The Heterosexual Woman’s Long National Nightmare Is Over: Sam Talbot Puts a Thumb-Ring On It

Well, possums, while the heterosexual women of America may have wept blue-cheese-and-watermelon tears, we were relieved to read the news that Colombian arepa Paola Guerrero has finally made an honest man out of Sam “Not That Guy” Talbot.

We remembered the time after the engagement was announced this past summer, when a “hell hath no fury,” bedroom-farce fecal storm erupted in the comments section chez nos potes at Eater, ended up on Page Six, and led a little bird to send us pics of a, um, little Talbot bird (tattoos are such handy identifiers). The whole thing reminded us of this ad for the Chanel men’s fragrance Égoïste, except without the Prokofiev score, and with more naked photos emailed to pun-named blogs.

And so, if this marriage at least means an end to all such tsuris, then we are all for it. Good luck to everyone involved.

The Future Mrs. Sam Talbot Shares Her Love

Fun with Semiotics: New York Post Provides Visual Key to “Top Chef” Season 2

Amuse-Biatch Presents Paola Guerrero and Sam Talbot

Amuse-Biatch Heterosexual Wednesday: Is This Sam Talbot’s Little Arepa?

Possums, our search for a photie of Sam Talbot’s Colombian fiancée--the mysterious Paola Guerro, or is it Paola Guerra, or is it Paola Guerrero?--had proved fruitless and exasperating, the hunt for the elusive arepa. But then we came across a find by a commenter on Eater, namely the photo above, which, in its original state on Flickr, is labeled Paola Guerrero - Wilhelmina New York (as you may know, possums, Wilhelmina is a renowned modeling agency).

We're inclined to believe this might be the one. The future Mrs. Talbot is a model, sayeth Sam, and this Paola is a model. As we noted earlier, the announcement on People's website, written by someone Latino-deficient, couldn't decide if the woman's surname is Guerro (never come across it before) or Guerra (much more plausible). But if Paola's last name is really Guerrero, that would explain "Guerro" as a typo by someone Latino-deficient. And if this is the future Mrs. Talbot, pues ¡ay Dios mío!

However, we could not help but notice that there are a number of commenters on the Eater post who have a female friend who thought she was due to get the thumb-ring any day now. But surely Sam couldn't be such a cad? Right, possums? Right? Besides, whether her last name is Guerra ("war") or Guerrero ("warrior"), the future Mrs. T looks like she's quite a contender.

The Heterosexual Women of America Weep Blue-Cheese-and-Watermelon Tears as Sam Talbot Announces His Engagement

Yes, possums, it's true. Just as one fashion-world Colombian leaves the Bravo family, another comes in. In fact, as Miss XaXa points out, this might well be one of Newton's Laws. And so, as Nina Garcia leaves Bravo to follow Project Runway to Lifetime, People Magazine (yes, People!) has (exclusively!) received the announcement that inexplicable heterosexual heartthrob and diabetic elf Sam Talbot is marrying a Colombian named Paola Guerro. Or wait, is it Guerra? People seems (and people seem) to be confused.

At any rate, the not-for-much-longer señorita is, wait for it, a model and a teeshirt designer.

The groom and the bride are both 30, and met in Brazil. Though we have Google-imaged our little fingers to the bone, we've yet to come across a photo of the Talbot-described "stunning" bride.

The groom confides, "She takes care of me in many ways." Eeeew. Well, leave it to Sam Talbot to make love and Guerra.

Best of luck, kiddos.

Amuse-Biatch Asks Alanis Morissette a Rhetorical Question

Hey, Alanis, is it just us, or is it a teensy bit ironic that the one show on which Sam "Not That Guy" Talbot serves as a guest judge is the show where a cheftestant expresses a fear of being assaulted? Granted, possums, it's not like rain on your Wedding Wars, but we still wonder.

Padma Lakshmi Grateful No Hot Guys on “Top Chef,” Lest She Be Unable to Control Herself

Though it may hurt self-avowed metrosexual and pretty-boy Ryan Scott to hear it, that is indeed what we learned, possums, from Padma Lakshmi's appearance yesterday on the execrable Morning Show with Mike and Juliet. 'Twas a doozy, it was.

It begins with Padma doing shilling so shameless that it hasn't been seen since, well, Top Chef. On the pretext that the blonde hostess has "allergies" (to what? intelligent conversation? self-respect? good clothes?), Padma presents her with a glass of orange juice, which she accompanies with this no-doubt entirely sincere and genuine statement:

These are these new juices from Tropicana, and they’re amazing. They’re like the whole burst of sunshine in your mouth. Aren’t they good? I mean, we’ve all grown up with Tropicana.













Then, as Padma rushes to make "Mexican" cornbread (with that most typical of Mexican ingredients, dill), the most interesting exchange takes places between Padma and hostess Juliet Huddy. Possums, it's all about the mens, and, as with so many of our straight-girl friends, the model of choice seems to be tall and forgettable:

JH: Where are all the hot guys this year?

PL: I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s just as well, ‘cuz I’m not supposed to fraternize with the contestants at all.

JH: Last year, though, that big tall guy…

PL: I know, you have a little crush on Sam. I could tell the last time we were here.

JH: Oh well…But no, there was a big tall guy. What was his name?

PL: Sam.

JH: No, the other guy.

PL: Oh, CJ, CJ, CJ.

JH: So many I can’t keep up.

PL: I know, I know.

And somewhere in the Midwest, CJ Jacobson feels as though he's been kicked in the ball.

Padma then refuses to tell Juliet the outcome of Top Chef, but does drop this hint: "Well, the women are really strong this year, that’s all I can tell you. "

Thanks, Padma.

Then, and only then, are we made privy to Padma's messianic accomplishment as regards this great nation of ours:

Well, I’m happy because I feel like I’ve taught the country what an amuse-bouche is, you know. I go, and I wait for a taxi on the corner, and people say, “Amuse-bouche.” “Amuse-bouche, too, to you, too.”

Quick, someone get her her own quarter coin and a commemorative stamp.

Blast from the Past: Sam Talbot Shacks Up

Fear not, possums, mesdames, and mesdemoiselles. It's not quite what you think. Instead, as our pals at Eater found out, Sammy has been bragging because--get this--he finally got a job. He has, as Eater puts it, "signed on to run the restaurant at Jamie Mullholland's new surf shack in Montauk, Surf Lodge." So for those of you longing for Long Island or for watermelon with blue cheese, head on out starting Memorial Day.

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: Is Mark Simmons This Season's Superstar?

First, there was this.












And then came this.













And now this?

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?]

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.

Tidbits for the Womenfolk of Christendom

Apropos of absolutely nothing, possums, we start off with the following infamous quote from literary theorist Sigmund Freud:

"The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is 'What does a woman want?'"

Now, on to business:

* Eater's Ben Leventhal is sponsoring a contest to win a date with Sam Talbot, and getting called "douchey" for his pains.

* Tre Wilcox--the man who worked out obsessively during the show, whose first words to the other cheftestants after being eliminated were that he was going back to the gym early, who seemed to live in wife beaters, and who said, during the Roach Coach challenge, that once people got a look at his "guns," they would want to bypass Brian Malarkey's facile charms and get in the back with him--is telling New York Magazine, "I didn’t really think that people would see me on TV and think that I looked good." Such disingenuousness is as hard to swallow as that cured salmon apparently was.

According to Raggaydy Andy, Tre says "that it's hard being married with all the attention he's getting." However, Tre clarifies in New York Magazine, "I don’t expect to be divorcing my wife and running off with a Top Chef fan anytime soon." (emphasis added by us.) Does this mean there's hope for the patient homewrecker/Top Chef fan?

Is Sam Talbot a Steaming Bag?

Possums, no doubt we will never, ever understand what the womenfolk of Christendom see in his armpit-steaming, morally challenged persona, but we must grudgingly admit that of late Sam Talbot has become just a tad more likable for us.

Why? Well, because he's taken rather well to blogging, the evils of which he warned this season's cheftestants about, and because he seems to have developed self-awareness. It's a bit of a Stanley Kubrick moment.

Having surrendered to the Dark Side, and now that he is That Guy (Who Blogs), lil' Sam starts off thus in this week's edition of his blog:

"A little gratuitous self-promotion.
I'm in a contest for Glad SimplyCooking Microwave Steaming Bags. If I'm voted the 'steamiest' chef, the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation will get $30K."

A worthy cause indeed, and well, Sammy, you've definitely got our vote for Steaming Bag.

See? There's a tip about blogging: try not to make it too easy.

Other than that, Sammy seems to be learning his lesson pretty well:

"What I learned about the reality genre, blogging, and human nature is this: criticism (AKA snarkiness) is easier, funnier, more provocative, and more entertaining than empathy. Just ask New York Magazine. That doesn't mean it's always the right way to go--or the only way to go (more on this later. Bourdain's blog is a perfect example of striking the right balance--can he just be made a judge already?"

Allow us to quibble for just a second. Criticism is most definitely not the same thing as snarkiness, but we agree with you that "OMG Sam! You are so hot! You were, like, totally robbed!" is neither provocative nor entertaining. If that's empathy, include us out.

Oh, and look, a dash of self-deprecation: "Ah ,yes, good ol' Restaurant Wars. I'm glad these chefs were familiar with the challenge. I wasn't. (La La Lame-o.) " Well-done, possum!

And there's this:

"The World Wide Web is 2007's version of the water cooler. And in the blogging world, snarkiness rules. But let's face it--without bloggers the reality genre might not be as popular. (The point that I'm writing this IN a blog is not lost on me.)"

See? What did we say, possums? It gives us chills; it's 2001: A Space Odyssey or AI: Artificial Intelligence all over again.

Finally, watch Sammy make a gay joke:

"And to the criticism of black tablecloths--I'm not quite sure Dale would mind eating off of [sic] Billy Idol."

Oh, Sammy, possum, let's not project now. Still, all in all, a good start.

Lalalina Goes LaLa, Top Chef Sperm for Sale, STDs, and Other Secrets of Reality TV

Possums, the claws are out.

Just in time for lunch, and hot off the presses, is this cover story in New York Magazine about Bravo's reality tv programs, including, of course, Top Chef.

Among the dishy, Top Chef-related delights:

* At breakfast one morning a few weeks ago, Ilan Hall, the appealing winner of this past season’s Top Chef, confessed that he and his old girlfriend also split after the show. “She thinks it’s because women were coming up to me after the show,” he said. “Which happens. But it had nothing to do with it.”

* [Contestants] can’t even have sex with one another to pass the time. (An STD could result in a lawsuit—unlike hookup reality shows, the contestants aren’t tested beforehand for communicable diseases.)

* Sam [Talbot] had been in the running for The Bachelor.

* Like Michael Midgley, for example. “Mikey,” says Colicchio. “In the beginning, I was complaining, ‘What is this guy doing here?’ And the producers were saying, ‘Yeah, but wouldn’t it be great if he really could cook?’ And I’d say, ‘Yeah, it would be great. But he can’t.’ ”

* Yet back at Perilla, I discover that Harold has gotten plenty of invitations from non-foodies for his services, like the e-mail he recently got from a woman in her mid-forties from the Midwest. “She basically asked straight up if she could purchase some of my … DNA, I guess. Some seedlings,” he says. “That was awkward. I mentioned it to the fellow who helps me with specific events and stuff, and he was like, Oh my God, that’s the greatest idea ever! We’re gonna put it right on eBay!”

Read the full story for all the gory details, especially if you're a fan of Project Runway, though be sure to have a drink in hand, as some of the details are bound to make you sad.

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: Sometimes We Question the Taste Level of American Straight Women

Possums, some of our best friends are straight American women, so don't take this as a knock. And we are acolytes of the cult of duck fat (pommes sarladaises and duck confit, anyone?), so we'll give Sam "I'd make love in duck fat" Talbot some points, but seriously, what do y'all see in him? We look at that frightening eyebrow and that surly mouth, and we just don't get it. Straight women of America, feel free to enlighten us.

Sam I Am? Wayward & Biatchstein Investigate

From Sam Talbot's latest blog:

What have I been doing?

...I'm also working on a book with my boy...Meeting as many people as I can. Buying too many pairs of shoes....

Ilan Hall Falls into Thom Browne Fool's Daze

Possums, we'll get into the substance (ha!) and smarm of what Ilan Hall said at a later time. For now, we just wanted to utter our best Munchian scream at what Ilan Hall is wearing. (For the moment, ignore the lanky, morally challenged, surly diabetic lesbian sitting to his left. Oh, that's Sam Talbot, you say? And you say he's straight? And you say that there's absolutely no symbolic content to a prime Clippergate participant getting a buzz cut? Ok, we'll take your word for it.)

Never mind showing up in a tuxedo at 8:30 a.m., which is when this reunion was shot. What we deplore is, first, the terrible fit and too-short pant-legs on the tuxedo. We are tempted to blame the gay, prissy, tyrannical, obsessive-compulsive men's designer du jour, Thom Browne (take that, Tom Ford), who is known for just this sort of look. It's certainly a low point in highwater pants.

More disturbing is the lack of socks. We've been meaning for ages to write a post about socklessness and foot fetishism on these Bravo shows, but our brain cells rebel at the thought. Suffice it to remember the stink over Jonathan Adler's stockingless feet on Top Design, Tom Colicchio's sockless appearance on Top Design as well, Raggaydy Andy's live online sock striptease for a fetishist in New Mexico, Colicchio's continued sockless (even barefoot) jaunts in the Season 3 promotional campaign, together with barefoot Ted Allen, and a barefoot Padma Lakshmi kicking up water. Something is definitely afoot.

The Completely Heterosexual Man in the White Suit: Ilan Hall Channels Dirk Bogarde, "Death in Venice," in South Beach

Our first reaction to this photograph taken at the recent South Beach Wine and Food Festival was, "Wait, isn't Sam supposed to be the metrosexual?" Our second reaction was, "Is Ilan really wearing a two-tone shirt with that suit?" Our third reaction was, "Whom was he trying to channel? Dirk Bogarde? Peter Sellers? Al Pacino? Mr. Chow?" Our fourth reaction was, "How much did the suit cost?" Our fifth reaction was, "Tom, it really is time for you to shave that soul patch. Seriously. Trust us, it doesn't work for you. Ask Frank Bruni." Our sixth reaction was, "Where's Beer Bong? We thought Ilan was going to take Beer Bong with him to South Beach." And our final reaction was, "Damn, Gail, you look good."

A Bounty of Sweetness and Light! More Positive and Truthful Comments About the Cheftestants from a Recovering Amuse-Biatch

Uh, give us a minute, possums; we'll think of something. We're thinking, we're thinking. Ah yes, Michael Midgley has great skin! Um, and navy's a good color for him. And he apparently believes in hydrating at the beach, which is so important. And is that Mugu Rock in the background?


Um, let's see. Sam "Samuel! Samuel!" Talbot is...tall, yes, he's tall. And he has a solid English surname. And he's from a beautiful state, North Carolina. And his knives are sharp. And he likes dogs. And he likes sepia tones. And he likes Air Supply, as he appears to have chosen "All Out of Love" as the theme song for his MySpace page. Let's see, anything else? No? Alright, then, that should do it.