Elia Aboumrad: Woman on Top

"It would be wonderful to be the Top Chef, as a woman."

--Elia Aboumrad Harfuch, fueling the Penelope Cruz fantasies of a legion of Googlers.

Would You Buy a House from This Man?

Michael "Beer Bong" Midgley's answer to hometown paper The Stockton Record on what he's up to these days:

"I'm selling real estate. And what I've actually been doing is cooking for people at open houses. (The sellers) are gone all day; and I put a little sauce on and it makes the house smell good. The market's tough out there; you've got to have something to give you an edge."

What Beer Bong's high school classmate, "itlngurl122," had to say:

“I think that he has really proven to not only the others on Top Chef, but everyone how wonderfully talented he is. I think that the show, at first, tried to show him as a just a funny guy or someone who doesn't take anything seriously...but Mike is much more than a funny guy. I have known Mike since high school and I think he has AMAZING talent especially for our age group. I think he should be honored for being a 28 year old Stocktonian that not only has Real Estate under his belt but has now made a name for himself….”

Stocktonian? So that's what they call 'em. Now we now.

Michael "Beer Bong" Midgley on Marcel Vigneron: "Pot" Meets Kettle

On the most recent episode of "Top Chef," we were distracted whenever Michael "Beer Bong" Midgley talked to the camera.

Mind you, it wasn't just his orange gingham shirt that distracted us, though it did make us think that in order for Beer Bong to wear that shirt, somewhere in Stockton, California, a diner was making do without curtains, or an Osterizer blender was shivering without its cozy atop someone's kitchen counter.

No, we were particularly distracted by his hair, which we had never seen so curly. We thought it unlikely that he had overindulged in the Jhirmack, and we were puzzled. And then it came to us in a flash.

Beer Bong's hair was extra curly after he was struck by lightning following this comment he made about Marcel Vigneron:

"He's, like, confused. He's 26 but sometimes I think he's, like, 16."

Yes, that's right, the 28-year-old "man" who sleeps with his "wife's" improbably small blue thong, who wasted his Elimination Challenge budget on beer, and who presented a Cheeto-and-Snickers phallus as a dish, is accusing Marcel of being juvenile and adolescent. Frankly, we're surprised the lightning bolt didn't fry him to a crisp.

We also had a good laugh when Beer Bong told the camera that he thought he would fit in linguistically with the surfers because "everyone always tells [him he] talk[s] like a surfer." Beer Bong, pet, though you're clearly the Socrates of Stockton, you may not have run across the term "euphemism" before. Basically, it's just means finding a nice way of saying something not so nice. It's not something we practice very often, but we recognize it when we see it. So when everyone tells you that you talk like a surfer, they don't really mean that. They mean that you talk like a stoner. See? Euphemism.

Wherein Amuse-Biatch Seeks Redemption for Lapse of Taste by Further Quotation of Samuel Johnson

"Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy."

"A man who exposes himself when he is intoxicated, has not the art of getting drunk."

"Wine makes a man more pleased with himself. I do not say that it makes him more pleasing to others."

"A cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing."

Rolled Oats in the Hay

This may be an appropriate time to remind you that, as our tagline says, Amuse-Biatch is devoted not only to "Top Chef," but to "other matters gustatory" as well. Which is actually rather a nice loophole, as it gives us license to cover anything having to do with taste, good and bad, food-related and not.

In that spirit, Amuse-Biatch is pleased to record what is clearly not the first encounter between oats and a Johnson.

As you may be aware, Samuel Johnson, noted English wit, lexicographer, provocateur and bon vivant, famously included this definition in his 1755 A Dictionary of the English Language : "OATS — A grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people. "

Now we learn, via California Lawyer magazine, that a "naked 69-year-old man who had covered himself in oats was cited for animal cruelty after sheriff's deputies found him at the La Purisima Mission in Lompoc[, California], letting horses lick him clean. The man reportedly told the deputies that this was a sexual fantasy of his and that he had driven up from Los Angeles to play it out."

There. We think that fits nicely through our loophole as being both food-related and in bad taste.

Amuse-Biatch Uncovers Evidence of a Padma Lakshmi Cover-Up

Yes, we admit, we are now making steak tartare out of the dead horse.

But really, how could we resist, when the week's two most hotly debated topics in the inner sanctum of the television alcove at Withering Depths come together like this?

Take a look at Padma Lakshmi Rushdie in the flesh-colored (sandalwood? café au lait? Earl-Grey-and-cream?) bikini, and tell us, Why didn't she appear on the broadcast episode like this?

Raggaydy Andy of Bravo approved the top, and it was used, so why not the bottom? (If you're playing along at home, insert easy joke here. Speaking of which, before this, we hadn't really noticed the bits and bobs hanging from her cleavage, and Miss XaXa couldn't resist the "Padma's serving curry with the fringe on top" joke, but we tsk-tsked in her direction.)

Instead, as we have noted, Padma threw on a denim mini, a shearling vest, a cardigan, and Ugg boots. Don't try to tell us it was because she was cold. Padma herself goes on ad nauseam in her blog about how they filmed during a Biblical heat wave in L.A. Even if she had suffered from the teensy morning chill of what we know as "June gloom" (weathermen in California rhyme as badly as the Beatniks), why would she appear in this picture, sans cardigan, sans mini, and avec poofter? It's not just her outfit that's out there; the truth is, too.

Confidential to Marcel: Standing next to a woman, even a near-naked woman, will not make you straight. Heterosexuality is not contagious, or airborne (though it may be in the air), nor is it passed through osmosis. Further, posting pictures of yourself standing next to a near-naked woman isn't particularly effective in convincing people that you're straight (we tried that at 'varsity, but it didn't fool our room-mates either).

Which brings us to the rhetorical question of the day. Why is it that Padma's pose is exactly 3.7 times more butch than Marcel's? There is a similar wanton exposure of the belly button (albeit with a treasure trail) and aggressive thrust of the belly, but the just-so opening of the chef's coat, the low-slung pants, the "you go, girl" hands on hips, the meringue-peaked, wind-tossed tresses, and the coyly extended left ankle suggest an intimate familiarity on Marcel's part with the advice and instruction of Tyra Banks and Miss J from America's Next Top Brady-Bunch Has-Been War Bride. He is clearly ready for the Cook's Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

(Village) People v. Marcel Vigneron: Prosecutor's Exhibit A

Fugg Boots Are Made for Walkin': "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" Edition

We may have many fetishes, but dead horse-beating isn't one of them.

Still, when, after being shot, the horse gets up and charges at you, nostrils flaring, cheap extensions in its tossing mane, what are you supposed to do if not reach for the Winchester '73 one more time?

Which is an oblique way of saying, Good God, why didn't anyone warn us? Raggaydy Andy Cohen of Bravo did put out a sort of Gay Surgeon General's Warning about Padma's bikini top, but no one said anything about how, to continue the horse metaphor, she would be shod.

We didn't notice it the first time, but... she's... wearing... Ugg boots! And that, possums, makes this a horse of a different color.

A reader and amateur semiotician had suggested that Padma's hodgepodge, Lindsay-Lohan-on-a-bender-at-Beyoncé's-house look was a cry for a help, a covert message to the world at large. We were skeptical at first, but the Ugg boots changed our mind.

After all, we reasoned, when it comes to wearing a bikini, Padma Lakshmi Rushdie can look like this.













So why on earth would she appear looking the way she did, echoing an underfed Jessica Simpson in the collective national embarrassment that was "The Dukes of Hazzard" (and which Miss XaXa, Southerner that she is, dubbed, ahem, "Puss in Boots")?

Naturally, we thought about burglar alarms. We had just heard that if a burglar comes upon you and tries to force his way inside your house, forcing you to disable the alarm, you can enter the alarm code backwards, which will indeed disable the alarm, but also send out a silent alert to the police, who, if you've picked the right ZIP code, paid your property taxes, and chosen the right skin color, will be there in a matter of minutes to rescue you.

So, we asked ourselves, could it be? Could Padma's bikini, 'do-rag and Ugg boots be a distress call, a giant sartorial Bat(ty) Signal launched into the darkening skies of basic cable?

We looked into the hanky code, trying to determine whether Padma was attempting to send secret messages through her choice of bandana. However, as we discovered, it makes a huge difference whether you think the bandana is "brown" or "sandalwood," a difference of the sort that we couldn't possibly print, even though we are a "family" publication (in that sly, Sly and the Family Stone sort of way).

(Still, if you'd like to know, e-mail us and we'll whisper it in your ear. And should any of you "don't ask, don't tell" Pentagon codebreakers, Lacanian grad students at Yale, or Umberto Eco disciples at the University of Bologna have any insights, please feel free to chime in.)

However, the more we looked at the original photograph, the more the conspiracy spun out. Look closely. Tom Colicchio, conscientious judge that he is, looks intently focused on the food. Gail Simmons, in her Gap gaucho capris (gaupris?), is distracted by guest chef Raphael Lunetta, he of the adorable "pott bellee" (as Maria de Medeiros pronounced it in Pulp Fiction), because really, who wouldn't be? And if Marcel couldn't resist him, why should Gail?

So....Tom, Gail, and Raphael are distracted. Now look at Padma. She's--could it be?--texting. She's seized her chance. Dear God, she's Sidekicking and screaming for help! How fast can she type "I'm a celebrity, get me out here!"? (Or was it something about Soylent Green and departed cheftestants?)

'Ray of Light' Pierces Amuse-Biatch's Dark Disco Night of the Soul

And no, for once we're not talking about Madonna's techno-flavored album.

As you may know, we've been most troubled since witnessing Marcel Vigneron's Immunity Dance. We spent a sleepless night, wringing our hands in their Borghese Moisture Restoring Gloves and shredding peacock feathers. How could we have been so wrong about Marcel? How could our gaydar lead us so far astray?

And then the voices of reason began to prevail. Reader (and self-avowed Gay) Laz cautioned caution--"let's not be hasty here." Both our pal Eric3000 and his Eric3001 reminded us that guest chef "Raphael [Lunetta] and Marcel are totally staring at each other like they are in love." Laz also pointed out that Marcel "was practically undressing guest chef Rafael with his eyes when he was declared the winner." Ms. Place, too, chimed in with practical Dutch wisdom.

Thus fortified, we reviewed the episode once more, and things began to pop out at us. The sisterly interpretative dance by the seashore, and Miss Elia Aboumrad's protectiveness of him on previous shows? We recognized it at once from high school. Why, of course, it was the "kooky, artsy girl protects fey fledgling homo from the bashing jocks until he realizes for himself that the pigskin bus should be pulling not into Tunatown but into Funkytown" scenario all over again. Elia is really acting in the best traditions of the Drosophila Sorority (darlings, we like our fruitflies to have their Latin tags).

And then there were Marcel's exchanges with the surfers, trying out his idea of "surfer" lingo, "brah" and "bro" and all the rest. Why, what was that, if not the classic "trying to butch it up by using the same words straight guys use"? And Marcel sounded just as convincing as all the other gay boys who try that. (Seriously, the next time a gay man greets us with, "'Sup, bro?", we are going to beat him senseless with his own Abercrombie & Fitch flipflop.)

And when we happened upon the above picture of Marcel's attempts to butch it up, the clouds parted and Madonna's "Ray of Light" began playing. Of the many sentiments to be read on his face, one was clear. We could tell he was a little sorry to be talking to the scrawny chap, and not to the other one, you know the one we mean, the one with the meaty pecs, the beau-laid proboscis, and perfect (if undersized) nipples. Yes, him, that's the one.

When we showed Miss XaXa the photograph, she said, "See? You had nothing to worry about." As she put it, "I don't know if what Marcel is doing with his hand is supposed to mean hang ten or hung 10", but it definitely involves digits. And with his pinkie up, it looks like he's drinking tea. And we all know what it means when you drink tea with your pinkie up.... "

"We do?" we asked rhetorically, hurriedly placing our Sèvres teacup on its saucer.

"You can ring my be-ee-ee-ee-ll, ring my bell," sang Miss XaXa in her sauciest Anita Ward imitation, wagging her pinkie at us.

And just like that, amidst much blushing, Amuse-Biatch's dark disco night of the soul came to an end.

Lettuce Entertain You or We'll Simply Croak