Padma Lakshmi Wears a Tight, Cleavage-Revealing Dress to Read The New York Times

The Gray Lady never looked so good. Why, oh why, possums, can't Padma always look like this on Top Chef? And we loved how her accent on this video miraculously became plummier, lilting, more elegant, with a touch of Indian, a step "up" from the Valley Girl stoner drawl we get on Top Chef. (We also love the idea of her reading, Lady Bountiful-like, bits from the Times to uninformed cheftestants and camera people, improving their little minds with news of the conflict in Ossetia and Cathy Horyn's musings on Lagerfeld.) What all of this seems impliedly to admit is that she considers Top Chef a bit of slumming. Who'd've thunk?

Harold Dieterle Fatally Ignores Tim Gunn's Injunction, "Don't Bore BruNina"

Oh, possums, just as contestants on Project Runway live with the tattoo-beat of fear throbbing from Tim Gunn's flaming-sword injunction, "Don't bore Nina [Garcia of Elle]," so, it seems, must Top Chef winners who actually manage to open a restaurant live in fear of boring New York Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni, whom we might as well call BruNina.

BruNina's one-star review of Harold's restaurant, Perilla, is studded with bits of critical gristle, backhand-compliment adjectives that make clear the critic's displeasure: "agreeable," "soothing," "unassuming," "undemanding," "primness," "more like the dutiful flourishes of a studiously conscientious tradesman than the inspirations of an artist letting his imagination roam" (ouch!), "retiring," "vapid," "cautious," "focus group," and "safe[...] path."

BruNina laments that "[Harold's] packed restaurant is a result of his fame on the small screen. That’s reality television for you — it scrambles cause and effect, defying the laws of celebrity physics." Further, though on two occasions at Perilla, BruNina caught sight of famous chefs Wylie Dufresne and Marco Canora, "On neither of those occasions did [he] lay eyes on Harold Dieterle....And this dichotomy — the conspicuous presence of his curious peers, the behind-the-curtain invisibility of the man himself — says a lot about Perilla’s odd genesis and how he has responded to it."

Which made us think that Frank Bruni is one of those Gays who didn't much care for the ending of The Wizard of Oz.

Persnickety BruNina also brings up Harold's "reluctance to hold court in his restaurant, as other chefs do in theirs," which prompted Miss XaXa to ask, "Doesn't it sound like BruNina just wanted Harold's autograph?"

Oh, Harold, to think that a signed napkin or 8 x 10 might have gotten you that extra star.

Shiso Fine?: West Babylon Chef Prepares to Face New York Times Nebuchadnezzar

In the latest installment of its weekly BruniBetting feature, Eater reminds us that it is white-knuckle time at 9 Jones St. in New York, site of Top Chef Harold Dieterle's restaurant, Perilla (the moniker is the English name for the Japanese herb shiso).

Frank Bruni, the notoriously prolix and toothsomely purple prose stylist who serves as the feared restaurant critic for the New York Times, will reveal tonight (in tomorrow's edition of the paper) just what he thinks of Perilla.

Since Bruni, gaypo di gaypi of the Gay & Foodie Mafias, can make or break a restaurant with a madcap, stylistically belabored critique, such reviews are anticipated and feared in equal measure. Eater is betting that the West Babylon, Long Island, top chef will get his coveted two stars from Bruni.

Alas, tomorrow night's special, momentum-interrupting, give-us-another-week-to-tweak-and-pump-up-the-remaining-episodes edition of "Watch What Happens," hosted by Raggaydy Andy, will not be live, and so we won't get to see Harold glowing or scowling (at least not about the review).

Über-Biatch Alan Richman Gives Harold Dieterle a Thumbs Up, Sits in Sarah Jessica Parker's Booth, Calls Anthony Bourdain a “Scoundrel”

If there's a bigger biatch than Alan Richman in the world of restaurant critics, we're not sure we'd like to meet him or her. Frank Bruni has nothing on him, possums.

And yet, miracle of miracles, Richman has just given Harold Dieterle's restaurant, Perilla, a rather good review: "fabulous is going too far, but there is little not to like about this pleasant, understated restaurant."

Mind you, the review is not entirely free of biatchiness--Richman doesn't like the lighting, which he calls "assertive," doesn't like the fabric upholstering the booths, and snarks about how Harold wouldn't come out to greet him though he did come out for Anthony Bourdain and Sarah Jessica Parker.

Still, as he says, "Dieterle can cook. He has technique and instincts." That's high praise from anyone, but especially from the Über-Biatch himself. Congratulations, Harold.

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."

Arse & (Penthouse) Letters: New York Times Restaurant Critic Comes Out of the Closet, Provides Example for Ilan Hall

Well, we'd had our suspicions, of course, as had any sentient reader of The New York Times Dining & Wine section. But Frank Bruni, the Times' chief restaurant critic--currently embroiled in a feud with Jeffrey Chodorow (the impresario behind Social Hollywood, where Top Chef filmed the lunch held for Jennifer Coolidge)--appears finally to come out of the closet in his latest review, due to be published in tomorrow's paper, but available tonight online.

Mr. Bruni chooses a peculiar coming-out journey: a trip to review the steakhouse inside the Penthouse Executive Club. Yes, possums, as in Penthouse Letters. And so Mr. Bruni set out with a group of men for the fleshpots of the Far West Side. As he tells it:

We were strangers to such pulchritudinous territory, less susceptible to the scenery than other men might be, more aroused by the side dishes than the sideshow: underdressed, overexposed young women in the vestibule, by the coat check, at the top of the red-carpeted stairs up to the restaurant, on the stage that many of the restaurant’s tables overlook.

Mr. Bruni is greeted by a lissome lovely, who says that her name is Mahogany.

“Mahogany?” I said.
“Yes,” she purred.
I was getting my bearings. “Mahogany,” I asked, “do you know where you’re going to?”
She didn’t miss a beat, noting the reference, summoning the singer, and moving on to another of the dreamgirl’s hits. “I’m ... coming ... out!” she sang, waving her arms, wiggling her hips. Mahogany and I would get along just fine.

That's right, possums. Frank Bruni is exchanging Diana Ross cues with a hostess at the Penthouse Executive Club. This may indeed be the gayest exchange in the history of the English language, and we are immensely proud of Frankie.

Not that the review doesn't get gayer, and saucier:

And when one of her sorority sisters sidled up to us to pose a question not commonly uttered in fine-dining establishments — “Is there anyone I can get naked for?” — the response was silence. On this visit to Robert’s and on subsequent ones, I was derelict in my duty, failing to sample much of what the restaurant had to offer.
But the beef, I devoured — breathlessly, ecstatically.

Way to go, Frankie. Or, better yet, you go, girl. And should we ever have you over for drinks, we'll make sure the gin is Beefeater, or nothing at all.

Bruni-lleschi Breaks "Dome" of Silence Over "Top Chef" Finale

The New York Times' chief restaurant critic, Frank Bruni, is not one to leave his fans salivating for more of his purple prose stylings. And so, after yesterday's eyebrow-raising take on Top Chef (it's really about the food! ha!), he chimes in with his thoughts on last night's finale. As always, the cherce bits:

Could the phrase “Kenmore Pro Kitchen” have been used more frequently during the course of this season? Talk about a fruitful sponsorship deal! I think the whole situation plummeted to its nadir when the chef Tom Colicchio, addressing the final two contestants, worked the phrase into his comments.

...

Ilan’s selection of braised short ribs as one of the five courses in his big meal was disappointing. I love braised short ribs, but at last count, they were on 109,451 menus. And that’s in Manhattan alone.

I have to wonder how hard Marcel’s comrades worked on his behalf. It was clear that Betty and Elia were much more invested in Ilan, whom they were helping, than Sam and Michael were invested in Marcel, who chose them to stand and work at his side. Sam’s comments to the camera about the things that went wrong as Marcel prepared his last supper (for now) had a bit too much glee in them.

The arithmetic I did as the judges assessed each of the final two contenders’ five courses didn’t add up clearly to an Ilan victory. The way I heard the judges, Marcel’s first course trumped Ilan’s. Ilan’s second course trumped Marcel’s. Their third courses were a tie. Marcel won the fourth round, and the fifth — well, the diners who ate the meals didn’t make their preferences immediately clear.

That’s two for Marcel, one for Ilan and two in doubt, though, at the end, the judges seemed to tip that fifth course, dessert, in Ilan’s favor.

So why did Ilan come out on top?

New York Times' Frank Bruni Spills Purple-Prosed Foam of Love All Over "Top Chef"

We know, possums, we know.

Our hypocritical hubris in referring to the prose stylings of New York Times food critic Frank Bruni as "purple" has no doubt resulted in a thunderbolt coming from the general direction of Mt. Olympus to strike us dead. Well, "arse" longa, vita brevis.

So, yes, in today's Food Section of the Times, Bruno (it's so unfair to refer to him by the plural, "Bruni," since he lost all that weight) tackles the phenomenon that is Top Chef, in the process making the Bravo execs at 30 Rock very, very happy.

Here, then, the cherce bits:

Marcel Vigneron’s self-love is as garish and repellent as his winged hairdo, which looks like an attempt to evoke “The Flying Nun” without a headdress or a habit.

Only in contrast does Ilan Hall seem humble and winsome. Don’t be duped. In this season’s first episode he flatly declared, “I want to be famous.” And as he inched ever closer to his goal, he sometimes regarded his adversaries with a look of unalloyed contempt.

...

For all its generically hyped-up drama, cheesy gimmickry and abject fealty to the tropes of reality television, “Top Chef” really is about cooking: what goes into it; what comes out of it; what reliably succeeds in the kitchen and on the plate; what predictably doesn’t.

...

“Top Chef” came into its own this season, its second, as it found a kind of traction that many other cooking-related shows — a bloated field at this point — haven’t.

Its contestants and judges wound up in gossip columns. Its twists and turns fueled chatter on the Internet, including the possible disclosure of the victor in tonight’s episode, which was taped a while back. Its ratings rose to an average of nearly two million viewers a week, according to Bravo, and that number put it well ahead of the second season of “Project Runway,” Bravo’s runaway reality hit, which will embark on its fourth season this year.

The reasons are many and varied. “Top Chef” did a deft job assembling a racially and ethnically diverse cast of characters, a shrunken high school in which every clique had a representative. There was the peevish whistleblower (Marisa), the priggish A student (Elia), the good-time blonde (Betty), the disheveled slacker (Michael), the laconic hunk (Sam), the trash-talking spitfire (Mia).

“Top Chef” offers the reliable, although perhaps not always intentional, hilarity of its blunt product endorsements and of its host, Padma Lakshmi, a k a Mrs. Salman Rushdie, a model-turned-actress whose epicurean musings are less riveting than her sluggish, mouth-full-of-molasses style of speech and strenuously come-hither poses.

As she makes her costume changes you can almost read her thoughts: “Does this skirt go with hamachi?” “Is this too much cleavage for a chicken liver canapé?”

Pig Heaven: The Wednesday Press Roundup

Wednesday is food day, and not only because "Top Chef" is on. It's also the day the food sections in some our favorite publications come out.

Frank Bruni, the purple-prosed prince of sybarites at The New York Times, has returned from his Italian vacation with an ode to the pig. In the spirit of the piece, we illustrate this with an item from last Sunday's lunch, a rather nice queso de puerco, or head cheese, obtained from one of our local carnicerías.

Bruni, asking "Just How Good Can Italy Get?", answers his own question by praising his "kind of pig heaven," which "looks a lot like Bologna’s fatty heart." He then tantalizes us with the usual quasi-pornographic descriptions of prosciutto di Parma and culatello.

A little farther west, Auntie Irene at The Los Angeles Times reviews BLD, a breakfast, lunch and dinner place blessed with brioche French toast, "each slice easily two fingers high and wearing a ruffle of eggy batter," ricotta blueberry pancakes, "big crumbly buttermilk scones dotted with currants, cinnamon buns swirled with butter and cinnamon, and a wonderful Breton pastry called kouign amann." However, she's also got pig on the brain, praising "the cured pork products from Paul Bertolli at Fra' Mani, a new salumeria in Berkeley from the former Oliveto and Chez Panisse chef." Coincidentally enough, she also wrote about the glories of Italy and pigs last month, describing her dinner with Dario Cecchini, "the most famous butcher in Italy."

At the LA Weekly, Jonathan Gold extols the glories of duck fat and finally gets around to reviewing the uniquely Angeleno craze for Pinkberry frozen yogurt, "as pure and smooth and white as the Carrara marble from which Michelangelo carved his David, a perfection probably attained through the use of powdered nonfat milk, which is a Korean obsession. If you are what you eat, Pinkberry may be the ideal food."