Now that the season is over, Josh “Mr. Cutlets” Ozersky—lover of the Lucullan, heterosexualist high priest of the hamburger, and sybaritic singer of the porcine pleasures that the citizens of New York are heirs to—laments what the producers of Top Chef have done (or, rather, not done) to his city:
The biggest disappointment by far — by far! — was having the show in New York, and then not doing anything with the local resources. This season could just as easily have been shot in Moonachie. Where was the visit to Katz’s? Or Flushing Chinatown? Or the run-in with David Chang? Le Bernardin may well be the best restaurant in America, but it’s not what you would call a “New York restaurant.” Every week should have brought in a real New York chef and a real New York locale. How could Top Chef, which did such good work in Chicago and Miami, not know this?
Despite the new authority conferred on him by “the disease of kings,” we disagree with his assessment of the show’s use of Chicago, but as far as New York is concerned, he is spot on. For all we know, the show was probably shot in Toronto, which so often stands in for New York (but even there they have a great food scene). As for the rest of his criticisms and suggestions, read the full corrido de Cutlets and tell us what you think.
Here for your delectation, possums, please find two clips of Domenica In, the Italian variety show for which, once upon a time, Padma Lakshmi served as co-host. We especially love the first one, in which she appears at the head of a white piano and manages to answer the phone, sing, and dance--all at the same time! After that, Top Chef must seem like a breeze. One question, though: why isn't she ever this animated on American soil? What could possibly keep her so mellow and calm?
Jean Cocteau once wrote that “les privilèges de la beauté sont immenses,” but no matter how great the privileges of beauty, we almost—and it may simply be old age, possums, or a touch of the black bile—feel sorry for the purtiest cheftestant of all time, San Franciscan Ryan Scott.
“Oh, come off it,” snapped Miss XaXa. “He certainly picked the right city to have such a purty mouth in. Not to mention those handle-ears. He’s like a soup mug.”
Well, so much for the Kelly LeBrock of the reality food television world.
As The Modesto Bee is only too immodesto to tell us, Ryan Scott was born in the titular city, but soon enough moved to Los Baños, which, should your Spanish fail you, possums, means, “The Baths.” Of course, it also means, “The Bathrooms.”
“Wait,” said Miss XaXa, who has personal experience with the Central Valley of California, “doesn’t that mean we can say he’s literally from the dumps?”
Oh dear, yet another strike against the shit-eating grin. And the bonnie lad already has so many strikes against him.
Eater SF, which has breathlessly and gleefully chronicled all things Ryan, dug up a “(more-than- ) slightly ridiculous video” in which Ryan, dubbed “Sexy Chef,” oleaginously discusses fish and brags about his time in Hawaii while cheesy porn music plays in the background. Eater SF also caught Ryan training as a waiter at Pier 23 Café, despite being the chef at Myth Café. And our pal Josh Ozersky of Grub Street, who watched an advance copy of the new season’s first episode, describes Ryan as possessed of “such surpassing smugness that [he is] already rooting against him.”
Add to that the porn-star name, the pink-flowered shirt, and the perfectly groomed hair—it’s hard to tell if it’s slicked with gel or self-regard—and it becomes hard to see the pretty boy for the strikes.
Not that it means anything, of course. In his Bravo profile video, Ryan is the only one who hastens to invoke his girlfriend: “I don’t take longer than a half an hour when I cook at home for my girlfriend and I [sic].”
Ok, Ryan, got it. Though you are the chef at Myth Café, your girlfriend is anything but mythical (though ours always were).
In a show of mock-humility that must have required a great deal of energy to perform, Ryan declares in the same Bravo video, “I’m a little hidden in the back, which is fine, actually; that’s the way I want it.” Oh, falsely modesto bee, no one who looks like you or grooms like you is fine with being hidden in the back.
But this, Ryan, possum, is exactly why we can’t wait to be entertained by you throughout the season. Now if we could only settle on a nickname for you.
We suggested the Immodesto Bee, but Miss XaXa favored Soup Mug, or “Mugs.” We countered with Little Pitcher, since, as you know, possums, little pitchers have big ears, but Miss XaXa responded, “Actually, he looks like a catcher.”
What are we to do? It may, in the end, come down to Ryan’s Hopeless.
When we get invited to people's houses, possums, there's never a second invitation.
We're always surprised, of course. Our attitude is, "Oh, come on, what's a loose quip between friends? And well, it's true; that skirt does make you look like a ziggurat."
So imagine how much more surprised we were to be asked back by New York Magazine's Grub Street to give our off-the-cuff reactions to last night's Top Chef episode.
So if you feel like surveying the alcohol- and reality-show-bloodlust-fueled damage, take a look here.
Possums, usually we don’t like to blow our own trumpet (we’ll skip the requisite dirty pause just this once), but today we’ll make an exception, and you’ll see why.
In the normal course of events, New York magazine restaurant critic Adam Platt and Grub Street’s editor, Josh Ozersky, run every week’s Top Chef episode through an IM grinder. However, as Mr. Platt is in the Restaurant Critic Protection Program for a week, just to see how he might like it (should Jeffrey Chodorow really lose it someday), Josh kindly asked us to step into those big, red-sequined stilettos and add our own blade to the grinder. The results, full of gristle and snark, can be seen here.
We thank Josh for the invite, and will look for just the right Padma Lakshmi photograph to express our appreciation.
