One of These Things Is Not Like the Others: Amuse-Biatch Celebrities Difference, Even on Rocco Ground

And for anyone who still has doubts that Rocco DiSpirito is straight, his outfit on the episode should clear things up. What Gay would be caught dead in that?

Poor Trail-“Blazering” Rocco DiSpirito Was Beaten Up by Hooligans as a Kid; Now That He’s 42 (!!), He Gets Beaten Up by Bloggers and Chefs

You’re in luck this morning, possums. The New York Times has published a delicious, bitchy, Schadenfreude-laden rum ball of an article on Rocco DiSpirito. Giggle or shake your head in sadness as you try to decide whether Rocco is trying to convince himself and people that he’s shallower than he is, or was once trying to convince himself and people that he was deeper than he really was.

Our favorite bit, though, is the emblematic disconnect between Rocco’s statements and his fashion statements. In the article, Rocco says, “I was the kid in the maroon blazer on the way to Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Catholic school, in between one gang and another gang, and it was like, How did I want to get beat up today?” And so, of course, on his first trip back to Jamaica, Queens, in 20 years, what does he wear? As you can see from the picture above, a tweed blazer. Is Rocco secretly a masochist? Is he looking to get beaten up? Inquiring minds want to know.

Amuse-Biatch Medical Emergency: Are Those Lines We See? But We Thought the Restylane-Infused Crème Brûlée Had Set!!

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: Nah, Too Easy, Even for Us

Amuse-Biatch “Yeah, Right” Photoessay: Never Mind, Possums; Too Easy Even for Us

Spelling Bee-atch: Talking Heads “Brûléeing” Down the House

Well, possums, them Bravo folks cain’t seem ta spell them damn furrin Eyetaleean and Frenchie words. And they sure do seem averse to hyphens, too.

At this rate, we are crossing our fingers and waiting for the day when they leave the second “i” out of the name of Jeff McInnis’ restaurant.

Ah, the Dildo Club.

And while we’re on the subject of Jeff McInnis, why is it that Jeff gets the “c” in his last name capitalized, whereas the first “i” in Rocco DiSpirito’s name is lower case?

Breaking News: Fabio Viviani Cleared of All Accusations of False Modesty; No Verdict Yet on Charge of False Advertising

For what it’s worth, possums, we think he is but a mere pony in comparison with the real stallion, Il Colicchio.

Which, we suppose, makes Rocco DiSpirito a gelding.

Dispiriting News: Rocco Does the Rumba

Oh possums, somewhere in his babyproofed lair, Anthony Bourdain is having a very good laugh this morning. Yes, indeed.

Confirming not only that he has accepted his fall from three-starred grace into the muck and filth of "has-being" but also that he is positively rolling around in that same muck, our little Rocco DiSpirito has now picked up his tight(er) trousers and dance shoes to join Dancing with the Has-Beens, er, Stars.

His illustrious companions in this dance marathon straight out of They Shoot Has-Beens, Don't They? include Kim Kardashian, Ted McGinley and Lance Bass. (There had been talk that they might allow Lance to trip the light fantastic with a male partner--wouldn't Rocco have been ideal?--but it appears that is not the case.) On the plus side, Susan Lucci will also be on. Aging Star Collapse Watch begins in 28 days. ("Oh please," says Miss XaXa. "Susan Lucci would never pull a Marie Osmond. Ever.")

Bourdain: I’m Not Blogging for Bravo Because of Product Placement, and Dale Talde’s Dish Was the Worst I’ve Had on “Top Chef”

Well, that explains it, possums.

As you may remember from last season, Anthony Bourdain's Top Chef blog on Bravo's website was far and away the most entertaining--who could forget his picking a fight with poor, little freeze-dried Rocco DiSpirito?--and Bravo recognized it. It was nominated for a Webby, and Bravo encouraged readers to vote for it.

So it was rather surprising when the blog did not return this season. And now, courtesy of Bourdain himself on his Travel Channel blog, there seems to be an explanation:

A final note to conspiracy theorists. There is no pressure from the producers to either keep particular contestants--or send others home. In all my appearances on Top Chef, I've never seen it, never felt it. I pity any producer who'd dare suggest to Tom Colicchio that he send someone home who did not deserve it--or spare the poorest candidate for reasons of greater drama. In fact, it's his moral gravitas that makes Top Chef worth watching, in spite of all the heavy-handed product placement and occasional silly challenges.

As for me? I could give a rat's a** who the producers or Bravo want to win or not win . What I've traditionally used the Glad Family of Bags for would probably not make a good commercial. When I read the surprising announcement that Michelob, a beer I don't drink and don't much like, was going to be "sponsoring" my Bravo blog, I advised them that I felt compelled to disappoint them.

Ah, so that was it. Michelob, eh?

As you can probably guess, this came in the context of the controversial decision on last week's episode to oust gayfaced, crotch-grabbing, locker-punching, weepy, gangsta wannabe and walking Napoleon complex Dale Tale. But Bourdain explains all:

So what did happen? How come the more talented Dale, with a far more distinguished record of wins than his teammates, was the one to pack his knives....and...go? Lisa, it appeared, had two seriously screwed up dishes. Dale only had one!

True enough. But oh, what a one.

Dale's "Butterscotch Scallops were supremely bad. Jaw droppingly bad. So bad that there was a long, awkward moment at the table when all the judges just sat there, silent, stunned with disbelief that anyone--especially Dale--could serve something so...disgusting. It's the only time on Top Chef that I literally could not take another bite.

...

Lisa's laksa was screwed up. Unpleasantly smoky. But I could eat it. Her "sticky rice" dessert was awful. But not dig a hole in the ground-stick my head in--pour in Clorox bad. Like those scallops. They were distinguished by their sheer degree of awfulness, sucking everything around them down with.

Judging on Top Chef -- as has been pointed out repeatedly (most recently and succinctly by my learned colleague, Ted Allen) is on a "What Have You Cooked For Me Lately" basis. We are not supposed to care what has been achieved previously. In fact, guest judges don't even know. The shows air long after filming. So Jose Andres, for instance, can in no way be expected to know--or care--if Dale won previous challenges, deserved to win them, loves puppies and long walks on the beach--or tortures hamsters in his spare time. After deliberation, the judges were unanimous in their feeling that it was Dale who--this week--f**ked up worst.

Well, we're convinced, possums. What say you?

Damned Gnocco Too Dense to Realize When He's Being Damned with Faint Praise

From Ryan Scott’s interview with Grub Street:

Rich[ard Blais] is breaking culinary boundaries. One night he said to me, “I respect so much what you do, Ryan. You can cook with two or three ingredients, and look at a fennel bulb and it’s just fennel. I’d try and figure out how to levitate the thing. I can’t cook on your level.”

Oh how we cackled, possums, at how Ryan just can't get it through his fennel bulb. Our hats go off to Richard for saying something so patronizing and condescending while making Gnocchi-Head think it was sincere praise. For once, Rocco DiSpirito was right.

And the Abbie Goes to....

Possums, what with the writers’ strike this year, we felt deprived—deprived! we tell you—of our yearly dose of meaningless awards. To remedy that problem, we have decided to create our own. And so, Amuse-Biatch (i.e., “A-B”) presents the inaugural handing out of the Abbies.

Awards will be handed out on a weekly basis, and the winners will each receive a Golden Possum (well, as soon as we can catch one and spray-paint it gold).

We encourage you, possums, to submit nominations for future awards, and will post the best ones. And so, without further ado (drumroll, please).

*Best Argument for Banning Meth Use During Pregnancy and Outlawing Exposure to Hip Hop and Hispanics for White Boys in Their Formative Years: Andrew “Casa, Motherfuckers. Oh What Phatness!” D’Ambrosi



















*Best Repeated Use of Editing Cut to a Black Muslim Woman to Show Just How Shocking—Shocking!—a Lesbian Relationship Is, with the Hope That Said Black Muslim Woman Will Say Something About Allah and Sodomites to Create Drama on Season’s First Episode: Bravo Editors (Sergei Eisenstein would be proud!)

*Best Use of Subliminal Advertising: The moment when, after being dressed down by the judges, Nimma Osman was shown sitting against the wall of Glad products while saying, off-camera, “There’s people that are glad that it’s over with….” Bravo, hast thou no shame?














*Best Use of Artfully Disheveled Hair by a Previously Disgraced and Overcoiffed Chef Who, Accused of Being a Little Light in His Kitchen Clogs, Seeks to Combat Rumors by Butching It Up: Rocco DiSpirito.

To which Miss XaXa said, “Seriously. It’s like he wanted to convince people with that hair that the pizza delivery had caught him in the middle of topping Padma’s deep dish. As if.”

*Best Former Culinary Bad Boy Defanged by Wife and Child: Anthony Bore-dain

*Best Use of Potato-Dumpling Metaphor by Pot to Call Kettle Black: Pretty boy Rocco DiSpirito, for saying of pretty boy Ryan Scott, “It’s not just his gnocchi that were dense.” Aw snap! (Or should it be, Aw two snaps?)

To which Miss XaXa said, “Why don't you just call it the Hate-Fuck of the Week Award?”

*Best Shaggy-Haired Mentor Who Won’t Get Off a Chef’s Back (And Yes, Rocco Is Disqualified): The Yoda backpack sported by Stephanie Izard.

The Bisexual Bitch Is Back: Amuse-Biatch and Gong Li Rejoice as Hung Huynh Unleashes His Inner Hatsuhomo

Possums, we have no idea what magical powers Nina Lalli of The Village Voice possesses, but damn, girl is fierce and always gets the goods.

Not content with obtaining flatulent confessions from Captain Sound Bite, she has now gone and gotten the deliciously bitchy and on-the-mark observations of Hung Huynh.

Herewith, our favorite bits:

* Hung said he would definitely be surprised if he didn't win, but "it's up to the judges, and Bravo. Mainly Bravo," he said, laughing.

[Clever chap, that one.]

* "I didn't know this was chef camp, where we all hold hands and walk into the rainbow together. I didn't know that's what competition was. If I had known, I would have done much better."

[A bisexual who doesn't want to walk into the rainbow? What else is new?]

* "When was the last time you walked out of a restaurant and said, 'that steak was so soulful, I'm definitely going back?' No. You say it was cooked perfectly, it was seasoned perfectly. The colors, the flavors, etc. Why am I getting dissed for having some technical skills? The word technique is related to the word craft, and guess who owns the restaurants called Craft?"

[We're thinking of a new restaurant called 'Bitchcraft, where the menu would include individually priced sides of "Meow" and "Aw, snap," because that's what Colicchio has rightfully been served.]

* I told Hung that Rocco DiSpirito had said he reminded him of himself, and Hung said the same about Rocco. "He's confident, he's cocky, he's good looking... his technique is on, his flavor profile is my kind of food. I respect him a lot."

[Uh, blind item or not, we're definitely not touching this one.]

* About the judge's complaints that his cooking isn't expressive enough, he said "What does that mean, when [Colicchio] says 'We don't see Hung.'? What should I do, make sweet and sour chicken and wontons? I'm trained in French food. I love French food. That is me."

[And this would be dessert at 'Bitchcraft, a tart skewering of patronizing, Orientalist, quasi-racist assumptions on the part of the judges that, because Hung is Asian, his "soul" must of necessity give off the scent of lemongrass. And even if you buy into the claptrap that ethnic origin is automatically "soul," let us not forget that Vietnam was once a French colony, and so, as Hung points out, for him, French food is as much a part of his "soul" as pho.]

Meatballs of Steel: Rocco DiSpirito Thinks Fish DO Need Bicycles

Possums, no matter what Rocco DiSpirito hints at in his Bertolli television ads--that he's tired of hanging around complete blanks--recent actions seem to suggest otherwise.

To wit, take a look at this little morsel from New York magazine, which consists of an interview with bike-riding fashion models Ciara Christensen and Le Call (though, as the interview makes clear, Le Call Girl would not be so far off the mark).

Nice bikes.
LE: This guy we don’t even know just gave them to us!

What?
LE: We made this dinner for, like, twelve people, and this guy we don’t even know came. He’s a chef, and he’s on TV. His name is Rocco. Anyway, he was asking us what we were going to do the next day, and we said, “Rent bikes.” He said, “Oh, that’s so sad,” and the next day, he came over with these bikes!

As a gift?
LE: Yeah. I wish I could say it’s an unusual situation, but stuff like that happens not infrequently.

CIARA: We don’t usually get gifts like that! We mostly get offered trips, because they want to have girls around.

LE: Last weekend, we went to Croatia. We went to Sardinia the weekend before that. We went to the Bahamas six or seven times this winter. But the bike is a first. It’s cute, you know? Not presumptuous or lech-y.

Did you thank him?
LE: We exchanged texts. We said we’d take him out to dinner, but I don’t know.

"Cute"? "Not presumptuous"? "This guy we don't even know"? Ouch!

To be condescended to by flipflop-wearing, glorified tarts with no tits must be more painful than being bitchslapped by Anthony Bourdain.

"It's rank ingratitude," said Miss XaXa. "There's two of them, so I'm sure all he wanted was a triathlon. Isn't that how he lost the weight?"

"No, darling, you're thinking of a ménage à trois. It's athletic, to be sure, but not quite the same thing."

DiSpirito DiSses Cuban Buns

Possums, who says Anthony Bourdain's the only chef who likes to live on the edge?

Sure, travelling to Third World countries and feasting on entrails and snake-venom soup and whatever other delicacies are supposed to testify to one's omnivorous machismo carry certain dangers. But in our humble, yet knowledgeable, opinion, nothing Bourdain has ever done compares in sheer death-wish lunacy to what Rocco DiSpirito pulled only yesterday: dissing the Cubans and their food.

We had planned a little screed on the subject ourselves, right around the time of the "Latin Food" challenge--a harrumphing exploration of what factors, including racism and exoticism, make particular cuisines trendy, and of the fallacy of the concept of "Latin" food, putting arepas and chimichurri in their rightful place, revealing what other Latin Americans think of the Cubans and the Argentinians (hint: not good), citing Mario Vargas Llosa, Ugly Betty, Richard Condon, Diana Kennedy, and Shakira, and containing verbal red rags such as, "Garlic pork and fried plantains do not a cuisine make"--but cooler, less foolhardy, heads prevailed. Miss XaXa reminded us that we couldn't go and risk having our throat slit with a Buena Vista Social Club CD since we hadn't even made out a will. And so we kept silent.

Rocco DiSpirito, however, must have received better estate planning advice, if this bit from his blog is anything to go by:

Howie, true to his Miami roots, suggested Cubanos. Everyone thought a Cubano was a great idea. Is it? Never been to Cuba so I may not know any better, but I haven’t had that many good Cuban sandwiches in Miami or anywhere else. The Cubano might just be the most overrated sandwich on the planet. A great sandwich is a pastrami on rye from Katz’s Deli or a prosciutto mozzarella panino from St Ambroeus. I chuckled when one of the late night revelers complained about the bread being the wrong kind. Since when is Cuban bread the stuff that legends are made of? Cuban cigars? Yes. Cuban coffee? Of course. But not the bread. Lets not celebrate the bread.

Well, possums, as we said, Rocco posted this yesterday. By now, we suspect, his body must have been found, a Cuban roll stuffed in his rather fetching little mouth. Tragic, really, after all the promise Bourdain said he possessed.

What may be Rocco's final blog entry ever also contained other valuable insights and revelations, including the fact that Rocco has watched Sex and the City and that he thinks "white stretch Hummer limo[s]" are tacky. Finally, he has some parting words for Bourdain:

Tony how are we so different? After more than 20 years behind the stove you left the restaurant business--so did I. You author and sell (admittedly much better written) books--so do I. You’re on TV--so am I. You write blogs--so do I. You speak your mind and have dedicated your life to entertaining people and so do I.

I was stunned when I read your comments comparing me to Eric Clapton. I am grateful and didn’t know you felt that way about me, but I am still confused. Now it’s my virtuosity behind the stove that makes me such a loser? Don’t you see--it’s as absurd for you to insist I open a restaurant as it is for me to ask you to do the same. It’s not that I refuse to open a restaurant (who knows given the right situation), I just don’t need to cook at a 40-seater in a bad neighborhood to become the sunshine of your love again. You can enjoy my cooking anytime, no reservations.

"No reservations"? Aw, snap.

On a completely unrelated matter, Ted Allen was sporting a tee shirt from the New York gastropub The Spotted Pig on last week's episode, and this week Rocco has posted a picture of himself in a Spotted Pig shirt on his blog. Oinkydink?

Be Our Gest: Amuse-Biatch Ponders How Anthony Bourdain Can Be Such a Bitch and Yet Straight

Well, possums, you've got to give the bitch and the devil their due.

From Anthony Bourdain's blog:

Well, what can I say about last night's episode? I sat down, like everybody else, baited breath, waiting to see who'd do well--and who would have to "pack their knives." I was also waiting to see which Rocco DiSpirito showed up. The breathtakingly-gifted, French-trained chef of three star Union Pacific fame? Or the "thatsa speecy, spicy meatball!" shill-for-hire and ex-reality show personality? I think we all now know the answer to that question. (Though for the first few moments, I thought David Gest had taken his place.)

Arrivederci, Moaner, and Ridi, Pickle-accio: Joey Pickles Gets Canned in Vlasic Operatic Combo of Passion and Low IQF

Possums, we're not sure that Puccini, Leoncavallo, or Scorsese could have done any better.

Yes, possums, last night Joey "Pickles" Paulino was pykagged and sent home, thus bringing to a tragic end the verismo opera that has been the ursine, culinary Brokeback Mountain of our jaded media age.

(On the plus side, maybe now he can get that huge mole on his neck checked out; indeed, if he doesn't wince at the irony, perhaps he could just get it frozen off. We could swear it's been growing, and since the first episode we have been concerned that it might start eating his face or talking to him, like the pimple in that disturbing episode of Family Guy that we've never been able to forget.)

But back to the tragedy.

So much of opera is about Fate and its vagaries, and in our day and age there is perhaps no better symbol of the fickleness of Fate than the Top Chef knife block. It can spell success--the equivalent of drawing the Sword in the Stone--or lead to racking, manly sobs.

Which is exactly what it did this time around, as the cheftestants (term used courtesy of Television Without Pity) drew knives to determine who their team mates would be in the Elimination Challenge: to create a Mediterranean-style, easily reheatable frozen meal.

In an operetta, or in a novel by Gordon Merrick (Barbara Cartland for the Gays), the knives would have decreed that Bear life partners Joey and Howie (the debate as to whether it should be Kleinberg-Paulino or Paulino-Kleinberg has yet to be resolved) be on the same team.

Indeed, no one appeared to recognize this more clearly than guest chef Rocco DiSpirito, who wisely observed that Joey needed "to be pounded" (!!!). And, as Howie amply demonstrated, he's definitely the man for that. Imagine, then, Howie's distress at being paired with a woman, and Joey's disorienting grief at losing Howie to a woman and being stuck with a shifty bisexual for a team mate. As anyone who has ever lived through this will tell you, it always ends in tears.

Gone was the possibility of Joey singing to Howie, “Sì, mi chiamano Joey,” and of Howie taking Joey’s hand after an hour of packing frozen pasta and singing, “Che gelida manina! Se la lasci riscaldar.”

Instead of Baz Luhrmann, we got Cavalleria Topcheftiana, a tragic tale of deplorable misogynist fury, smoking, family (plane tickets to Italy promised to la mamma and la sorella), hubris, cosmetic procedures, polo shirts, and meatballs (the latter four also being prominent themes in the Jeffrey Chodorow-underwitten production of Roccopera!).

We did love the Judges' Table duet, as beautiful as the one in Bizet's Les pêcheurs de perles, about who's more-Italian-than-thou. Here are some of the lyrics:

Tom: Truffles aren't Mediterranean!
Rocco: Oh yes they are! I'm not your bitch, bitch.
Tom: Oh yes you are! And truffles are not Mediterranean because I say they're not. And what I say goes, because I have many successful restaurants and you're just a blow-dried, tinted, Botoxed, gay-skinny has-been.
Rocco: Well, if you were expecting me to be Padma and parrot everything you say, you've got another thing coming. And I may be blow-dried, but at least I have hair. And truffles are, too, Mediterranean. Anyway, Mr. Mediterranean, aren't you from New Jersey, and isn't your name Tom? I at least kept my ethnic name.
Tom: That's about all you kept, and now you sell tv dinners, and pose on tv with a blank cardboard cut-out that might as well stand for your soul and your reputation. And seriously, an online cooking show? And showing your face on an NBC affiliate after what happened with The Restaurant? Wow. No dignity, man. Oh, and I repeat, truffles are not Mediterranean, even though the most famous ones come from Italy and Italy is a Mediterranean country, because I said so, and I'm Tom Colicchio, and no one contradicts me on my own show.

Trust us--in Italian, with all those vowels and all that music, and the voices blending, it's lovely, swooning stuff.

Yet all the loveliness was for naught. Hung was unable to give Joey the pounding he so desperately needed, as a result of which nothing was Individually Quick Frozen, and Joey was out and separated from his bear. Attired by the genius costume designer in the suddenly poignant "Italia" shirt, Joey sobbed and promised (threatened?) that this wasn't the last we'd hear of him, the kind of verbal rose bouquet that usually comes wrapped in a restraining order.

Not surprisingly, Joey tells New York Magazine, with that heartbreaking admixture of candor and circumlocution, "I became emotional because I was going to miss a lot of people."

Just reading that, we hear the plangent chords of Gustavo Santaolalla's Oscar-winning guitar score in our heads, and we envision an "Italia" shirt snugly encased inside a sweat-stained (and we mean sweat-stained) chef's coat smelling of pork and hung on the door of the walk-in at the Café des Artistes.

Sorry, possums, we made ourselves all verklempt there for a second.

At any rate, just be careful, Joey, possum. To paraphrase the great Italian philosopher M. Ciccone, you're frozen out when your heart's too open.