Ousted from Elk's Kitchen, MFMalarkey Tells It on the MFMountain: I Hate Bloggers, Fauxmicah!

Possums, it should come as no surprise that, today, "B" stands not for "Brian" but for "bitter."

As Ted Allen, our favorite gay cannibal and honorary lifetime possum, notes in his blog, "I had a conversation with Brian after he came so close to victory and then had it slip from his grasp, and he was pretty disappointed -- more than he let on in the show."

But he was certainly happy to let on in this just-published interview, once again chock-full of delighted-squirm-inducing pronouncements from the MFMouth of MFMalarkey:

* Getting on "Top Chef": "I didn't audition for the show. They sent a scout to San Diego and talked to a lot of people. They were going to put me on Season 2 but decided I wasn't what they were looking for. They got (chef Frank) "Frankie the Bull" (Terzoli) from San Diego instead. Then, they called me for Season 3. I did a few interviews, and they put me on."

[Talk about getting mutton for lamb. To think that Bravo producers last season replaced Brian the Bullshitter with Frankie the Bull! The rejection and subsequent courting lend interesting nuance to MFMalarkey's maidenly comment yesterday that it was he who didn't want to go on the show because he did not want to be a pawn.]

* Cooking for famous food judges: "(New York's) Daniel Boulud (Daniel) and Sirio Maccioni (Le Cirque) were both so passionate, so sweet and so nice. But some of them come in and are cutthroat, like (author/chef/TV personality) Anthony Bourdain. He just wants to be an a--- so he can get more airtime. Viewers don't know all that they put us through."

[Again, ain't it sweet? We didn't realize that the word "asshole" was so verboten within the Fourth Estate.

Here's what the "asshole" thinks:

"Indeed. It's not that Brian isn't a good cook. He's clearly very talented. His flavors are usually, it appears, excellent. His technique also excellent. He deserved to be in this competition -- and by whatever means he got there -- deserved to be in the finals. It's that he's often clueless about what he's done wrong -- and why anyone would disagree with him.

I'm sure that Brian still believes that his Jumbo Sirloin With Barbie-Head/Potato Hash was undeserving of scorn. That making an ugly but delicious shepherd's pie for a table of French master chef educators was an adequate effort. And I fear that when he looks back on the inexplicable and insanely awful decision to invite Eric Ripert to cut a fat slab of Gorgonzola onto a (presumably) nicely composed plate of elk ("Help yerseff to some fixin's, pardnuh!!") he's still wondering what went wrong. Where Brian fell down was on the conceptual end. Killed off -- as so often happens -- by a Bad Idea." ]

* Reading the blogs: "I'm weaning myself off them. They're vicious. They attack me, my wife, my dog. These people don't seem to have anything better to do."

[Um, first of all, we do have better things to do (and we do them); it's just that we enjoy doing this (like Hung, we lack both "heart" and "soul"). Secondly, we never attacked your dog; we believe in intraspecies honor. Look, Brian, possum, we'll level with you. You're a very cute guy (especially once you shaved that asinine soul patch), but it's not our fault that you had a penchant for bullshit, airy-fairy dish names, ugly man-jewelry and stupid hats (we're not positive, but we think even the International Male catalogue has banned thumb rings and leather wristbands). You might, as you claim, be loved by the Gays, but possum, we's a tough crowd, and tough crowd equals tough love. Also, it's not our fault that your wife put specific information that presumably implicates you on a public MySpace page for all the world to see. On the positive side, we applaud and congratulate you for not saying that you were weaning yourself "off of" blogs. Good grammar is a wonderful thing to behold. See? We're not all bad.]

* On cookbook author/actress/host/hottie Padma Lakshmi: "She's highly intelligent. We joke that the scar on her arm is where they put in her batteries - she's the only one who wears an earpiece."

[Meow, possum! We can see why the Gays love you. As for the earpiece comment: thank you! It all makes sense now. That's... why... Padma... talks... so... slowly,... because... producers... are... feeding... her... lines....]

* Glad to see her go: "I didn't like Micah - the one who dissed ketchup - from the get-go. Supposedly, she was from South Africa, but her accent was different every day. Later, we found out she was from Massachusetts."

[You'll get no disagreement from us, possum. Miami was definitely not big enough for two bitches in funny hats. One of you had to go. But, also, hmmmmm, just where did you learn Fauxmicah was from Massachusetts? Who could have told you that? Who could it be? Could it be...Satan, er, a blog?!? (You're welcome, possum.)]

*Tips for aspiring "Top Chef" contestants: "I don't know why you'd want to do it. You get destroyed in the blogs, it's exhausting, and the judges are merciless....

[Aw, possum, you should have listened to Sam Talbot, when he told you not to read the blogs. What was it he said again? Something about discovering things about yourself that you didn't know?]

Amuse-Biatch Plays Consigliere to Joey Pickles

As you ought to know by now, possums, Amuse-Biatch tries, whenever possible, to be of service to the cheftestants. And it is in that spirit that we write today.

Based on the teaser clips of what’s to come “on this season of Top Chef,” it certainly looks as if “aggressive” Joey Pickles needs the most help, what with that damned “Italia” shirt, the profanity, the threats, the debased Damon Runyon poetry of taunts about being a man.

Granted, Joey is no Frank Terzoli—we haven’t heard any threats to beat a cheftestant so badly his own mother won’t recognize him—and we haven’t seen any clippers being pulled out.

Still, you know, we worry, especially since the vibe, the unspoken message, we get from the interaction between Joey Pickles and Howard Kleinberg is, “This show ain’t big enough for two short, fat, ethnic, hypermasculine guys with regional accents.”

But Joey, possum, before you do anything rash (such as beating us up for calling you “possum”), consider this. When we heard, after the threat-and-Clippergate bonanza of Season 2, that Top Chef was moving to Miami, we snarkily speculated that the assault and battery laws must be more lenient in Florida than in California.

Turns out we were wrong. To wit:

Chapter 784.011 of the Florida statutes defines an assault as “an intentional, unlawful threat by word or act to do violence to the person of another, coupled with an apparent ability to do so, and doing some act which creates a well-founded fear in such other person that such violence is imminent.” Chapter 784.03 defines battery as occurring when a person “[a]ctually and intentionally touches or strikes another person against the will of the other.”

By contrast, California Penal Code section 240 defines assault as “an unlawful attempt, coupled with a present ability, to commit a violent injury on the person of another,” and Section 242 defines battery as “any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another.”

The Florida standard is a lot easier to meet. For battery, all you need is intentional touching of a person against her will, whereas California requires force or violence.

So watch yourself, Joey Pickles. Watch yourself, possum, er, buddyboy.

Completely Heterosexual Otter Ilan Hall Gets Real About Reality & Epistemology, Falls Prey to Fideo-Eating "Hyperbola" Virus

In a companion piece to his mother's editorial on why people care so much about reality television and how unjustifiably mean people were to her baby boy, Ilan Hall talks to Newsday about: keepin' it real, how we can ever know what reality is, how Frank Terzoli's quest to promote cheeseball Italian stereotypes extended to singing opera on the set, how Michael "Beer Bong" Midgley gave the Roseanne Barr treatment to "The Star-Spangled Banner," the politics of the ladies' room, his bad reputation on the blogosphere, Marcel's sneakiness, and how (in hyperbole that would do the Bravo marketing department proud) the Bravo editors are like Michelangelo (who, of course, was straight). Here, as always, the cherce bits:

It's interesting to see what the editors decide to keep or leave out. There was a whole thing in the first episode of "Top Chef" where Michael got into an argument with Frank for singing opera. They made an agreement that if Michael would sing the entire national anthem perfectly, then Frank would stop singing. Michael is a natural comic and doesn't have the softest voice in the world. It was hilarious. We thought it would be entertaining for us as potential viewers, but it was never used.
...

[The editors] create situations that make you seem a little more conniving than you actually are. They don't show entire conversations that would explain why you are reacting in a certain way. They will cut out encouragement or instigation from other contestants. But I would say the editors' work is like Michelangelo's. He felt that the final sculpture was already inside the stone, and his work was to bring it out. The editors are polishing off bits they feel are unnecessary. They are sculpting this world from many hours of shooting.

...

They kept me saying some nasty things and cut away some nice things, because they wanted to make it more compelling to watch. But they never put words in my mouth. What you saw on TV was me, just an edited me. I didn't feel self-conscious during the filming, but you always know the camera is there. Sometimes you can find ways to sneak around it. The other finalist, Marcel, was a master at avoiding saying nasty things on camera. When we saw the show on TV, we thought, "What about all the stuff he said the second the camera turned away?" The portrayal of him is what he wanted it to be. Viewers think he's a little annoying, but he's really much more difficult to get along with.

NBC Universal Family Turns On Itself Like Jim Carrey Hitting Himself in "Liar, Liar"

In a a surprising move reminiscent of Jim Carrey hitting himself in Liar, Liar (a Universal Pictures production), MSNBC, a subsidiary of NBC Universal, the parent company of Bravo, published a scathing online article today about Top Chef. You can read the article here, but we include some cherce bits for your delectation:

A hairy situation
The defining moment of the season came a few weeks ago when some of the remaining five competitors decided, after a night of drinking, to shave their own heads, and then shave Marcel's. At least, that's what viewers saw. After Ilan and Elia shaved their heads, Cliff woke Marcel, and as Ilan cheered him on, wrestled Marcel to the ground and held him in a headlock. As a result, Cliff was sent home for violating the show's rules.

That wasn't quite what happened, however. Careful viewers noticed that, in one of those scenes, Elia still had all of her hair, and was on the floor laughing as Marcel angrily stormed off. In other words, she and Ilan shaved their heads only after their attempted hazing of Marcel went awry. Editing the scene out of order seemed designed to protect the show's integrity, which was waning episode by episode as interpersonal conflict took over.

After the incident, the producers refused to allow head judge Colicchio to dismiss all four participants, like he wanted to do, and thus let Marcel win the competition by default. On his BravoTV.com blog, Tom wrote that "[p]roducers stepped in with a veto. Sending all of the chefs but Marcel home wasn't going to happen."

Of course, the departure of those four contestants would have prematurely ended the series on a low note. But it would have also been a fitting note, as the competition and cooking often fell away in favor of "Real World"-style immaturity and unnecessary drama packed with deceptive editing.

Less about food, more about drama
In its second season, "Top Chef" became more of a soap opera set on a reality show than a competition about cooking. Otto quit the competition after admitting to have taken food from a store that his team didn't pay for, although he did return it. Mia quit to save Elia from elimination. Michael used his budget for one challenge to buy beer for himself. All the chefs were spared elimination but put on probation after accusations of cheating during a challenge. Cliff was sent home for his part in hazing Marcel. Betty fought with Marcel. Frank fought with Marcel. Ilan screamed at Marcel. Elia accused Marcel of cheating but offered no evidence.

First Reaction: Good Sports, Bad Sports, and Water Sports

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In the Wake of Florida Court Decision, Future of "Top Chef"'s Miami-Based Third Season in Doubt

When we heard that Bravo had renewed Top Chef for a third season, and would be filming it in Miami, a series of thoughts floated like soap bubbles past the windmills of our mind.

First, we thought to ourselves, Oh goody, we won't be at a loss for material.

And then Miss XaXa said, "Miami, eh? Bravo must be counting on history repeating itself. Remember Flora, and Dan Renzi, and the whole Mike-spanks-Melissa-in-the-shower controversy that was The Real World - Miami? Now that an African-American castmember has been kicked off the L.A. season for 'physically touching' another cast member, where else were they going to go? New York?"

To which we said, "Oh yes, David and Tammy, how could we forget? Well, maybe the criminal laws are just more lax in Florida than in California."

Alas, the news is not good for potential Top Chef contestants looking to commit assault and battery. Just look at this story from the Associated Press:

Frat Brothers Get Prison for Paddling Pledge

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (Jan. 30)
- Two fraternity brothers who paddled a pledge with wooden canes received a two-year prison term each Monday from a judge who said she wanted to send a message with the state's first prosecution under a felony hazing law.

Florida A&M University students Michael Morton, 23, of Fort Lauderdale, and Jason Harris, 25, of Jacksonville, were led from the courtroom in handcuffs, as was Harris' lawyer, Richard Keith Alan II, who was charged with indirect criminal contempt.

The students were charged with hazing Marcus Jones, 20, of Decatur, Ga., who suffered a broken ear drum and severe bruising to his buttocks after he was punched and struck with wooden canes.

Circuit Judge Kathleen Dekker said that one year might have been sufficient to punish Morton and Harris but that she added a second year to make sure that their sentences serve as a deterrent.

A jury in December convicted both under the new law, which makes it a felony to participate in hazing that results in serious bodily injury.

They could have from 12 months to five years under sentencing guidelines.

It was the second trial for Morton, Harris and three other Kappa Alpha Psi members. The first jury was unable to reach a verdict for any of the five defendants after raising questions about serious bodily injury, which is not defined in the law. The second jury also was unable to reach a verdict for the other three defendants, and they are to be tried a third time in March.

Gridskipper Leaves Skid Marks on "Top Chef" Locations

Bad-boy travel blog Gridskipper has a snarky guide to the Los Angeles locations used on this season of Top Chef, which it damns with the faintest of faint praise as "about food, it's shot in locations all over LA, and the people on it are slightly less obnoxious" than the people on The Amazing Race. Oh, and they repurposed one of our favorite Padma Lakshmi lingerie shots as a graphic.

Stirring stuff, isn't it? However, we think that Frank "El Bully" Terzoli and Betty "Spice Rack" Fraser would take umbrage at the notion that there are more obnoxious reality show contestants than they.

Miss XaXa's First Reaction: Bearish on the Bull

Oh no he di'int!?!

Did our Frankie the Bull just go all “Al Pacino” on Marcel the Monkey's ass?

Oh yes he did!

Way to go, Frankie, picking on a boy half your size….and over the fact that you left your skanky toiletries in the kitchen!!

Che cazzo, Frankie…in the kitchen! Jeezus, just like my nonna told me, yet another Italian man you gotta clean up after! And Jeezus, Frankie, couldya lay off on repeat watchings of “GoodFellas”? You must be wearing a groove in them–those DVDs. You’re making us “Eye-talians” look real good! In fact, Frankieboy, guys like you are the reason some people still say “Eye-talian”…..

So yeah, pick on someone your own size.

I'm actually beginning to feel sorry for our little monkey! Perhaps Marcel is just a bit “Miss”understood?

Episode Five, Part 1: Shock and Offal

This episode begins with a toxic cloud of suspicion choking the bluebird of happiness that sprouted its delicate, crispy meringue wings after Team Black, composed of Spice Rack, Madame de Pompadour, and Frankie the Bull, won the Elimination Challenge after the Herculean task of convincing a group of overweight children at a fat camp to eat pizza and chocolate-peanut butter cookies. The subsequent accusations that Spice Rack had cheated by replacing Splenda with sugar in her cookie recipe resulted in no one being sent home and has tarnished the Black Team's victory.

Freshly bepompadoured and looking like Jerry Lee Lewis, and with the dramatic intensity of middle-period Lana Turner, Marcel tells the camera, "I was feeling all sorts of distraught and disappointed." What did we tell you about his retreat into a world of hair gel and alliteration?

We see Elia putting on mascara in front of the bathroom mirror (so that's how she gets her eyes so es-mokie) while Spice Rack, like a dental Lady Macbeth, tries to wash the taste of treachery out of her mouth at 500 rpm and tells us that she is not a cheater.

Then Josie, sporting the hairdo of a lesbian egret, takes us into her gap-toothed, Chicleted confidence. (As Miss XaXa relates, folks in the South say, "That girl could eat corn through a fence," whereas in France a gap in one's teeth is considered a sign of sexual voracity, e.g., Madonna). "Marisa and I have been really good friends through all of this. We're the only ones that really trust each other." You could almost hear the Bernard Herrmann music on the soundtrack. That, mes enfants, is called foreshadowing. That's the gun that's going to blow someone's head off in the third act. As previously noted, the Bravo editors are masterful at this, telegraphing plot points with the subtlety of Judith Regan-O.J. Simpson specials. To seal the deal, Josie and Tarte Titass are shown sharing what looks like (oh please, saints in heaven and the MGM pantheon, grant us the strength not to make a bad pun) a HoHo, but might be a plum, and will turn out to be the fruit that turns them out of paradise.

Haute couture scullery maid Padma greets the cheftestants in the Kenmore Kitchen to tell them about the Quickfire Challenge. She hasn’t even opened her mouth, and already we have a problem. The hair, through the overeager ministrations of a gay hairdresser armed with hot tongs and a grudge, is ironed so flat that it looks like Salman Rushdie slept on it. She’s back to wearing pink in the kitchen, though long-sleeved (even if unbuttoned to the third button), and she’s brought back those damned black bicycle shorts with riding boots again. We hate them not only because they’re preposterously unattractive but also because they give her the sort of bowlegged posture of a Dickensian orphan. We half expect her to break into a chorus of “Food, Glorious Food” or “Consider Yourself.”

And the make-up! We’ve refrained for weeks from talking about this, but the flat hair sends us over the edge. Padma, cara, would it kill you, just once, to wear lipstick a shade darker than Sheer Ambition or Unblushing Bride of Paunchy Postcolonial Pasha (available from MAC, with 1% of all proceeds going to fund Elton John’s ego)?

Padma is joined by guest judge Chef Michelle Bernstein, of Michy’s in Miami. The newest war bride in Jeffrey Chodorow’s culinary seraglio, Chef Bernstein used to be a dancer with the Alvin Ailey Dance Company, and now stands in her wrinkled linen-dyed-to-look-like-denim dress with her hands on her ample hips. Tactful as ever, our chulo Chef Carlos says on his blog that Chef Bernstein, his “fellow South Floridian,” is—how does he put it?—“saucy.” You can tell that about her. She looks like a cross between Sandra Bernhard and Punky Brewster, and has the pugilistic intensity of Judy Davis incarnating Judy Garland on that tv movie of a few years ago. “You wanna piece of me?” her very stance seems to say. Miss XaXa also picked up on that half-drag queen, half-welterweight pose. “Raging Bull?” says Miss XaXa. “Try Raging Bitch.”

Padma announces that the Quickfire Challenge will be devoted to leftovers. Of course! Padma, how could we have had so little faith? That’s why you wore that heinous outfit. It’s leftovers. Of course! We keep forgetting that you try to dress for the theme. We’ll have to watch for the semiotics of your Quickfire Challenge outfits, like when the Washington press corps used to interpret Madeleine Albright’s brooches for hints to foreign policy.

The challenge will deal with offal, the “leftover” pieces of the animal after the flavorless filet mignon, etc., has been removed. The cheftestants must make a dish using one of the ingredients gathered for their gory delectation—pig trotters, lamb kidneys, beef hearts, fish heads, pig’s blood, veal tails, beef cheeks, honeycomb tripe, chicken feet, lamb hearts, veal tongues, and sweetbreads.

The food preparation montage isn’t going to have Eisenstein quaking in the great beyond. It’s rather a dull affair, with only two pronunciation clunkers, Josie saying, “OH-fal,” and Josette Eber saying, “ah-FALL.” Spice Rack tells us, “Marcel went for that pig’s blood. Kinda looks like a vampire, dontcha think?” We yawn and flick the ashes from the clove cigarette in our Syrian malachite cigarette holder.

Darling, is this really the best you can do? That whole cheating thing must really have shaken you up if you can’t come up with something bitchier, and we refuse to do your work for you. Bravo doesn’t help matters by throwing in cheesy F/X when she says the word “vampire.” Besides, it’s also unfair to those recappers who are really good with PhotoShop, as it deprives them of the opportunity to stick Marcel’s face in a photograph of Eddy Munster for fear it will seem too derivative.

Elia tells us that she’s going to clean the kidneys and sweetbreads she’s using, and tells us that sweetbreads are the glands of the veal, pointing to her neck to show us. It’s rather a sweet gesture.

It’s time for the judging. Tarte Titass tells Chef Bernstein that she’s made pappardelle and used the beef cheeks. Miss XaXa’s head turned violently toward the television. “Oh,” Miss XaXa explains, “when I heard her say ‘beef cheeks,’ I thought she was talking about herself.” We’re so amused by this that we forget to correct Tarte Titass’ pronunciation of “pappardelle.”

As Chef Berstein tastes, Miss XaXa says, “Is it me, or is she being bitchy to the female cheftestants and flirty with the men?” She chortles when Chef Bernstein breaks into a grin and purrs to Cliff, “The oxtail’s really good.” We decide not to pursue the implications of making such a statement to a beefy and attractive black man, and instead focus on something else. There was no mention of oxtails before, only veal tails. Veal is a young calf and an ox is an adult castrated male cow. Not the same thing at all.

Miss XaXa is chortling again, because Chef Bernstein is back to the oxtail: “I cook it everyday…” “So you’d know,” says Padma sycophantically. “Mmm…you would hope,” retorts Chef Bernstein in a sort of icy bitchiness that takes our breath away, as if to say, “Look, you vapid, social-climbing bitch, how dare you cut in on my monologue, interfere with my pick-up, and try to impugn my competence while appearing to do the opposite?” We wonder if Padma’s scar is tingling the way Harry Potter’s does when in the presence of Lord Voldemort.

In picking her least favorite dishes, Chef Bernstein tears into Josie, telling her that at a restaurant, such a dish would be sent back. Then she tears into Elia, telling her that the kidneys weren’t cleaned properly, that she made no attempt at a sauce, and that she made something that Chef Bernstein loves to eat hard to eat. Elia’s eyes are smoky, and not from the mascara, but from the flames shooting out. “Ees thees woe-man for real? I’m supposed to make keedneey taste like ah-leevs with a sauce?”

In the end, Chef Bernstein picks the dishes made by Cliff (surprise, surprise), Ilan, and Sam. In the end, the greasy Lothario, er, “hot diabetic,” wins, and we know exactly why. As he tells us, “I was excited about my dish. She was excited about the dish. Really excited to have immunity.” Sammy, we’re about to lose control, and we just can’t hide it.

Opening Discredits

As promised, we have rested, we have pondered, we have polished our lingual Laguioles, and now here we are, lobster fork in hand, to extract all we can from this season's inaugural episode of "Top Chef." We'll begin by reviewing the opening credits, which we think of as the tasting menu, the parade of personalities working last year's motif of confrontational stripteasing to the synthesizer-poached strains of the opening theme. Since we'll be seeing it all season, we might as well get it out of the way.

First up is Josie, who looks like an anime goddess-imp. Josie does her best impression of an old-fashioned Times Square perv, opening her chef’s whites to flash us coyly, then crossing her arms in a manly fashion, the very embodiment of the butch/femme dykotomy. As honorary lesbians (we’ll happily produce our membership certificate and lapel pin upon request), we salute you. You shall henceforth be known as Empress Josiefine (and, luv, the French would do cartwheels over you, since in France they consider a gap in the front teeth to be a sign that you are highly sexed).


Next up is Chancellor Otto Von Bismarck, gray-haired, bristle-coiffed, skull-and-bones-adorned, patriotically-neckerchiefed, and giving us his best military salute. Jawohl, mein Herr. Or is it, Aye, aye, Captain Jack Sparrow? We truly love the red-white-and-blue ‘round your neck, and the pairing with the Pirate Collar. It's so South of Market; we just wish we knew what pocket you wore your hanky in. You shiver our timbers and make us wonder whether you're going to prescribe a round of "The Star Spangled Banner" or rum, sodomy, and the lash. You shall henceforth be known as the NeckerChef.

Then comes Sam, giving us his best Blue Steel and fiercely doffing his chef’s whites (à la Tom Cruise on that Vanity Fair cover circa Mission Impossible 2) to reveal a black t-shirt reading “Don’t Give Up the Ship.” O captain, my captain, fear not. We can see that you’re calling for seamen who’ll go down with the ship. You shall henceforth be known as Captain Nemo.


Then there’s our compatriot Elia, unadorned except for a halo of curls, fierce, hands on hips, confronting the camera directly. No stripping for her. She’s like Jesusita en Chihuahua meets Salma Hayek as Frida Kahlo. You shall henceforth be known as Frida Bandida. Mija, tu sí que tienes huevos, pero no rancheros ni revueltos, and we admire you for it, and love it cuando te pones como agua para chocolate.


And then there’s Frank. At first glance, we sense a Sicilian teddy bear, and think of nicknaming him the Bambino Bear. But then the combination of his Bravo bio, his official “Frankie the Bull” nickname, the lighting and cinematography (so reminiscent of “Gladiator”), and his threat to Marcel to beat him so badly that his mother won’t recognize him, made us realize that our noses did not deceive us, and that the whiff of unrepentant stereotype and Eau de Goombah signaled the arrival of none other than Joe Pesci. Hey, Joe, if you wanna go by Frankie the Bull on this show, tha’s ok by us.

Next up is Emily, her lips drawn tight, having trouble unbuttoning her chef’s whites, more librarian than chef. According to the Bravo bio, “she describes herself as foul-mouthed and ill-tempered” and “likes to think she is one of the guys and can't stand prissy girls.” Ooh aah, we say, ain’t she butch? We get your code, Mary Cheney. But perhaps she’s just a reluctant voluptuary. Honey, would it kill you to wear a little concealer from time to time? The whole turnip-with-bags-under-her eyes thing just doesn’t work for you. Until further notice or makeover, you shall be known as Butch Cassidy.

And here’s one of our sunshine kids, solid, humpy Cliff, our very own Valrhona Bear who reduces us to a mere fondue. We’re too distracted to think of anything else to say.

Then we see that Joe Pesci is not the only celebrity contestant this time around. Can it be? Yes, that’s Suzanne Somers! Oh wait, why does it say Betty? Alright, Chrissy, have it your way. Hellzapoppin, saucy blond Betty is popping out of her chef’s whites, doing the Sherman Oaks shimmy. Our retinas are immobilized. Henceforth, you shall be known as Spice Rack.

And wait, who’s that, doing the sexy reverse strip tease, his hair teased too, and just this side of marcelled? Why, it’s Jimmy Neutron, Boy Genius. Wait, no, it’s Marcel, his head a veritable meringue, the "hair apparent" to last season’s Stephen Asprinio, who now relinquishes to Marcel the “There’s Something About Mary” Award for Overuse of Hair Products. Well, there’s definitely something about Mary, er, Marcel, whose bio says that “he tends to be bossy in the kitchen.” The bossy bottom raises his meringued head once again.

And there’s Stockton’s finest, Michael, looking hempy, not humpy, and throwing in the towel (or is it his chef’s whites?). Honey, we would do the same. Henceforth, you shall be known as Beer Bong.





Then it’s Mia, fierce in her José Eber cowboy hat. It’s clear that the woman knows her way around a weave, a branding iron and a Patsy Cline record, and is probably pretty handy with a wet belt and a rolling pin, too. We can see she’s a woman unafraid of lard and buttermilk and bacon. We decide on the spot to worship and submit to her.


Now comes improbably emaciated pastry chef Marisa, the brittle queen of pâte brisée, trying desperately to imitate E!’s Giuliana DePandi and throwing her jacket over her shoulder in her best Sear’s Catalogue pose. She doesn’t appear to have the requisite attributes, but given the way she presents herself, the only fitting nickname for her is Tart Titass.


And there’s Carlos, Miss XaXa’s idea of a hot, oozing medianoche (made with pulled pork, just the way she likes it, and garnished with a big pickle). Miss XaXa points out that Carlos has seized the lapels of his jacket, and is pulling back and forth, the jacket straining over his back like a chamois buffing a car under the sun of Hialeah. We remind Miss XaXa that Carlos is married, and gay, but she doesn’t seem to care.

And there’s Ilan, this year’s model of cute Jewish boy from Long Island, with his adorably passé fauxhawk, which Hedi Slimane and Maddox Jolie have long ago abandoned, and the little milk teeth all in a row and the adorable mini-cleft in his chin, like a crimp at the edge of a piecrust. A line cook at Casa Mono, él sí es muy mono, and our casa at Snarkshire Moors is his casa.


Finally, tellingly, there’s Suyai, the blowsy, blond, bulimic Brit, unable to button her chef’s whites. Nicely played, Bravo, depicting the girl with body issues as too fat to fit into her clothes. Even worse for the improbably-named Suyai, she bears an unfortunate resemblance to our very own Medusa, Rachael Ray, though if it came right down to it, we can see Suyai beating down Rachael Ray with a rope-soled wedgie (which we and millions of others would pay good money to see).

And that’s our cast of characters. Let the games begin.