Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: Prissy Sweater-Gay Saveurs the Memory of His Own Wedding Night

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: Ah, Lesbians and Their Power Tools!

‘Biatch-Slapped: Gael Greene v. Jimmy Bradley

Well, possums, there seem to be so many spats and meow moments that we figured we might as well gawk, and so we inaugurate a new feature, ‘Biatch-Slapped, wherein we’ll briefly examine and rate these catfights.

First up, it’s “Insatiable” Gael Greene v. Top Chef Masters contestant Jimmy “I have oldness” Bradley.

In the New York Times story on his wedding last year, Bradley said of himself that he is a “self-made chef and restaurateur.” And just last week, the Times restaurant critic, Sam Sifton, also referred to Bradley as a “chef.”

On her Bravo blog, however, Gael Greene begs to differ, saying that Jimmy Bradley “is popular and very successful as owner and creator of Red Cat and the Harrison in Tribeca, but is not really a chef” (emphasis added).

Jimmy Bradley, you've been Biatch-Slapped! We give it three meows out of a possible five. What say ye, possums?

(By the way, if, like us, you were bemused and crinkle-browed by Jimmy Bradley quoting Coco Chanel on last week’s episode, the Times wedding story will clear you right up. Bradley’s 11-years-younger bride is “the fashion merchandising director for Lucky, the Condé Nast magazine,” so he must have learnt the apocryphal Chanel quote at home. Interestingly enough, the first impression the future Mrs. Bradley had of the chef was of “this gray-haired man, smelling like a dirty hippie with his patchouli oil and kitchen grease.” Ah, l’amour, toujours l’amour!)

The Bravery of Synergy

First, possums, may we say just one thing?

When, on the premiere episode of this season of Top Chef Masters, Kelly Choi announced that the band The Bravery would be judging the Quickfire Challenge, and Tony Mantuano allowed as how he had some songs by them on his iPod, we heard but one voice in our head.

It was our heavily accented mother, gimlet eye coming through the accent as she said, “Bool cheet.” Miss XaXa’s response was a more measured, “Yeah, right,” in reaction to which we tamped down our inner mother and said, “Pull the other leg; it’s got bells on it.”

Were we like Jill Zarin, we would immediately have demanded that Mantuano pull out his iPod for inspection. Fortunately, we are not like Jill Zarin, or maybe not entirely, for we did smell a fiery-Cheeto rat.

Why, possums, why would this particular band be called upon? With the Foo Fighters on Top Chef there was at least the excuse that they were fans of the show. The excuse here was that one band member has a culinary degree, a connection that is, shall we say, tenuous at best. (In our research, we discovered, as per Wikipedia, that a couple of the band members went to Vassar, and our eyes widened. We remembered a couple of galpals in college who had boyfriends attending Vassar, and oh the stories we heard! The theory was that it had something to do with the pressure of attending a former women’s college, the first of the Seven Sisters; how else to explain the crying jags and the penchant for cucumbers in intimate situations? And The Bravery do have lesbian haircuts and a song called “Hate Fuck.” But we digress.)

Possums, the fact of the matter is that The Bravery’s record label is Island Def Jam, which is owned by Universal Music Group. “Wait,” said Miss XaXa, her voice quivering with rapidly dying innocence, “Universal, as in NBC Universal, which is the parent company of…”

Yes, possum, Bravo.

We were shocked, shocked, nay, even gobsmacked. Who knew you could buy synergy at the gas station?

It’s right next to the pork rinds, we were informed by the gas station attendant. When we asked him, “Well, wouldn’t some kind of disclosure about The Bravery have been nice?,” the attendant only laughed and asked if we wanted our car washed.

So, Chef Mantuano, politeness and go-along-to-get-along-ness and Countless LuAnn good manners are all well and good, but what would you have done if Justin Bieber were the guest judge? Hmmmm? Consider yourself pardoned but narrowly escaped.

Oh wait, never mind. Justin Bieber is also part of Island Def Jam. Carry on, Chef Mantuano, carry on.

Why Gael Greene Is Disqualified from Judging the First Episode of Top Chef Masters, or, Indeed, Anything Else Ever Again

Possums, fear not. We’ll get to our impressions of, and reactions to, the first episode of Season 2 of Top Chef Masters in two shakes of a lamb carpaccio’s tail, but we simply could not go on without getting this off our chest.

Well, more like getting this unstuck from our craw, where it has lain for a few weeks since we read this account of Judge Gael Greene’s date night, er, morning, on her Twitter feed.

Ah, yes, that renowned romantic masterpiece Precious…. You know, possums, the one that features—in no particular order of tribulation—incest-rape, teenage pregnancy, Down syndrome, illiteracy, morbid obesity, poverty, colorism, AIDS, and Mariah Carey.

Or, as Miss XaXa so pithily put it, “Gael, girl, that’s just naaasty.”

Mercifully, the tweet does not contain sufficient temporal clues to determine whether the necking took place during or after the watching of the film. Frankly, there’s not much of a choice between the two, for either you were inspired to neck by the film, or the film wasn’t repellent enough to put you off your necking. (As for the culinary accompaniment to a viewing of Precious, surely salad is a little unimaginative, given that pig’s feet, bacon, and fried chicken make memorable appearances in the film.)

Now, if that is the Insatiable Gourmet’s idea of a date night (or date morning), we submit that she is not the right person to judge a challenge designed around the proper meal to accompany a first date. Indeed, we would question her very aesthetic bona fides. Sure, we know from her autobiographical tales of the Elvis-bagging days of yore that she’s a freak bitch, baby, but is this a freak too far?

What say you, possums? Are we not giving a fair shake to the kooky, oversexed, milliner’s wet dream of a great-aunt?

Unpacking the Story of a Much-Needed Lobe-otomy

Well, possums, it was quite a night for Mexican food in the world of Top Chef.

On the plus side, un gringo bien chingón, Rick Bayless, won Top Chef Masters with his rendition of the Oaxacan black mole. (We’ll savor the victory for a few days before ungratefully discussing just how patronizing the franchise’s attitude to Mexican food seems to be.)

But before that, we had to suffer through an Allison Anders film, or perhaps the sequel to Quinceañera, in which tattooed chola Jennifer Zavala trotted out the cheapest and oldest of stereotypes—ay Dios mío, in the name of Lupe Vélez, I am such a Mexican spitfire—and further debased it by attempting to illustrate it with, of all things, a chile relleno.

Yes, mija, because when one thinks of spicy and fiery, it is of chiles rellenos that one thinks. As if.

Of course, she was doomed from the beginning. From the moment we saw her obscenely distended earlobes and the chest and neck tattoos (is she really “scarred” or just “scared” and saddled with a tattoo artist who can’t spell?), we had a squirming, exasperated, bourgeois reaction. This is the best representative of Mexican food the producers could find?

Matters weren’t helped by her prescient refusal to unpack her suitcase: “I’m not unpacking anything. I’m, like, very superstitious. I feel like it’s bad luck.”

Oh, how conveniently stereotypical, possum, but that’s not superstition; that’s low self-esteem. And look what happened—you got kicked off anyway, even though you didn’t unpack. So there you go; you can let go of that “superstition” now. Unless you did unpack. Well, didja?

As an extra narrative kick, we got the photo and story of her blue-eyed, güero kid whom she had intended for Harvard or Yale, which made her turn on Top Chef “not so much an opportunity; it’s more of a have-to.”

Well, Bravo, we hope you feel great for having kicked her off. Now, thanks to you, that kid is not going to Yale. And all we got was Stand and Deliver Bad Chiles Rellenos.

Amuse-Biatch and the Issue of Prejudgment Interest

Oh, possums, how our nonexistent little hearts have fluttered for weeks each time we heard the Bravo announcer jauntily intone, “From the producers of Top Chef….”

It’s just the sort of clarion call to which our hearts have previously responded. Indeed, who among us hasn’t experienced an expectant swoon upon hearing, “From the makers of Metamucil” or “From the producers of White Chicks”?

And so it is with great delight that we awoke today, knowing that tonight is the premiere of I’m a Celebrity Chef (I Wish!), Get Me Out There….

Ah, just a minute, possums, Miss XaXa is pointing to the press release and mouthing something. It appears the show is actually called Top Chef Masters.

Dang it, we think there ought to be a colon in there, the way there has been for Top Chef: Miami, etc. After all, without the colon, the show’s title seems redundant (if they’re top chefs, they’re also masters, n’est-ce pas?) or misleading (if they’re supposed to be the masters of Top Chef, then that arguably means only Harold Dieterle, (God spare us!) Ilan Hall, Hung Huyhn, Stephanie Izard, and, ahem, Hosea Rosenberg). And so, for as long as we’re blogging the show, we’re going to call it Top Chef: Masters. (See, possums? 90 days have not done away with our streak of pedantry.)

Not having seen the show, we will, for the next several hours, withhold judgment. We will admit, though, that there are troubling signs. The reviews we’ve read have focused on what a kinder, gentler version of Top Chef this is. No liquor, no bunk beds, no nookie, oy vey. Indeed, the New York Daily News refers to Top Chef: Masters as a “wade in the kiddie pool” (and means it as a compliment!). What has the world come to?

As for the replacements for Tommy, Pads, and the gang, well, we will know in due time (though we think it most unsporting and, again, potentially misleading, that the original teasers for Top Chef: Masters contained no indication that the Gang of Four would not be back in their roles). We will say this, though, based on the video below. Kelly “Padma Lite” Choi seems far too nice for the job. Dare we say we will miss the Pads, who can go from cannabimbo to ice princess in the flip of her Pantene’d locks? (Hey, we’re not knocking her Pantene gig; how else are you going to wash the smell of a Carl’s Jr. burger out of your hair?)


Apparently, Top Chef: Masters will be a “tournament-style” competition (we’re told by reliable jocks that this has something to do with the sports world) in which the 24 chefs (some of whom actually qualify for the title of “master”) will do their darnedest to score some scratch for charity while trying to prevent their (in some cases incipient) television careers from taking a hit. With that in mind, we have as of now established but one ground rule: We will not make fun of anyone’s chosen charity. Not, of course, because we’re incapable of it, but, rather, because who the hell wants to tickle the bony ankles of bad karma In Times Like These? As for everything else, it’s fair game. Gird your loins, luvs.

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.