Ministry of Silly Talks: Amuse-Biatch Exclusive Interview with Ted Allen

As you might expect, possums, when it comes to the whole “journalism” thing, our style is more Hedda Hopper than Brenda Starr, and so, when Uncle Ted granted us an interview on the occasion of the premiere of Chopped, his new show on the Food Network, what could we do but take up our pad and our mother-of-pearl Mont Blanc, and channel Louella Parsons for all we were worth? We hope you enjoy it, possums; we will always remember the experience, since Ted Allen took our cherries…jubilee.

Amuse-Biatch: Bette, Joan or Madonna?

Ted Allen: Joan Jett.

AB: And speaking of Madonna, you once famously discussed how you would prepare and eat her pal Rupert Everett if ever you were stranded on a desert island with the Brit. If you found yourself on that proverbial island with the increasingly immaterial girl—she’s all gristle now—what cooking technique would you use to render her palatable?

TA: I’m thinking Ciccone au Vin.

AB: Do people get the munchies when they’re within 5 feet of Padma?

TA: Most people I know have the munchies for Padma. Did I ever tell you that I’ve seen her naked? True story: She was changing once during season 4 in Chicago, and, as a gentleman, I respectfully started to leave the room. And she said, “What, are you repulsed by my naked body?” So I gave her the once-over. I’ve been heterosexual ever since.

AB: You recently averred to an incredulous world that Padma Lakshmi’s job as host of Top Chef is harder than it looks. Have you gotten any tips or learned any lessons from Padma for your new gigs?

TA: Yes. If you already hear voices, it’s a bad idea to wear an earpiece. And don’t swap your flip-flops for Louboutins until the cameras are rolling.

AB: Did you know Gail Simmons was Jewish? We were thrilled to learn she was a member of the tribe.

TA: Jewish? I thought she was Canadian.

AB: As you know by now, your spot on the Top Chef judges’ panel was taken by Toby Young. Was it flattering that they couldn’t find anyone fresh, local and sustainable to replace you and had to import someone?

TA: Absolutely.

AB: What does it say when they have to get a Brit to replace a Gay?

TA: What’s the difference?

AB: Toby Young—you could take him, right? (In a fight, we mean.)

TA: We’re both far too polite to hit a guy with glasses.

AB: Has Carson Kressley ever made clothes for your Emmy statue?

TA: No, but Thom [Filicia] uses his as a toilet-paper holder at his lake house. The roll fits perfectly on her wings.

Chopped, Food Network, Tuesdays at 10 p.m. (Clip below courtesy of Food Network)

Amuse-Biatch Presents the Tragedy of Christopher Ciccone

Possums, we know full well that everyone is tired of forked-tongued decorator Christopher Ciccone, and we had determined to do no more posts about him, but over the weekend we were having a bitch through Rupert Everett's autobiography, Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins, and we came across an irresistible passage that may help to explain the fact and tragedy of Christopher Ciccone, or how he went from this:

("Oh my God," said Miss XaXa, "he looks like Debbie Gibson threw up all over him." "Well," we reminded her, "as Madonna's back-up dancer he necessarily had to be an electric youth.") to this:

As our story begins, Rupert Everett is attending Donatella Versace's New Year's Eve party in Miami:

"Dessert was being served. A cluster of divas, some of them stars, others not, sat around Donatella at a corner table in the courtyard. The party moved fast around us, the table was a rock, and waves of fruits de mer crashed against it, swelling our numbers from eight to twelve, and then to sixteen. Chairs peeled off in all directions in a swastika for intimate asides over cigarettes and crossed legs, but the undertow on this particular stretch of bitch was strong and soon, they had been swept back out to sea by the acid tongue of Madonna's brother Christopher Ciccone, the glum monosyllabic reply of Guy Ritchie, or the polite but firm dismissal of Gwyneth Paltrow. Madonna smiled graciously to all and sundry, secure in the knowledge that someone else would do the dirty work, and give any unwanted jellyfish 'the old heave-ho.'....

Gwyneth had been flirting with Guy Oseary, the child prodigy who ran Madonna's record company, but that liaison was another thin strand that Gwyneth cut with the brisk cheer of a dignitary opening a new wing of a hospital. 'I name this ship...Over.' It had snapped before the party even began. Actually, she was as thick as thieves with Christopher, and after midnight the two of them danced like whirling dervishes until they wound up slumped and feverish on Donatella's garden couch.

And this was the night that marked the beginning of the end for Christopher and Madonna. They had been inseparable through a trippy childhood in a huge family with a wicked stepmother, and she had taken him with her to the material world, where Christopher had provided a solid raft in the shark-infested waters. And for anyone who came into contact with Madonna, to know her at all you had to know him. The one was incomprehensible without the other. He was her dark side and she was his. People reeled in horror at the mention of his name, because he had a blunt aggressive manner, and he often looked as though he was laughing at you, particularly when he was drunk...But Guy [Ritchie] and Chris were from different planets, and in a way the one's success relied on the other not being there. Also Guy was not particularly comfortable with queens, and so, as the relationship between him and Madonna quickly deepened, it was a last call for a lot of the disco bunnies and club-mix queens that made up the fabric of Madonna's mantle. It was a surprise, because Madonna came out of the womb blowing a disco whistle, but a whole aspect of her life was about to be hit by the delete button."

There you have it: Christopher Ciccone too bitchy and gay for Madonna's husband.

As a bonus, here's Rupert's account of a master class in snubbery from that same party:

"...[S]hortly before midnight, Jennifer Lopez swept into the courtyard on the arm of Benny Medina, her new manager. Donatella got up and walked over to greet her while Gwyneth and Madonna gave two snorts of derision and noisily left the room. The men and Ingrid [Casares] were momentarily flummoxed but followed suit, leaving me and my hairdresser Jamie alone at the table. It could have been a moment from The Women....

Jennifer had given a rather startling interview a few weeks earlier, one of her best, as a matter of fact, where she had regally dished all and sundry, saying, among other things, that Madonna couldn't sing and that Gwyneth couldn't act. This broke an unwritten Hollywood law. Think it but never say it....

[E]veryone there at the party that night adored the drama. They were visibly shaking with the thrill of it, and so were the girls in question. They were like ducks during a rainstorm, preening, stretching their wings, shaking themselves and quacking. Jennifer sat with Benny, holding a beatific smile in place for longer than a porno star keeps an erection. Gwyneth and Madonna huddled around Donatella's garden couch like bullies from the upper sixth....Jamie and I locked ourselves into a bathroom with Donatella, a bodyguard at the door, and informed the rest of the world what was going on outside. We popped out briefly for midnight and then went back to the bunker like war journalists to phone in the latest explosion."

“Top Chef” Shocker! Gay Cannibal Declines to Eat Tom Colicchio!!

You know, possums, it must be difficult for journalists to resist BabbaWawwics, the urge to ask kooky questions that will elicit revealing answers, e.g., Barbara Walters’ own immortal, if perhaps somewhat apocryphal, “What kind of tree would you be?”

This may perhaps explain why the boys at gay news website AfterElton.com posed this question to Top Chef judge Ted Allen:

“You’re trapped on a deserted island with Tom Colicchio, Carson Kressley and Rupert Everett. Whom do you eat to survive, and how would you prepare them?”

Our first reaction was to say, “Congratulations, possums, on making another successful connection between gays and cannibalism! Gay blood libel, yay!”

Actually, if we’re honest, our first reaction was, “Nice going on the ‘whom.’”

Miss XaXa, as usual, was a bit more sanguine, “Oh come on, they just wanted to ask a dirty question. What’s wrong with that? Besides, he’s not a cannibal. Maneater, maybe; cannibal, no. Look at those adorably rabbity front teeth. He eats carrots, not people.”

She did, however, have a problem with Ted Allen’s answer, which was:

“First of all, I’m not eating Carson. He’d be all stringy. Carson is a little too lean. Tom Colicchio is a delicious-looking man, but I think I’d have to go with Rupert. Many of us in the community would find him the most delicious. If we’re on a desert island, I’d dig a pit. Something spicy or sort of Caribbean would be good for Rupert Everett.”

“Rupert Everett?!?” sneered Miss XaXa. “He’s like that rib you throw back on the platter because there’s not enough meat. Not worth the mess.”

Did we mention that Miss XaXa is from the South?

Our objection was, “Rupert Everett is so venomous that eating him would be like eating fugu.”

“Don’t you mean ‘fagu’?”

We had to concede the justness of that.

Still, seeing as how Tom Colicchio is all meat, the very definition of “beefy,” we were at a loss to explain Ted Allen’s answer. But then it hit us: this was an LSAT question, a logic puzzle.

Let’s say you were stranded on a desert island with hot daddybear Tom Colicchio, Carson Kressley, and Rupert Everett. You may be there for years, or however long it takes J.J. Abrams to screw up the concept, and you want to end up with Tom. What do you do? First, you get rid of the competition. Rupert Everett is much better-looking than Carson Kressley, and if anybody’s going to turn Tom gay, it would be Rupert. And so, pet to pot. That leaves Carson, who is indeed stringy, but since Tom is such a good chef, he would be able to give him the Crafsteak treatment and tenderize him. And that leaves you and Tom.

Ted Allen, you’re a genius. We’re sorry we ever doubted you.