Even After Narrowly Surviving Ocular-Assassination Attempt by Ex-Husband Salman Rushdie, Padma Lakshmi Maintains Healthy Interest in the Old In-N-Out

Possums, if looks could kill, Padma Lakshmi would be a dead woman by now.

Not because she is killingly beautiful, but because she was very nearly done in by a crime passionnel committed with corneas. And by none other than ex-husband Salman Rushdie, who, in a sort of Stepford Wives twist, was already escorting Padma’s chapeau’d robotic replacement at the time of the crime.

Yes, yes, possums, replace a robot with a robot, and what difference does it make? But in this case, possums, c’est grave.

According to The New York Daily News and Radar Magazine, the attempt on Padma occurred Tuesday night. Yes, that’s right, possums—the night before the premiere of Top Chef. How operatic, n’est-ce pas? How literary even (well might Padma have asked, “Is this a dagger I see before me?”). Especially given that Padma’s focus on her career was reportedly one of the reasons for the estrangement and subsequent divorce.

So let’s see how this went down.

First, Radar, which was first on the scene:

The talk of the Soho Grand penthouse in Manhattan on Tuesday night was the palpable tension between writer Salman Rushdie and ex-wife Padma Lakshmi as the two spent a large portion of the evening mere feet from each other….

While Salman squired a mystery, fedora-clad Padmaganger around the Dior Beauty bash, the Top Chef host held court on the couch, engrossed in a conversation with Jericho star Skeet Ulrich. The duo switched seats twice with random patrons who had accidentally sat in between them, and continued chatting and laughing. Lakshmi surely caught Rushdie's dagger-like stare burning into her from across the room—she was sure to casually graze Skeet's arm often.

Now, the Daily News:

A stunning Padma Lakshmi chatted animatedly with a dapper-looking Skeet Ulrich, seemingly oblivious to ex-husband Salman Rushdie's death stare, as he stood feet from her with Sascha, a fedora clad Padma-a-like.

The bit about the fedora, other than the suspicious reoccurrence of “fedora-clad,” is particularly interesting because, as you can see, possums, Padma herself is given to wearing fedoras. How poignant, how scandalous, how twisted. Perhaps it’s more Vertigo than Stepford Wives. Padma, possum, stay away from California mission clocktowers, and if you hear pseudo-Wagnerian music playing in the background, run the other way.

Fortunately, though, Padma survived the retinal dirks. Indeed, she was well enough to “‘fess… up to her secret cravings for In-and-Out [sic] Burger. ‘I love them well done, no onions and extra pickles,’ she [said].”

Spoken like a true California girl. The pickle, after all, is essential to the In-and-Out.

Nonetheless, Miss Xaxa couldn't help but tut-tut just a bit. “Skeet Ulrich?!”

What can one say, possums? Oh, to risk death over the poor man's Johnny Depp!

Amuse-Biatch Shudders to Remember the Most Earth-Shattering Moment in the History of This Blog

Possums, for the past few months, we have been hiding a dark secret, a secret so traumatic that it very nearly drove us from blogging forever!!!

“Could you be more dramatic?” said Miss Xaxa.

Picture it. On account of our work—yes, possums, lilies of the field though we are, even we must toil and spin to earn our daily pain Poilâne—we were near the Los Angeles location of Tom Colicchio’s restaurant, Craft. We were in the lobby, on the cell phone, in the midst of a v. v. important call, but staring off into the distance, when all at once we saw a cloud, a host of—

Well, not daffodils. Of Top Chef, rather, for it was none other than Padma. Fucking. Lakshmi. Making straight for us.

Our mind raced and reeled. We felt like Ebiatchnezer Screwge. Was this the Ghost of Bitchmas Past or merely an undigested bit of potato?

But no, ‘twas She, clad all in black, and moving smoothly toward us like an avenging angel, a great Hindu goddess of destruction. And in that moment, the warp and woof of World Wide Web was rent and ripped, and a small frisson of the apocalypse overcame us.

“Oh, lighten up,” said Miss XaXa. “She was probably just coming back from lunch with Tom Colicchio at Craft, on her way to see a lawyer or an agent.”

But really, possums. We wondered if our rather broad brow would suddenly act like the news crawl at the bottom of the screen on CNN, broadcasting our thoughts. Did she know? Could she know? Would she know she was in the presence of half an Amuse-Biatch?

Our eyes locked but for an instant. As a creature of flesh and blood, she was more beautiful than as a pattern of pixels on a screen. Would the eyes betray us, tell her all, confess our biatchy, blogging sins? Was that the slightly resinous scent of guilt trapped in our nostrils?

“Jesus Christ!” said Miss XaXa, “Catholic much?”

But, fortunately, the only look we detected on her face was that of someone who has been recognized. Such is the price of fame. She walked past us and toward the elevator, and we were once again safe—safe to biatch, safe to blog, safe to be.

And so, possums, hey, hey, the Biatch is back.