Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Tell Tuesday: The Voices in Sam Talbot's Head Carry, Racially Harass Casey Thompson, and Tell Him Season 3 Sucks
Possums, if we were to run into Sam Talbot, we would welcome him to the dark side, and tell him to bring in da noise, bring in da snark. Not that he needs much encouragement, to judge by his latest Bravo blog post. For starters, take a look at this:
Every now and then (back when I actually had a job) I used to jump on the line when we were in the weeds. The guys that worked my line had a real sense of pride about their skills. All lines do -- at least good ones. So to earn their respect, you have to really bring it. When I saw what Casey did (or was trying to do) with that onion, I could hear them in my head yelling "Pinche Gringa!"
For those who need a translation, "pinche gringa" (see, Sam, no need to capitalize) means, "Fucking gringa." But kudos, Sammy; other than the minor capitalization error, the racial invective is perfect.
Well, we do have one quibble. Though it's a perfectly plausible and grammatically correct ejaculation, it did strike us as a bit of a projection and not quite the first curse a Mexican line cook would reach for. Maybe the voices in our head aren't as racist, but we would have gone with something more along the lines of "pinche güera babosa." That seems to us more likely, but, hey, good start, Sammy.
More fascinating still was this admission from Sammy, which seems to violate Rupert Everett's Unspoken Hollywood Rule--Think it, but don't say it:
As it gets closer to the finale, there's something I can't quite put my finger on about this season -- something's just a little off. Or missing. Maybe the chefs don't care as much about the title of Top Chef as they care about the exposure? Maybe they like each other so much they're sorry to send people home? Maybe it's the hot tub and the mojitos. I'm not sure. I guess we'll see.
Well, well. It would appear steamy Sammy is still steamed about not winning last season. But here's the thing: he's right. There is something off about this season. While last season's whole Stanford Experiment vibe with swamp bitches ready to tear out each other's throats may have been too much, maybe there is something to be said for bunk beds and no air conditioning (let us not forget that Project Runway, held up as a model for mixing drama with sewing skills in a morally palatable way, comes by its drama in part by having the contestants spend long, sweltering summer days in New York City without any air conditioning because the sound of the AC interferes with the recording of dialogue) instead of art-designed beds, hot tubs, and Jonathan Adler vases.