Top Chef: Masters and Margaritaville

Possums, it is with the sanity of bloggers as with Roquefort cheese—it’s a goodly spell in a nice, dark cave that does the trick.

In our case, you have only to imagine the salutary effects of 90-odd (and 90 odd) days with nary a thought about His Bearness or, um, Her Highness. Week upon glorious week neither knowing nor caring about Padma’s apartment, her burger commercial, or her wearing of silk charmeuse without a bra on noticeably cold nights at public events.

Day upon day unfolding without ever having to hear the phrase “throw under the bus,” or ponder the ominous portent of scallops, or come up with ursine metaphors, or decipher the semiotics of fauxhawks and t-shirts obviously chosen to attract attention.

Night upon night of sleep undisturbed by dark dreams of Bravo conspiracies bearing the suffix “-gate.” Rien de rien, possums.

By the end, we had very nearly returned to our customary, half-human state.

And then it occurred.

Suckling at the teat of cable television one afternoon, we landed on an oh-so-alliterative Food Network show titled Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives, hosted by preposterously peroxided putz Guy Fieri. Normally, we are as allergic to him as he is to long trousers and intellectual depth. Indeed, chez Amuse-Biatch the show is referred to as Douchebag, Dipshit, and Dumbass. This time, though, we cocked our head and said aloud to ourselves, “You know, he’s kind of charming.”

The Patsy Stone-like scream from Miss XaXa was blood-curdling. We cannot say whether it was “No, Eddie, nooooo!” or “No, Charlus, nooooo!” we heard before we lost consciousness. It was not sal volatile or booze that brought us round, but, rather, Miss XaXa’s perfectly manicured nails digging into our neck as she dragged us by the scruff to where our laptop lay in desuetude. “That’s it!” she kept saying, “Vacation over! It’s time!”

So, yes, possums, we are back to the venom, vim, and vitriol of the internet, and we will be blogging the bejeezus out of Top Chef: Masters. The show premieres Wednesday, June 10, at 10 p.m.

Uxorious Dominican Wallflower Alex Eusebio: Pushy Bridezilla Chanteuse with Show Biz Aspirations Made Me Go on “Top Chef”!

Possums, what a cringe-inducing episode that was last week (and we’re not even counting Anita Bryant’s shrimp-spitting handmaiden).

We nearly clawed the antimacassars to bits while Alex Eusebio wept as he read Richard Sweeney’s letter (handwritten on lined notebook paper, like a note written in third-period algebra class and folded inside a Pee Chee folder; as Miss XaXa put it, “I bet Richard was the guy in high school who filled the entire page when you gave him your yearbook to sign”).

Good God, not since Arthur Hallam and Tennyson and In Memoriam has there been such a display:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Believe us, possums, we understand Alex’s sorrow. We really do. Indeed, it has taken us fully two weeks to process our grief (or, as Tennyson put it, for our “widowed race [to] be run.”)

Of course, it wasn’t always that way.

On the season’s inaugural episode, Richard had this to say of Tom Colicchio: “I think Tom’s really cute. And he’s got great eyes. He’s a cutie, what can I say? I’d buy him a drink if I saw him in the bar. Hell, I’d buy ‘im three.”

Naturally, our first, rather hotted up, reaction to that was: PAWS OFF, BITCH!!

But then, as we saw and heard more of him, how could we help but be smitten? He radiated likeability, and—at the risk of sounding like Sandra Dee—he was dreamy. Just look at him, possums.

He became our favorite gay ever on Top Chef (for Miss XaXa, he was second only to Season 2’s Carlos Fernandez). We found out from Bravo’s website that he had a boyfriend, and an adorable one at that.

But then we happened across his *public* profile on BigMuscleBears.com, a website to which we once said Tom Colicchio ought to belong, and there we found hope.

To wit, Richard’s own words: “So, gots me a great guy now. But don’t get me wrong -- still out hunting for trouble, just no strings attached! we sometimes play together -- hey, who says three (or more?) is a crowd?!?!”

Well, if that’s the case, then we can all aspire to be a graham cracker (not the marshmallow) in that particular banana ‘Smore. Huzzah!

Alright, sure, so he’s not the next Alain Ducasse. Still, he’s off the market but not off the table. He’s really cute, and he’s got great eyes. He’s a cutie, what can we say? And furthermore, he quips like dream and is Mr. Nice Gay. Possums, what’s not to love?

So yes, we understood all too well Alex’s sorrow. And still we cringed when we saw him weep and, just like in high school, be comforted by the misfits—the lesbian and the tall, gawky black girl.

We cringed even more when we came across this bit from Alex’s interview with YumSugar:

My wife is the one who forced me to go on the show. I really didn't want to be on the show. I don't like being a public guy. She was like, “you have to do it, I will take care of the wedding.”

(He also told our pals at Grub Street, “My wife, a singer, wants to go back on Broadway, so we might go to New York!”)

But what do you want, Alex?

Miss XaXa urged us to take a gander at the video of Alex’s entrance into the sequester house. “Look how comfortable he looks.”

We had to inquire, “Are you saying marriage isn’t for him?”

Miss XaXa gave voice to her customary Delphic wisdom, “Alex, hon, if you’re gonna be pecked, wouldn’t you prefer a cock to a hen?”

She was referring, it need hardly be said, to poultry and poultry alone.

So there you have it; the wifey made him do it, and he didn’t stand up to her. In symbolism so hackneyed and obvious that we would have scoffed had we found it in a novel, Alex went out the same way he went in: a rose-scented custard that couldn’t be firm.

News from the Department of Now-We’ve-Heard-Everything: An Eric Ripert-Catered “Top Chef” Bat Mitzvah

Fish man and panty-dropper (redundant?) par excellence, sometime Top Chef guest judge Eric Ripert is visiting our fair shores while on a book tour. Our pal Lesley of Eater LA and Betty Hallock at the bankrupt L.A. Times both snagged interviews with Coquille St. Jacques the Ripert, and collected the French-accented pearls that fell from his pillowy, piscine lips. One bit from the Times interview left us just a teensy bit gobsmacked:

One guy rented out the entire restaurant for his daughter's bat mitzvah. His daughter is a big fan of "Top Chef" and we set her party up like the show. He flew in a chef from an obscure restaurant in Maryland and we did crab cakes. There were 15 girls on my team and 15 girls on his team. His crab cakes were phenomenal. He kicked my .... !

Miss XaXa’s first reaction: “Eric Ripert gave crabs to 15 teenaged girls?”

“They were probably Reform,” we tried to reassure her, not bothering to clarify the antecedent.

What struck us, aside from the whole Gilded Age excess of the thing (and which now seems so long ago), was Ms. Hallock’s delicacy. Go on, Betty; surely on the day that parent company Tribune filed for bankruptcy protection you can allow yourself a tiny three-letter word.

Besides, what with Ripert’s melted-Échiré-butter accent, it likely wasn’t even “ass.” Rather, we suspect he said, “aws,” or maybe “ahs,” as in oohs and ahs (or is it ooze and ahs?)

As it is, we can’t wait for the episode that will feature Ripert and Fabio Viviani going acento a acento in the lambent interior of Le Bernardin. Viewers will swoon, and knickers will fly.

Amuse-Biatch Queery of the Week

As per Miss XaXa’s musings, “I thought Hosea Rosenberg was Jewish. These look, um, European.”

Report from the Trencher

On Saturday night, Miss XaXa, much like Marie Antoinette, girded her loins, stepped into her peep-toe Mary Janes, and headed for The Chopping Block. Fortunately, possums, she lived to tell us all about it.

The Chopping Block played host to a Top Chef cook-off between Season 3’s Dale Levitski and Season 2’s Josie Smith-Malave, with Ted Allen as a judge and Nick Verreos of Project Runway as master of ceremonies (Joel Grey has nothing on him). The cook-off was a fundraiser for a charity that is near and dear to our hearts, the Gender Public Advocacy Coalition, an organization devoted to ensuring that classrooms and workplaces are safe for people who don’t conform to gender type—and so that middle school boys don’t get murdered by their classmates.

Uncle Ted was impossibly svelte—wait, this man is a food critic?—and looked as though he’d just come from the spa. Uncle Nick had flawless skin—in fact, as Miss XaXa put it, “Bitch [the highest compliment we can pay] had the best skin of any man I’ve seen.” She suspects it’s that unbeatable genetic combo of Greek and Venezuelan ancestry, but we’re convinced there has to be more and want to know the name of the brujo who does his limpias, or the location of the pool where he does laps in Crème de la Mer. Josie was, as Miss XaXa, related, “a blast! Television did not do that woman justice.” As for Dale, you know all too well, possums, that we campaigned and lobbied for Dale as fan favorite, and dammit, he wuz robbed. We’re looking forward to trying his restaurant when it opens in Chicago, and for the record, he’s even brawnier and hunkier in the very solid flesh. As you can see from the pictures, a very good time indeed was had by all, and the entire evening was GenderPACked with fun.

Miss XaXa Wuz Definitely Not Robbed

Ted Allen and Miss XaXa Do Their Best to Mock Lindsay Lohan and Vanessa Minnillo

Josie Smith-Malave Has a XaXa Lesson

Miss XaXa Marks Her Man

A special thanks from Miss XaXa to Mark (pictured above with Ted Allen) for his chivalry and solicitude at the GenderPAC cook-off. Like many another blossom of the South created in the hothouse imagination of gay men, Miss XaXa has been known to depend on the kindness of strangers. Mark proved very kind indeed, squiring Miss XaXa around the reception and serving as her paparazzo. Smooches, Mark!

Ted Allen: “I’ll Cut You, Biatch!”

Our Miss XaXa cleaves to the ever-delightful Uncle Ted Allen at last night's Gender Public Advocacy Coalition event at the Chopping Block in Chicago. Details and loads more photographs to come.

The Lisa Effect: Miss XaXa Turns the Other Cheek

Oh possums, and here she thought she was just going to be called fat.

Yes, indeedy, possums, Miss XaXa has discovered that she has a fan:

Dear Miss Xa Xa [sic],

I think that you should stay away from the Louboutins and save you [sic] money for an updated timepiece. You might also want to add a little color to your wardrobe and not shop the sale rack at White House Black Market for a while (black and white blouse-always v-neck-just [sic] a [sic] ever so slightly diffrent [sic] pattern). Oh darling, I almost forgot- how about updating the coiffer [sic]. Good luck- I hope to see some improvements soon. Chow! [sic]

Oh, possums, to be “read” by someone who appears functionally illiterate—the horror, the horror!

And where to start? First, a word about the “timepiece.” Miss XaXa celebrated her fortieth birthday in April, and ‘twas yours truly, possums, who in April sprang for that pricey little ‘piece as a suitable commemoration of the achievement. And now to be told, a mere two months later, that the time has run on the “timepiece”—the horror, the horror!

Of course, Miss XaXa was in hysterics—of the good kind, possums—at the realization that at least it’s a White House / Black Market employee doing the dissing. “D’you think I could use her employee discount?” she asked in between hiccups and sobs. You see, it was the very fact that she hadn’t got her outfit on sale that was most galling to the ‘Xa. The ‘ Xa is an equal-opportunity shopper and loves herself a bargain, and so the idea that just two weeks ago she paid full price at White House / Black Market for the dress is the worst insult of all. “D’you think I could get the difference back? I’d take a gift card.”

(And here we thought that “White House Black Market” had something to do with yellowcake uranium and 16 words; oh well, “diffrent” strokes for “diffrent” folks.)

One thing does puzzle us, though. What on earth is a “coiffer”? Is that like a fluffer? If so, we must get ourselves one immediately.

Oh, and while we’re at it, we should mention that the photos accompanying this post should also be considered responses to the possum who asked for XaXa cleavage and to the possum who worried that, since she never sees the dark side of the moon (i.e., Miss XaXa’s right side), Miss XaXa might be starring in her own version of the Joan Crawford weepie, A Woman’s Face. Think of it as Amuse-Biatch turning the other cheek, just for once.

UPDATE: Michelle Obama defends Miss XaXa. Watch at the 12:40 mark as Mrs. Obama confesses to getting her dress, fittingly (and fittedly) enough, from White House / Black Market.

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: There's a First Time for Everything*

*by which we mean, possums, not just that Stephanie Izard is the first female Top Chef, but, rather, that for the first time in memory, while taking a photo with a cheftestant, Miss XaXa did not show cleavage. (And sorry, Google pervs, Stephanie didn't show any cleavage either.)

At the reception in her honor, held a few hours ago at Chicago's Le Passage, Stephanie Izard proved as charming, earthy, and unaffected in person as she appeared onscreen. Rather than manifest abject terror when faced with one half of Amuse-Biatch, Stephanie got into the swing of things and had a good dish with the 'Xa. (Mind you, the 'Xa had been rendered perfectly harmless by two (or three?) of the Stephanie-created rhubarb bellinis.)

Unbeknownst to Him, Mario Batali Finds Himself in the Clutches and the Cleavage of a Food Blogger

Miss XaXa with Molto Mario himself, at last night's book signing in the Chicago area.


From Mario's disquisition in Eater.com, "Why I Hate Food Bloggers":

I do not really HATE anything or anybody, it takes too much energy to hate, and I would rather dog someone/thing sotto voce to the large audience than spend a lot of time hating them/it. But blogs live by different rules. Many of the anonymous authors who vent on blogs rant their snarky vituperatives from behind the smoky curtain of the web.

Uh, er, uh, er....

Amuse-Biatch Answers Possum Query #2

Another possum wrote in to ask, "Where did Miss XaXa get her name?"

And here are Eartha Kitt & Bronski Beat to answer the question.

Amuse-Biatch Asks Raggaydy Andy, Ever So Gently and with Great Concern, “Is There Anything You’d Like to Tell Us?”

Possums, have you ever been present when someone says something that makes you feel as though you walked in on them while they were wearing a Freudian slip and garter belt and had an open can of Crisco on the Jungian nightstand of their subconscious?

That is just how we felt when we read today's installment of Andy Cohen's blog:

Chris Hanson, the "To Catch a Predator" dude, interviewed me yesterday in my office about a piece he's doing about pervy TV executives. Just joshing, it's about a reality TV scam artist. Though I knew the topic, when I was sitting there across from him I was pretty sure I was going to get busted for something and that I would be escorted out of my office momentarily after the interview. I'm not guilty, I swear.

Raggaydy Andy, possum, qu'est-ce que c'est? You can tell us, go on. Of course, the mind boggles, but we wouldn't so much as blink if we heard an anecdote involving René Fris, the leftover ingredients from a Quickfire Challenge, and Michael Kors' shades. We promise.

On the other hand, as Miss XaXa put it, "I'd feel guilty, too, if I'd been caught wearing those shoes with that suit on The Real Housewives of New York reunion show."