bit more?
You go to this face.
I’m serious. Kobe’s pit-bull face is his equivalent of “This one goes to 11.” He’s always an animal on the court. Now, in his quest for his 4th ring, he’s a certified beast.
But what are the haters saying? How could I not see this coming? That the face is FAKE.
That this face—contorted in intensity, testosterone, and just a wee bit of rage—is all part of the Kobe Bryant public image machine. He’s trying to prove to us, through his face, just how bad he wants it. He’s kind of like an NBA mime. His grimace is as fake as his post-game reunion with his adorable daughters and his wife in the tunnel (he just does that to pretend he’s a good father!), his diplomatic graciousness at the Olympics (he’s just doing that to pretend he’s a good American!), and, of course, his on-court trash talking (which ESPN writer Tim Keown ludicrously said was all an act.)
So here’s my response to this nonsense:
Kobe doesn’t need to prove how intense he is, just ask any of his teammates or opponents.
If the face was somehow calculated, don’t you think he’d pick a more—how shall I put this—telegenic face? I mean, that face ain’t got no alibi.
And finally I’ll say this: The fact that column inches and radio air time have been wasted on the legitimacy of Kobe’s face proves two things: That sports journalists have WAY too much time on their hands. (Duh.) And that Kobe could donate his body to science and people would argue that he was just doing it to get some good post-mortem pub.
Just for the record, I believe in The Face! The Face is great! The Face ain’t no mistake! The Face is on the case!
Lakers in 5, bitches.
Ilene Chaiken, creator, empress, and spirit guide of The L Word: You are no David Chase.
Chase, you see, can create an open-ended, existential series finale of his show, The Sopranos, because, well, he earned it. That finale was in keeping with the status-quo-defying, challenging, philosophically complex nature of his drama.
The L Word? Not so much.
The L Word, as the obnoxiously self-approbating one-hour special reminded us, was not just about the culture of lesbians, it was about friendships and relationships and work and fashion. The show was at its best when it got off the soap box and just gave us good, juicy melodrama and let the cast just be their gorgeous talented selves.
And I actually loved what Chaiken was doing with the “Who Killed Jenny?” final season. It was campy, it was bitchy, it was naughty—in all the right ways.
For those who don’t know. The first episode of The L Word’s final season started with ingénue-turned-villainess Jenny being fished out of the pool, quite dead. The cops arrived, as the cast huddled together in the home of power lesbians Bette and Tina. The whole season was a flashback.
“I could kill her!” several characters—now suspects—hissed at various times during the show’s last mini season.
Was it adorably flaky and gossipy Alice, pissed because Jenny stole her screenplay idea?
Was it pregnant transsexual Max, angry because Jenny refused to accept him as a man?
Was it film producer Tina, convinced that Jenny stole the negatives to her movie?
Was it domesticated lothario Shane, ready to lash out because Jenny had her on such a short leash?
Was it spacey starlet Niki, rejected by Jenny and now pining after Shane?
Was it righteous Bette, furious that Jenny was meddling in her private affairs?
And so on.
So now here’s the finale and all the gals are together and there’s a suspiciously loose railing on the balcony and we all know what’s coming—the only pleasure at this point is finding out the who’s and how’s—and instead we get . . . nothing.
Chaiken, in all her infinite wisdom, decided to leave the mystery of “Who Killed Jenny?” open-ended.
Let me get this straight: You frame an entire season around a mystery and then you. . . don’t solve the mystery?
It’s arrogant. It’s cruel. And most importantly, it’s just plain dumb.
It’s not what David Chase did, at all. Ambigious endings are fine, you see. But they need a context, a purpose.
So can someone please explain to me, what was the damn point?
Here was the problem with this year’s Top Chef reunion show.
As much as I enjoyed this season—and I did—I simply didn’t watch last week's anticlimactic finale and think “I want more, more, more!”
The scallops had been smoked. The creative monkeys had been fed. There were no questions left unanswered.
I wasn’t dying to know: What became of Hosea and Leah’s showmance?
I never asked myself: Is Tom Colicchio a sexier baldy bear to straight women or gay men?
I never pondered: Would kissing Stefan's head bring me good luck?
I never worried: Is Jeff was still feeling the pain of his shirtless objectification?
I just didn't care.
(Speaking of Jeff feeling objectified: How on earth did Bravo squander an opportunity for a shirtless Jeff montage? We got a Hootie montage and a bald guy montage and a Stefan and Fabio bromance montage. But no Jeff in a towel? Bravo, you're slipping.)
I knew things were off to a rocky start when Andy Cohen asked the group, “Is anyone surprised that Hosea won?” As hands shot up unanimously in living rooms across American, the Cheftestants' hands remained politely on their laps. Except for Leah who raised hers. And then, when she realized she was the only one, she quickly put it down: “Just kidding,” she lied.
Later, Andy asked: Does anyone think Daniel can win fan favorite?
As viewers across American looked at their friends and signficant others and asked, “Who’s Daniel?” the Cheftestants raised their hands in the affirmative. Because absolutely a man who was voted off on the fourth show can win fan favorite!
That being said, the Jamie and Leah drunken elimination-panel clip was quite funny and went a long way to explain the “wacky” headbands. (There! A question answered that I didn’t even know I had!)
And it was cute to see my girl Adrian playing yenta, trying to get Hosea to move to New York to be closer to Leah, even if the whole showmance montage was painfully awkward. (Leah looked as though she was in actual physical pain.)
Happy enough to see Fabio win fan favorite, although Carla would’ve been my preference. (Yes, she replaced Adrian in my heart: We reality show viewers are a fickle bunch, aren’t we?)
Most amusing perhaps was the "I’m Not Really An Asshole"-Off between Toby Young and Stefan:
"It’s just that we care so much," said Toby (unconvincingly), explaining why he was so mean to the Cheftestants. "And you make us so mad when you fail," he added (convincingly).
"You see, I wanted Hosea to win," said Stefan (unconvincingly). And Jamie has a "nice rack," he later added (convincingly).
“Rack of lamb,” said Colicchio. Ha.
And then, a slightly gloomy reunion show ended on a seriously gloomy note, as Andy asked Hosea and Fabio for updates on their ailing parents.
For the record, Fabio’s mother is doing worse.
And Hosea’s father is . . . also doing worse.
Good times.
Oh well, see ya next season. In the meantime, may there be a chicken in every pot and a hootie for every hoo.
On vacation in Key West, so I'm going to do this telegram style.
Well, that was anticlimactic. STOP.
Hated to see Carla cry. STOP.
At least it wasn't Stefan. STOP.
Once again, I watched an episode of Lie to Me before tuning into Top Chef, and once again, it armed me with mad skills to read the secret meaning behind the facial expressions of the judges and cheftestants.
But first, our four finalists arrive in New Orleans: With the exception of Fabio, who sports a truly unacceptable “faux hawk” and a Pepto-pink scarf, they all look pretty much the same—Hosea is sweaty and ill-at-ease; Stefan is smug and self-satisfied (but perhaps a tad thicker than last we saw him?); Carla looks like a happy and slightly bewildered giraffe.
Emeril Lagasse is the celebrity judge and, as my pal Evan pointed out, is weirdly subdued the whole night. Not a single “Bam!” to be found, despite many “Bam!”-friendly openings. (An Emeril without a “Bam!” is like a Hootie without a Hoo.)
There are three cooking stations set up but the chef’s are told that they won’t be competing in this Quickfire.
This immediately sets off my reality TV “oh, crap, they’re screwing with the rules” alarm, and with good reason.
Out march Jamie, Jeff, and Leah.
The cheftestants grin tensely, expressing outward pleasure at seeing their former castmates. Actual meaning: Christ, didn’t we get rid of these people already?
In particular, Hosea’s facial expression reads: I promised my girlfriend I would never see Leah again and now here she is—should I run?
Yup, one of these three cast-offs is now vying for a place in the finals. I absolutely HATE when reality shows do this. Why have rules at all if you’re just going to randomly change them? It’s not like Jamie, Jeff, or Leah were such stellar contestants that the competition has felt their absence. Hell, Leah was eliminated last week and I’d already forgotten about her.
Their challenge is to make a dish with crawfish, advantage Jeff, who works with seafood a lot at Hotel Vibrator. So he wins.
Jeff gets high fives and congratulations from the cheftestants, but what they’re really thinking is: Can’t you just go back to the hair salon you crawled out from under?
One catch: The only way Jeff can make it to the finals is by winning the Elimination Challenge. So at least there’s that.
Stefan expresses his displeasure with his new competition.
“This is Top Chef. This is not a butt-rubbing contest,” he says. No, I have no idea what it means either. But, if you are playing the home game:
This is not Top Scallop.
This is not Top Pussy.
And this is not Top Butt-Rubbing Contest.
Happy to clear that up.
Their Elimination Challenge is to make New Orleans-style food for a high society masked ball.
Everyone is completely sweating over their work, except for Stefan who, true to character, acts like the whole thing is a joke.
“Stefan’s Achilles heel is that he thinks he has it in the bag,” says Hosea. Foreshadowing? Or just wishful thinking.
Jeff is casing his own sausage, but Stefan is using the sausage that’s in the kitchen.
Stefan holds up the links of sausage like he’s 10. “What does this remind you of?” he giggles.
(Between the butt-rubbing and the sausage jokes, we can safely say that New Orleans brings out the repressed homosexual in Stefan like no other American city.)
Carla is making shrimp beignet and oyster stew, even though she just learned how to shuck an oyster, like, on Tuesday.
“I’m going to have to MacGyver it,” she says, endearingly hacking away at her oysters.
Hosea has been studying up on Cajun cooking techniques and is rouxing the hell out of his gumbo.
Chef Colicchio comes into to visit the chefs and notices, with some displeasure, Stefan’s nonchalance. (More foreshadowing?)
Eventually the chefs set up their tables and the ball begins. At which point, four mysterious masked figures emerge in the entranceway. One is a leggy, raven-haired goddess, one is a thickish bald guy, one is a busty woman, and one is, well, Emeril Lagasse.
“What’s the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation doing with Emeril Lagasse?” I think to myself.
Then they dramatically unveil their masks. They got me!
It’s Tom, Padma, and Gail!
(Re: The return of Gail. Does this mean we are done with U.K. McSnarkerson for good? Pleeeease make it so).
The guests seem to be enjoying the food. Fabio is hitting on all women—and despite his hair-don’t, they seem to like it. Carla is exchanging spirited “Hooties!” with her guests. And all the cheftestants are adorned in appreciative Mardi Gras beads (SO much more appropriate than the AIDS ribbons from a few shows back.)
At judges table, the following thoughts are expressed:
The judges pretty much LOVE Carla’s shrimp beignet and oyster stew and even her fizzy, non-alcoholic drink.
They also love Jeff’s atomically-green cucumber mojito, his crawfish pot de crème and his fried oyster and sausage.
They are particularly pleased that Jeff made his own sausage.
“This is the end,” says Jeff. “I wouldn’t win if I stole somebody’s sausage.”
Stefan gulps.
(Jeff has just seriously gone up in my estimation for making Stefan squirm.)
Despite the fact that it didn’t pass muster with Stefan, the judges are very fond of Hosea’s gumbo, with its authentic roux.
And they like, but don’t love, Fabio’s pasta with crawfish and Stefan’s gumbo with grits.
“You seem pretty indifferent to all this,” Chef Colicchio says to Stefan.
“I’m 36 years old. If it works out, it works out. If not, fine,” Stefan shrugs.
Cut to Colicchio, his lips pursed, his eyes squinted: Classic disgust.
So now here we are: If Jeff wins the whole thing, which is clearly a possibility, both Fabio AND Stefan are going home.
Holy f*&*#! Maybe that foreshadowing WAS for real.
Stefan sits in the holding room, trying to affect an air of amused indifference and nonchalance. Actual mood: Ready to poop his pants.
The cheftestants file back in.
And the winner is . . .Carla! Hootie!!!!
That means Jeff is gone. Again.
So it comes down, fittingly, to the bromance—Hans and Franz, the Euro twins.
For the first time, I actually think that Stefan should get the boot. He didn’t even try, for God’s sake.
And, as Fabio says, “Top Chef will be the enzer to everything I need.” (Yeah, took me a sec, too. Enzer = answer.)
“Fabio pack your knives and leave,” says Padma, her ovaries quivering with sorrow.
Fabio and Stefan share a completely hetero Euro kiss.
“You better win this thing!” Fabio says. And with that, he’s gone.
Don’t worry Fabio, I have a hunch the Dr. Diet Pepper fan favorite award is in your immediate future.
