If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire, my old house would have burnt down a last night around ten. Strange but not a stranger, Top Chef Las Vegas has entered into its golden dotage, the blossom before the burn. Padma's letting it all hang out and dammit if last night wasn't one of the most satisfying episodes of the season. Come on guys, let's head to the N Resort.
The Quickfire challenge was only okay: contestants were forced to cook a television dinner based on a show decided upon by the editors of T.V. Guide, which, apparently, has editors. Only two salient detail warrant mention: Mike Isabella—a font of bullshit, an oasis of crap, the Trevi Fountain of excreta, the Hanging Gardens of Assless Chaps—has never seen Seinfeld. Apparently he was too busy watching CSPAN and reading Kafka. No, he wasn't. Statistically, a recent study shows, he was most likely to be sitting on his couch, masturbating to cfnm porn in thirty second clips because he is afraid his mom would see if he paid for it. And he did this for years. Also, Padma Lakshmi likes onesies. No shame there. The lady simply can't be bothered with a skirt and a top. In this way, she's like Mick Jagger in Cocksucker Blues. That's not the only way she's like Mick Jagger in Cocksucker Blues, it turns out. But more on that later. To sum up: Kevin wins because Kevin wins and seems utterly nonplussed by winning a suite of Monogram appliances since they're kinda crap.
Onto the Elimination Challenge. It wasn't at the F Resort. Instead the happy crew would head to Tom's own restaurant, Craftsteak. They would shut the motherfucker down for one night and let these bunch of monkeys take over. I say monkeys because Mike looks look a bonobo, Jennifer looks like a patas monkey, Kevin is an adorable Spider Monkey, Robin is a red colobus, Eli is an orangutan, Bryan and Mike Voltaggio are both mandrills. [Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the Monkeyhole of the internet. It's so cute in there!] The menagerie go back to the primate enclosure to plan a menu featuring steaks. A bunch of fools. To assume they'd be cooking steak at a steakhouse in Top Chef's bizarro universe is as presumptuous an assumption as expecting that when you swipe your unlimited Metrocard you'll gain entry into the subway and not, as the turnstile turns and you through it, end up on the 30th floor of a tuna salad skyscraper.
The next morning as they rummage through the meat locker, Tom walks in all smiley-like. Behind trails a small human fetus with a wide smile and a beanie. It's Natalie Portman. "Hi, guys!" she says and cum gushes out of every orifice Mike Isabella owns. He cries cum tears and sweats cum sweat. From his gums, cum oozes down his teeth. Jennifer, who is standing near him, is visibly shaken. Portman mentions she's adventurous oh and also, she doesn't eat meat and all that meat they had picked out, they might as well slap back together with meat glue, reanimate and put out to pasture because they will be cooking hippie tonight. Fuck you very much Jonathan Safran Foer, for so many things at this point.
Every one scrambles and goes through the motions of feeling passionate about not cooking meat. It was very boring to watch, in my opinion. So instead I looked up Natalie Portman on IMDB which not only wasted time but reminded me that there are two types of people in this world: People Who Liked Garden State and People Who Didn't. I would be happy never to meet the latter again in my life because that movie was the worst. Zach Braff is a crime against humanity and the only thing Natalie Portman ever did that was okay was The Professional.
Padma mentions little pricks at the end of her tongue. Tom blushes. Salman Rushdie hits himself in his gigantic forehead and says, "That used to be my little prick!" Then he calls Cindy Adams.
Portman mentions that it is important to be able to cook vegetarian because she often goes into restaurants that don't offer vegetarian options and demands she is served and they have to do it because....she is famous/pretty/rich? All those things will fade, my friend. In a few years you'll go to Momofuku and demand tofu pork buns and David Chang will burst from the kitchen like some sort of avenging angel and shove pork belly down your gullet. And you'll be trying to scream, "LOOK ME UP ON IMDB! I'M SOMEBODY!" but you won't be able to pronounce your words and then you'll just be another sad fallen vegetarian from a Roald Dahl short story.
And now, I'm all out of juice, I've shot my wad too early to celebrate properly the passing of Mike Isabella, who didn't know leeks aren't proteins because he is stupid. I am happy he is gone and happy he is gone before Robin if only so, before he is led off to the shed, he is fully debased, his soul crushed and owned before his body is ground to dust. Mike Isabella, may you never show your face again. Robin Leventhal, may your contest end in defeat next week. Padma, may you never tire of little pricks on the tip of your tongue and may we never tire of you tasting them.
Thank you to Mike Byhoff who took a lot of time to get the laughs to line up.