Amuse-Biatch and the Issue of Prejudgment Interest

Oh, possums, how our nonexistent little hearts have fluttered for weeks each time we heard the Bravo announcer jauntily intone, “From the producers of Top Chef….”

It’s just the sort of clarion call to which our hearts have previously responded. Indeed, who among us hasn’t experienced an expectant swoon upon hearing, “From the makers of Metamucil” or “From the producers of White Chicks”?

And so it is with great delight that we awoke today, knowing that tonight is the premiere of I’m a Celebrity Chef (I Wish!), Get Me Out There….

Ah, just a minute, possums, Miss XaXa is pointing to the press release and mouthing something. It appears the show is actually called Top Chef Masters.

Dang it, we think there ought to be a colon in there, the way there has been for Top Chef: Miami, etc. After all, without the colon, the show’s title seems redundant (if they’re top chefs, they’re also masters, n’est-ce pas?) or misleading (if they’re supposed to be the masters of Top Chef, then that arguably means only Harold Dieterle, (God spare us!) Ilan Hall, Hung Huyhn, Stephanie Izard, and, ahem, Hosea Rosenberg). And so, for as long as we’re blogging the show, we’re going to call it Top Chef: Masters. (See, possums? 90 days have not done away with our streak of pedantry.)

Not having seen the show, we will, for the next several hours, withhold judgment. We will admit, though, that there are troubling signs. The reviews we’ve read have focused on what a kinder, gentler version of Top Chef this is. No liquor, no bunk beds, no nookie, oy vey. Indeed, the New York Daily News refers to Top Chef: Masters as a “wade in the kiddie pool” (and means it as a compliment!). What has the world come to?

As for the replacements for Tommy, Pads, and the gang, well, we will know in due time (though we think it most unsporting and, again, potentially misleading, that the original teasers for Top Chef: Masters contained no indication that the Gang of Four would not be back in their roles). We will say this, though, based on the video below. Kelly “Padma Lite” Choi seems far too nice for the job. Dare we say we will miss the Pads, who can go from cannabimbo to ice princess in the flip of her Pantene’d locks? (Hey, we’re not knocking her Pantene gig; how else are you going to wash the smell of a Carl’s Jr. burger out of your hair?)


Apparently, Top Chef: Masters will be a “tournament-style” competition (we’re told by reliable jocks that this has something to do with the sports world) in which the 24 chefs (some of whom actually qualify for the title of “master”) will do their darnedest to score some scratch for charity while trying to prevent their (in some cases incipient) television careers from taking a hit. With that in mind, we have as of now established but one ground rule: We will not make fun of anyone’s chosen charity. Not, of course, because we’re incapable of it, but, rather, because who the hell wants to tickle the bony ankles of bad karma In Times Like These? As for everything else, it’s fair game. Gird your loins, luvs.

Top Chef: Masters and Margaritaville

Possums, it is with the sanity of bloggers as with Roquefort cheese—it’s a goodly spell in a nice, dark cave that does the trick.

In our case, you have only to imagine the salutary effects of 90-odd (and 90 odd) days with nary a thought about His Bearness or, um, Her Highness. Week upon glorious week neither knowing nor caring about Padma’s apartment, her burger commercial, or her wearing of silk charmeuse without a bra on noticeably cold nights at public events.

Day upon day unfolding without ever having to hear the phrase “throw under the bus,” or ponder the ominous portent of scallops, or come up with ursine metaphors, or decipher the semiotics of fauxhawks and t-shirts obviously chosen to attract attention.

Night upon night of sleep undisturbed by dark dreams of Bravo conspiracies bearing the suffix “-gate.” Rien de rien, possums.

By the end, we had very nearly returned to our customary, half-human state.

And then it occurred.

Suckling at the teat of cable television one afternoon, we landed on an oh-so-alliterative Food Network show titled Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives, hosted by preposterously peroxided putz Guy Fieri. Normally, we are as allergic to him as he is to long trousers and intellectual depth. Indeed, chez Amuse-Biatch the show is referred to as Douchebag, Dipshit, and Dumbass. This time, though, we cocked our head and said aloud to ourselves, “You know, he’s kind of charming.”

The Patsy Stone-like scream from Miss XaXa was blood-curdling. We cannot say whether it was “No, Eddie, nooooo!” or “No, Charlus, nooooo!” we heard before we lost consciousness. It was not sal volatile or booze that brought us round, but, rather, Miss XaXa’s perfectly manicured nails digging into our neck as she dragged us by the scruff to where our laptop lay in desuetude. “That’s it!” she kept saying, “Vacation over! It’s time!”

So, yes, possums, we are back to the venom, vim, and vitriol of the internet, and we will be blogging the bejeezus out of Top Chef: Masters. The show premieres Wednesday, June 10, at 10 p.m.

Possum Communiqué

Well, possums, thus endeth the season that established the FCC is apparently ok with “pussy” and “twat” airing on basic cable, the season of interesting personalities and not-so-interesting food.

On a personal note, it was also the season that proved once and for all that our fan favorite endorsement is the kiss of death. For Season 6, we will be accepting cash and gifts from cheftestants in order not to endorse them for fan favorite.

Now that the season is over, posting will be much lighter, as and when the spirit moves us. We are working on a couple of interviews for you, and will post them when they’re ready. We haven’t yet decided whether we will blog Marco Pierre White’s new show, Chopping Block, but we will most definitely keep our claws in working order for Top Chef Masters when it airs. (And look for us on Twitter, where we are sure to spend far too much time.)

Mil gracias, vielen Dank, and merci to you, the possums, for reading, commenting, and sending in tips and piquant (often salacious) rumors (and photographs). (And as the casting and other preparations for Season 6 get underway, please continue to send those in.)

Mientras tanto, hasta la próxima….

Seeing How the Sausage Is Made

And there’s a lot of gristle in that sausage, possums, if the above is any indication. We came upon that on Television Without Pity, where poster SisterOfSylar said the tidbits came from a friend with access to inside information.

We have, of course, no way of knowing whether any of these tidbits are true, but if they are, they help to make sense of other events.

For example, during many of his post-win interviews, Hosea Rosenberg oddly discusses how demoralized he was after his make-out session with Leah Cohen, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. Earlier, we theorized that remorse on the part of Leah and Hosea was not necessarily the result of their consciences needling them, but, rather, “a product of discovery, a realization that their encounter would be televised, and would have consequences.” And if Il Colicchio did indeed have to do a finger-wagging chat with the two lovebirds, it makes this theory of ours all the more plausible. And it’s easy the stress from a fruitless attempt to convince editors not to show the make-out footage.

In any case, very interesting, possums, very.

(Click on the picture to enlarge it and read the details of Scott Conant-Fabio-Colicchio Italian-offs, Colicchio-sick-making food, and avuncular ursine scoldings.)

“Top Chef” Shocker! The Untold Story of On-Set Ursine Cannibalism!

There are times, possums, when we cannot see the bear for the fur.

Come to think of it, there are also times when we can’t see a darn thing at all because our eyeballs are so riveted by the Gail Simmons poitrine. (And yes, we feel very guilty indeed to be constantly objectifying such an intelligent and accomplished woman, but what can we do, other than to ask Christian Bale’s stepmother to indulge and forgive us?)

At any rate, this was one such occasion of blindness, and, as is so often the case, it took another woman to open our eyes, none other than our beloved Ms. Dorothy Snarker, the eagle-eyed, martini-wielding hostess of the All-Gals-In Pink-Triangular Table:



Watching the video above, we had not been able to see past les bazooms de Gail, and we had missed the most important thing of all, which La Snarker brought to our attention and provided photographic evidence for: Ursus Major Tom Colicchio eats bears!

We have not been so shocked since learning—spoiler alert!—that Soylent Green is people. Oh Tom Colicchio, how could you?

“There’s always room for Gummi Bears,” you say, a phrase that is sure to haunt the dreams of cubs across America. Perhaps a turn as spokesman for Gummi Bears is in order once the Diet Coke campaign is done? (Come to think of it, isn’t it fitting that Colicchio’s shilling for Diet Coke and choice of Hosea Rosenberg as Top Chef should have come at roughly the same time? After all, as Miss XaXa put, Hosea is the Diet Coke of Top Chefs—bland, a poor substitute for the real thing, and leaves a bad taste in your mouth.)

Is There an Amuse-Biatch “Top Chef” Curse?

Well, possums, perhaps it serves us right for being so immodestly pleased that, as shown above, our endorsement of Carla Hall for the title of Fan Favorite (and its attendant prize of 10,000 scallop shells) is going to be shown on tomorrow night’s Reunion Show. Caught and held fast in the gauzy web born of the Gail Simmons giggles we inspired, we failed to think our usual pessimistic thoughts.

Fortunately, one of the properly cynical possums, watching the second video’s bit on the “birthday curse,” suggested that there might be an Amuse-Biatch curse as well, at least where Fan Favorites are concerned.

A curse? Sure, “fan site” is not exactly how we would refer to this endeavor (“cyber scratching post,” or “tiny, clawed fist shaken in the general direction of the aspirational reality tv panopticon” might be more to our liking), but a curse?

But the Santayana-quote-wielding possum was merciless in her remembrance of things past. We were reminded that during Season 2, we endorsed Carlos Fernandez, only to have him lose to Sam “Not That Guy” Talbot. During Season 3, we endorsed Dale Levitski, only to have the title won by Casey “Beaver Boots” Thompson, a title she might not win again if the voting were held today. During Season 4, we endorsed perhaps the biggest fan this website has ever had, self-proclaimed metrosexual and logorrhea sufferer, Ryan “Chicken Piccata” Scott, but the fans chose Stephanie Izard instead.

We must face the very real possibility, then, that in endorsing Carla for Fan Favorite we inadvertently doomed her chances of success, putting us in the company of none other than Dick Cheney. Just great. Why, oh why, didn’t we endorse Ariane “Silencer of the Lambs” Duarte? Why?

Previews: Amuse-Biatch on the Reunion Show, Padma Lakshmi on the Bear Vote, and the Birthday PYKAG Curse

Hootie Tells NPR About Her Journey from Accountant to Model to Sandwich Lady to “Top Chef” Finalist

Click HERE to hear.

Despite Feeling Like a Deer in Some *Very* Nice Headlights, Amuse-Biatch Attempts to Stay Abreast of News and Rumors

Look, possums, we’re not blind (though, it must be said, we were very nearly blinded). We know all too well that the main issue on viewers’ minds during the Top Chef finale was not who would win, but, rather, what was up with Gail Simmons’ breasts?

Is she trying, singlehandedly and double-barreledly, to turn Bravo’s gay viewers straight? (There’s a frightening, but distinct, possibility that it might just do the trick for us. A de-Gailing?)

From far and wide (even our mother called to ask) came the purple-hued cry, Is Gail with child?

We think the answer is no. Here’s the evidence:

The Gail doth quaff. Indeed, as Raggaydy Andy recounts on his blog, after filming of the finale wrapped, early in the morning, Gail and the gang went out for drinks:

“…the entire crew and chefs went to a dive bar around the corner and celebrated the end of the season. We were surrounded by local NOLAholics, some who popped in around 7 a.m. for a nip in suits on their way to work. I took Gail out of there around 8 when a bar fight broke out. It was that kind of joint.”

As such, we think Ms. Gail is not with child. She does do a grand job of upstaging the Pads—how do you like that, Padma, how do you like that? In your face!

So what is the explanation for this recent fulsomeness and glow? We put it down to marriage.

Last Season’s Top Chef, Stephanie Izard, on Whether Padma Lakshmi Follows the Acapulco Golden Rule

Possums, as much as we like and appreciate last season’s Top Chef winner, Stephanie Izard, we cannot help but concede that she, being a cautious and intelligent sort (drats!), hasn’t always given the most thrilling of interviews (although perhaps in these Caseygate times, that’s not such a bad thing). So it is with great pleasure that we perused one of the liveliest Izard interviews to date, where she discusses her soon-to-open restaurant in Chicago and how she is confident she will beat Hosea Rosenberg during their upcoming cook-off in Aspen. But our favorite exchange was this:

Q. Settle a rumor: Does Padma like to share her weed or no?
A. Does she seem like the type who shares? That would not be very diva would it?