Fightin’ Words: Carlos Fernandez Translator Calls Anthony Bourdain a “Chupacabras”

It will come as no surprise to you, possums, that, like just about everyone, we are great fans of last season contestant Carlos Fernandez. Miss XaXa developed the mother of all gay crushes on him, anointed him her Chulo Chef, and drove six hours to eat and gossip up a storm with Carlos at the Hi-Life Café, the restaurant he runs with his charming husband Chuck.

Naturally, we were thrilled to learn that Carlos has a gig writing a blog for Bravo, doing cooking demonstrations on the unfortunately named “Miami Spice,” and appearing on Bravo’s Spanish-language sister network, Telemundo. We want only the best for our Chulo Chef.

Imagine our dismay, then, when we came across an interesting little discrepancy while comparing Carlos’ blog and the Spanish translation on Yahoo! Telemundo.

On his Bravo blog, Carlos writes, “It was nice to see Chef Anthony Bourdin. (“Hey Chef Tony, Alex says hi!”) I don’t understand why he didn’t judge the Quickfire Challenges. Perhaps that was filmed too early in the day for a bloodsucker! Ha!”

(A smidge of background info: after judging the Thanksgiving episode last season, Bourdain referred to Carlos as “Alex Fernandez” on Michael Ruhlman’s blog. You should know, though, that we found something equally egregious. On Frank Bruni’s blog in the New York Times, the caption lists Carlos Fernandez as “Carlos Rodriguez.” It’s so hard to keep them Latins straight, much to Miss XaXa’s despair and Chuck’s gain.)

At any rate, we think that by “bloodsucker,” Carlos meant “vampire,” since Bourdain is a notorious nocturnal flâneur (though not as nocturnal as John Travolta). And yet, the Telemundo translator rendered it as “chupacabras.”

For those of you who may not remember, a “chupacabras” (or “goat sucker,” from its “habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats”) is “a lizard-like being, appearing to have leathery or scaly greenish-gray skin and sharp spines or quills running down its back…[,] a dog or panther-like nose and face, a forked tongue protruding from it, large fangs, and to hiss and screech when alarmed, as well as leave a sulfuric stench behind. When it screeches, some reports note that the chupacabra’s eyes glow an unusual red, then give the witnesses nausea.”

We will not go into whether this is an accurate description of Anthony Bourdain (though we will say we thought he looked remarkably well-rested and smooth-skinned on last week’s show; Clinique had better look into the rejuvenating properties of goat’s blood). We simply think it’s unwise for Carlos’ translator to get our Chulo Chef into a scrape with the old bloodsucker himself.

Miss XaXa, however, is having none of it. “Come on. Bourdain would probably love being called a chupacabra. It makes him more of a badass.”

Be that as it may, we ask only one thing of you, Tony. Don’t blame Alex. No tuvo la culpa.

Top Chef Harold Dieterle Yearns for Amy's Buns

In a lobster roll, that is, possums.

Describing his dream picnic to Forbes, Harold opted for Prospect Park, Brooklyn, and in addition to that lobster roll--''only if it's on an Amy's bun"--the D-man has a thing for Kettle chips.

Alas, no martinis for Harold. He's a g&t man, a man after our Beefeatin' hearts.

“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.

So Sayeth Lady Rushdie

Possums, to celebrate our hostess’s ascension from mere Padma Lakshmi, 28th Most Beautiful Lady in the World, to Padma, Lady Rushdie, we are inaugurating an occasional feature, “So Sayeth Lady Rushdie,” to share with you a few of the memorable pearls of wisdom fallen from Her Ladyship’s rather fetching mouth (and which we found on Her Ladyship’s website).

Without further ado, dixit Padma:

“There’s nothing useful about being married to [Sir Salman Rushdie], though. I think it works against me. I do have it easy in that I can take business class instead of coach, but I would have that if I was married to anybody.”

“In fact, I’d have to be really dumb to think that being with a writer was going to help with an acting career. I live in America. They don't give a shit about that stuff.”

“Dude, sometimes I try to say I shouldn’t go to things [parties] with him [Sir Salman] but ... I'm fucked if I do and fucked if I don’t.”

--The London Sunday Times, April 2, 2006

Amuse-Biatch Plays Consigliere to Joey Pickles

As you ought to know by now, possums, Amuse-Biatch tries, whenever possible, to be of service to the cheftestants. And it is in that spirit that we write today.

Based on the teaser clips of what’s to come “on this season of Top Chef,” it certainly looks as if “aggressive” Joey Pickles needs the most help, what with that damned “Italia” shirt, the profanity, the threats, the debased Damon Runyon poetry of taunts about being a man.

Granted, Joey is no Frank Terzoli—we haven’t heard any threats to beat a cheftestant so badly his own mother won’t recognize him—and we haven’t seen any clippers being pulled out.

Still, you know, we worry, especially since the vibe, the unspoken message, we get from the interaction between Joey Pickles and Howard Kleinberg is, “This show ain’t big enough for two short, fat, ethnic, hypermasculine guys with regional accents.”

But Joey, possum, before you do anything rash (such as beating us up for calling you “possum”), consider this. When we heard, after the threat-and-Clippergate bonanza of Season 2, that Top Chef was moving to Miami, we snarkily speculated that the assault and battery laws must be more lenient in Florida than in California.

Turns out we were wrong. To wit:

Chapter 784.011 of the Florida statutes defines an assault as “an intentional, unlawful threat by word or act to do violence to the person of another, coupled with an apparent ability to do so, and doing some act which creates a well-founded fear in such other person that such violence is imminent.” Chapter 784.03 defines battery as occurring when a person “[a]ctually and intentionally touches or strikes another person against the will of the other.”

By contrast, California Penal Code section 240 defines assault as “an unlawful attempt, coupled with a present ability, to commit a violent injury on the person of another,” and Section 242 defines battery as “any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another.”

The Florida standard is a lot easier to meet. For battery, all you need is intentional touching of a person against her will, whereas California requires force or violence.

So watch yourself, Joey Pickles. Watch yourself, possum, er, buddyboy.

Welcome to Meowmi: Part I

Possums, as we pointed out last season, from an audience standpoint, Anthony Bourdain is a great Top Chef judge, since he is entertaining and can out-quip and out-bitch just about anyone. From a blogger’s standpoint, however, episodes featuring Anthony Bourdain are difficult, since he is entertaining and can out-quip and out-bitch just about anyone.

Nonetheless, we’ll do our Amuse-Biatch best with the leavings as we turn to the premiere episode of Season 3.

To the sounds of what the closed captioning helpfully identifies as “Latin music,” we get the Miami signifiers of turquoise waters and bronzed bodies on the beach, and we’re off to meet the cheftestants at the Miami airport.

First up is Sara Mair, who informs us that she is a “chef/fromagier.” Actually, possum, you would be a “fromagère,” but never mind. We so love cheese, and the chic of the puffy sleeves on your jacket, that we’re willing to overlook anything at this point. Blessed are the cheese-makers indeed.

Next up is tremulous, toothsome Clay Bowen, son of the Mississippi clay. There’s something very 19th century about him, a touch of The Red Badge of Courage underneath the incongruous guayabera he is sporting. He thinks he can win the competition, ole Clay does. “I feel the South hasn’t really been represented on Top Chef much.” Oh, Clay, possum, wasn’t that what General Lee said right before the Battle of Antietam, er, Sharpsburg? Score another point for Bravo Foreshadowing™.

And then there’s Frank Terzoli. Oops, it’s actually Joey Paulino, decked out in a blue “Italia” soccer jersey. “You think he’s Italian?” we ask Miss XaXa, who is herself of Italian extraction. The question becomes even more rhetorical the minute he opens his mouth: “If I win the money, my mother gets it.” (To which Miss XaXa said, “But if you don’t win the money, whose mother's gonna get it?”) This is followed by the curiously related, “I’m the biggest, baddest motherfucker here.” Miss XaXa groaned, “Didn’t The Sopranos end last Sunday?”

Joey drives home the point by giving us a syllogism that would have made Descartes proud, “I’m from New York; I come to kick ass.” No, Joey, you come to perpetuate stereotypes about Italian-Americans on television. Judge Ted Allen told an interviewer that Joey earned the nickname, “Joey Pickles,” which is as good in its way as Paulie Walnuts (and not as pungent as Miss XaXa’s suggestion, “Joey No-Neck”), so Joey Pickles it is.

And here comes Dale Levitski, the beefy, fauxhawked, po-mo homo from Chicago. We’re quite certain about the “homo” part, but we have sketchier evidence for the “po-mo” part, mostly those mirrored aviator sunglasses, the epitome of 1970s gay clone culture. We’d have to confirm it with Edmund White (He Who Was There), but we think Dale is wearing them ironically, which is enough for “post-modern” status (though we have doubts about the Dickensian urchin outfit he wears in the kitchen later). Mostly, we’re just happy there’s a Gay on here.

And riding along we find Tre Wilcox of Dallas, who loses no time in telling us that he has “a tattoo on [his] body” (where else?) that says, “You gotta have passion.” (However, when see the inside of his forearm, the actual text of the tattoo is the broader, “Gotta have passion,” which is significant because that makes it more of a personal reminder, more a metaphysical Post-It to oneself than a broader injunction to the world at large.)

Now, we like Tre and, as the episode shows, he’s a talented chef, but we call “merde” on his tattoo, which looks like it was done with a ballpoint pen by a fifth grader. Not that we’re suggesting he should have gotten a rose on his ankle, but something better than an item on a grocery list of platitudes. Did the tribes of the South Pacific invent tattooing so that it could end up as the equivalent of those one-word motivational office posters, the ones that say “Teamwork” or “Perseverance” and illustrate the concept with dolphins or canoes? If you’re going to risk not being buried in a Jewish cemetery, shouldn’t it be for something really good?

There’s a rendez-vous at Casa Casuarina, the former home of Gianni Versace, also known as the Gays’ own School Book Depository. The cheftestants blithely, even callously, step across the spot where the man who put Elizabeth Hurley in safety pins (sob) was assassinated (sob) by gay serial killer Andrew Cunanan (sob). The least Raggaydy Andy and Bravo could do would be to spring for a commemorative plaque.

Most blithe is potential Great Gay Hope and Potentially Gay Asian Villain-in-the-Making Hung Huynh, who starts subverting stereotypes right away, declaring, “I am not Zen in the kitchen.” It’s like a PSA with the recommended daily amount of liberal guilt; it makes you think, Hmmm, did I automatically assume he would be Zen in the kitchen because he’s Asian?

Our consciousness felt immediately raised, especially when Hung announced that for about a year he has been labeled a “CPA,” or Certified Professional Asshole. “It’s only been a year?” asked Miss XaXa. “No wonder it seems so fake.”

We reminded Miss XaXa that he was, once again, subverting stereotypes about Asians being good at math, and that she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt, as perhaps he used to be an amateur asshole before, but is now being paid and has had his assholery certified, and if that isn’t the American dream, to get paid for what you do well, then what is?

Even our favorite new lesbian, Sandee Birdsong, who hails from Miss XaXa’s former stomping grounds on Saint Simons Island and who should know better, gaily traverses across Gianni-hallowed ground and into a reception area, where, as the closed captioning tells us, “soft jazz music” is playing and the other cheftestants await.

Breaking News: 28th Most Beautiful Lady in the World Officially Earns the “Lady” Part of Her Title

Possums, we have received word from across the pond that, in the immortal words of Tom Jones, “she’s a lady, whoa, whoa, whoa, she’s a lady.”

Yes, indeed. With the announcement that Salman Rushdie has received a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth II as part of the Queen’s Birthday Honours List, Padma Lakshmi, as the wife of Sir Salman Rushdie, may now henceforth be called Lady Rushdie.

Unfortunately for our Padma, at least according to Wikipedia, she, as the wife of a knight, is “officially styled Lady [Rushdie] as a courtesy title only.” This is of little importance, of course, for, as Padma’s own website reminded us last year, “Padma is the 28th most beautiful lady in the world! That is, according to England-based Harpers and Queen.”

And that’s no courtesy title. Congratulations, Lady Rushdie.

However, do be careful, possums, when addressing her. As she told Esquire in 2006 for the “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women” feature, “We don’t think it’s cute to be referred to as ‘the little lady.’”

My Abalone Has a First Name

And it ain’t Tom.

Now, we should preface this, possums, by saying that we admire and respect Tom Colicchio. He’s knowledgeable as hell, and, based on his blog, he’s undeniably the best writer on the judging panel, except, perhaps, for Anthony Bourdain.

This is why we were so baffled during the premiere to hear Chef Colicchio repeatedly pronounce “abalone” as “a-ba-lawn.” We checked a few dictionaries (Random House, Merriam Webster, American Heritage) and we didn’t find this pronunciation.

And so, of course, we wondered, Have we found this season’s lychee? (The “LEE-chee”/“LIE-chee” debate went on for several weeks last season after Otto Borsich left.)

So we’re not saying Chef Colicchio’s pronunciation is baloney, but can any of you, possums, help dispel the mists of “a-ba-lawn”?

Or is Tom Colicchio led astray
Just like P-A-D-M-A?

Hung Jury Still Out

As you know all too well, possums, Bravo’s self-promotion is relentless.

But during Wednesday night’s premiere of Top Chef, it seemed that the promos for Kathy Griffin’s show were coming at the rate of one every other minute (we surmise even the Cubans don’t have to put up with that much Fidel on their televisores). As such, we think Miss XaXa can be forgiven for channeling Bravo’s seemingly new Fearless Leader halfway through the TC3 premiere and yelling the party slogan, “Where are my Gays?!”

Ubi sunt her Gays indeed. Hell, where are ours?

Not that she’s fickle, but Miss XaXa pressed the point, “Where is my Carlos for this season?”

It made us check and replace the batteries on our gaydar, for we heard only the faintest twittering during the show. No immediate sexual tension, no knives-as-phalluses metaphors, no bunkbeds (though that hot-tub does bring with it the hope of a new Mike-Melissa-and-Flora thing, but if we were you, we wouldn’t admit to getting that allusion).

(Yes, of course, there is Dale, he of the faux fauxhawk, but if you recall our screeds on the hermeneutics of homo hair from last season with respect to Marcel and Ilan, you will understand our dismay at the fauxhawk as a gay signifier. As Miss XaXa put it, “I mean, is it ‘cause he’s from Chicago?” And don’t even get us started on the whole Dickensian urchin look he sported during the Elimination Challenge, with those Oliver Twist manpris and boot-things. We’re all for “food, glorious food,” but how can you “consider yourself a [Gay], consider yourself one of the family”?)

Does that mean, then, that Hung might just be our Great Gay Hope?

(Mind you, we’re not discounting Sandee as a possibility for this season’s Josie, down to the twee ‘50s first names. Though her Bravo bio doesn’t say anything on the subject as such, the four people for whom she wants to cook a meal are Angelina Jolie, Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, and Anna Nicole Smith. As Miss XaXa says, “I mean, come on.” So you have Jenny Shimizu’s ex-girlfriend, the stars of Susie Bright-approved, cult lesbian criminal sex romp Bound, and Anna Nicole Smith. Alright, we’ll give you Anna Nicole Smith, but, really, come on. But, again, even if it’s true, we are distressed by the fauxhawk. Hedi Slimane, what hast thou wrought?)

Now let’s talk about Hung for a moment. As we’ve complained in the past, Bravo breezily traffics in stereotypes, both good and bad (don’t get us started on the whole “spicy Latin” thing; we got a cramp when we heard the Bravo announcer on one of the promos say, like some drunken frat boy, “Moo-ee caw-lee-en-tay”). But there’s something altogether admirable about Hung so wholeheartedly embracing the stereotype of the (Potentially Gay) Asian Villain. He says as much himself.

Having just finished The Book of Salt, Monique Truong’s rather splendid novel about a gay Vietnamese chef who cooked for Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, we were looking forward to Hung as a gay Vietnamese chef who, well, you get the point (though in his case, the novel would probably be called The Book of Vinegar).

And yet, vinegary as he is, Hung still lacks something in the villainy department. We admire the way Hung playfully subverted the whole Asians-are-good-at-math stereotype by saying he is a “CPA…[beat]…Certified Professional Asshole,” but there was something a little forced in the quip. An asshole is usually just an asshole, and it takes more than monomania to make a good villain. It’s a question of style.

Take last season’s Marcel Vigneron, for example, whom Hung knows. Though we in the end concluded that Marcel is not gay, he was the superior Gay Villain. (As for Ilan….)

Of course, we have our doubts about Hung. Miss XaXa convincingly argues that no gay man would call himself “Hung”—too much pressure—and would instead have changed his name to “Jimmy” or “Ken.” It’s a powerful argument, though we note that Hung also has a little fauxhawk thing going on, throwing us further into despair.

Look, Hung, possum, it’s like this. We want you to succeed. We want you to achieve your villainous goal. And we think you could benefit from a little instruction. Let us tell you a story.

Recently we picked up an old magazine that had a piece on the actress Gong Li and her first English-language role as Hatsumomo, the bitch goddess villainess in gay Rob Marshall’s version of Memoirs of a Geisha. According to the piece, when Gong Li did her first scene with the child actress who was to play her nemesis, Gong Li had only to look at her and the child started crying. In fact, she couldn’t stop crying and had to be replaced. Gong Li didn’t have to say a word; all it took was a look. Now, that’s how you play (Potentially Gay) Asian Villain.

So we ask you, Hung, please, take a tip or two from Gong Li, if only so that we can make “Hatsuhomo” and Memoirs of a Gay Chef puns.

But regardless of what stereotype you want to embrace—whether you want to be known as Hung the Merciless or as Hatsuhomo—we support your endeavor. (If we were you, we’d start by burning the hat that the Vince Vaughn wannabe from San Diego is always wearing; trust us, it’s what Gong Li would do.)

First Reaction: Fried or (Half) Baked?

Oh, possums, just when she was doing so well....

Watching Top Chef: 4 Star All Stars (surprisingly, it was not subtitled, “The Grudge”), we were paralyzed for many reasons (about which we will have much more to say later). But it was the 28th Most Beautiful Lady in the World, Padma Lakshmi, who gave us the biggest jolt of botulinum.

Her hair looked good. Her clothes were sexy but tasteful—the black polka dot dress looked good, the pants ensemble looked good, the cinnamon-colored dress looked good. Heck, even her scar looked good. No hot pants, Ugg boots, or shearling vests in sight.

Our unfurrowed brow began to furrow.

And then she corrected Marcel’s pronunciation of “gelée,” just as we were in mid-wince after hearing “jell-EE.”

Aghast, the twin figures of Henry Higgins and Mr. Blackwell, who daily battle for such scraps of our soul as remain, stood mute.

Would there be anything for us to do on Season 3? Would we have to retire? Would we be perennially doomed to sweetness and light?

Fortunately (for us, at least), last night’s premiere of Season 3 revealed that there is, indeed, a reason for us to go on living. You ought to have seen the grin of relief on our basement-dweller faces, possums, as she mispronounced “amuse-bouche” yet again. Ah-MOOZE? That’s nooze to us.

And then, of course, she went on to utter the immortal line of the night, “You could fry my toe, and batter it well, and it would taste good.”

Though Tom Colicchio rolled his eyes, we positively purred. We may well have cackled. Miss XaXa, momentarily lulled into compassion by the booze, pleaded, “Come on, give her a break. She’s still making progress.”

Remembering those hot pants from last season, we had to concur. From camel-toe to fried toe is quite a journey indeed.

Is it any wonder she married the man who wrote The Ground Beneath Her Feet? (We will have much more to say about this as well; here and now we call Top Chef 3, “The Foot Fetishist’s Season.”)

Still, Padma, fried or baked, we’ve missed you, possum. Welcome back. And to you, possums, we say, as our other theme for the season, “Welcome to Meowmi.”

P.S. Regular posting will follow, including a full-fledged, Amuse-Biatch recap.