The contestants—idiot sheep people they are—were invited to go to rooftop. This caused confusion and hope. Blayne thought perhaps it was some exclusive celebrity and they had to go "rooftop style". Mariah Carey was mentioned by Korto. [BLAYNE WALKS LIKE A FUCKING KEEBLER ELF! WATCH VIDEO!] Even when they arrived at a parking garage, that sneaky bitch hope still filled their eyes with stars. They got on a freight elevator. Only Joe, the man from Detroit, remained unfazed. You could see in his eyes he'd been through this shit before. Anyway, Mariah Carey wasn't waiting for them. Only a fleet of affordable yet chic hybrid vehicles [NB: Saturn, please email me my car at joshua@joshuadavidstein.com".] They had to use car parts and upholstery to make their outfits.

To skip over the boring bits quickly: Keith, the whiny ex-Mormon, bitched, moaned. Terri made a shite Jeepers Creepers joke then rolled on the floor. Jor-El redeemed himself when he said, "Don't trust the bitch" referring to Terri and then flashing a false smile. Korto wove this fairly beautiful mod dress out of seatbelts. Everyone used seatbelts. Suede didn't use suede. Jor-El did. Cat Power stuffed her models panties and made a great dress. Stella calls her sidekick on a Sidekick. His name is RATBONES. He has an iron cross tattooed on his forearm and his motto is, "if you don't like it get the fuck outta here." Ok, ok, I'm on my way out.

On to Judgment Day. Is guest judge Rachel Zoe the Montauk Monster? Rachel Zoe from what I pull from the cultural ether, is a celebrity stylist for Lindsay Lohan and others who reportedly drugs her charges into skinniness. Is that fairly accurate? She's a girl-version of Blayne but brined, a deflated doll, a beige tarp thrown over a tower of bones all bungied together and animated by greed. One of those Godzilla dolls you get from Archie McPhee. She also has her own ill-fated show called the Rachel Zoe Project. From the flash of previews, it involves the small raisin woman yelling at other people and occasionally crying. She seems horrible. The show seems horrible. I bet she doesn't even drive a Saturn.

Keith's outfit was by far the worst. Stella's was also pretty bad but Keith's was just inexcusable. Of course he made excuses. He blamed the model for sitting down. He blamed the critics for not appreciating him enough. He was pissy on the runway. Of course he was eliminated. Most or our tireless live blog commenters seemed to agree with the choice. And they have impeccable taste, so sorry Keith. He left, muttering "no worries" through red eyes on his way back to SLC. The voice of reason last night belonged to 5 percenter Michael Kors who advocated personal responsibility. Rachel Zoe, a woman who perhaps could learn something about personal accountability, scowled like an uncomprehending demon. When the television lights were dimmed, the spark left her eyes too and a PA snuck up behind her, opened the rubber nipple and let out any remaining air.

Ethinicity also played a role in this episode. My first idea of it started when Ms. Shields told Korto who is from Liberia and who presented an impressive sketch, "The touch of ethnicity is delightful." That was curious and also true. Later, Korto snaps at that guy from Detroit for undermining her (which he did) in front of Tim Gunn. He furiously backpedals and tries consensus building. (Their garment, btw, was in my opinion, lovely.)

The moment of wonder: In a segment that was the most curious and also the most true of any statement ever made, Terri questioned whether Suede was packing balls or vajajay. She also noted that she doesn't have any children and that, therefore, no one should be sucking on her titties. (On the other hand, when the artist Peaches sang in a song, "Sucking on my titties like you wanted me," she presumably isn't talking to her infant.) This truly was delightful for Suede is a little whiny bitch.

Speaking of! Daniel, who I thought I liked, is a little whiny bitch too! When he's getting made fun of or criticized he adopts this look of helpless confusion like a little doggie woggie. He wore this face on the runway. His face says, "Me? Me? You're talking about me? I don't understand!" Kenley also scored some serious points for helplessly laughing when the little twerp reiterated that he had impeccable taste.

I also realized something about orange muppet Michael Kors. His face is never a reliable indicator of his inner life. You could tell him his kid died and there would still be that rictus frozen there. You could tell him he just won Crest Whitening strips, a lifetime supply, and that workmen had just finished installing a carrot juice fountain in his home (two of the things I bet would excite him most) and that smile wouldn't change. All you can judge from are his glazed over eyes which sometimes, if you look closely, are crying for help.

Still, balls or vajayjay!

Sure, you can call me out for having sour grapes. It would have been nice if my piece was as prophetic as the Follieri one before it. I had been operating on the premise that the SLA would follow the rule of law, one of the cornerstones of democracy. It is, after all, a premise upon which good governance rests. The equal and impartial application of laws, a government of laws and not of men is crucial to our democracy. As Montesqueieueie writes, "Law should be like death, which spares no one."

Sadly, after heartfelt pleas from the Post's Steve Cuozzo (with whom I work and whose work I generally admire), who claimed closing would "cost more than 1,000 jobs, leave our most iconic celebration spaces empty for the foreseeable future, and knock the fizz out of the city's culture of excess - the golden goose that keeps the talent-fleeing, jobs-hemorrhaging "Empire State" afloat." Substantively what he's saying is, "Well, even though Cipriani broke the law—laws which we, as a community, have voted on as necessary to safeguard public welfare—it would be too disruptive to actually enforce the laws." This is dangerous since it is the same logic that allows sitting heads of state who happen to be war criminals to escape prosecution, the same logic that allows powerful corporations to continue to burgle the public, that keep the rich and powerful and corrupt all of the above. It's disappointing Cuozz would make these bogus and dangerous claims. But it's shocking that Jeanique Green would act on them.

As Chris Shott reports in the Observer, Green explained her shit decision by saying she was concerned with "the impact of our decision on the individuals who are working there." This is myopic and wrong. By letting Cipriani escape unscathed and by seriously undermining the SLA, Green is sending a signal to other restaurateurs of substantial size that they too are above the law. Instead of worrying about Cipriani employees—something the Ciprianis don't do themselves—she should have been concerned at the precedent she's setting. She put a Band Aid on a cut and simultaneously shot herself—and her city—in the foot. What does she care? I'm sure Ms. Green is enjoying some complimentary bellini on the house.

The narrative arc of last night's episode have been exhaustively and episodically brilliantly covered by MisterHippity and his 882 twitching liveblogging fingers. The challenge was to take New York City as an inspiration. The contestants took wildly out-of-focus photographs of idiotic details we find in our fair city and then tried to render them in fabric to various degrees of OMFG That's Hideous, Get A Way From Me, You Monster Sewer.
It has been done before and is done every season and as always some poor fucks flounder. The loser this week, spoiler whatever, is that long-necked scary-eyed pseudo-hipster chick who made a black dress with day-glo puke ruffles on its front. Strangely, a model in a little black dress with day glo puke running down the front of it truly is a New York sight. Anyway, she got axed. But funnily, Blayne made almost exactly the same dress. His is on the left. Witness:


Anyway, at a later point in the show, Blayne puts Tim Gunn, who we all love in these parts (you should see where I'm pointing!) in the bad bad position of saying, "Holla atcha boy!" See, that's something that Blayne says because he's an idiot asshole. That's not something Tim Gunn should say because, after all, no idiot asshole is he. It made me feel bad like when I watched that video that a deeply immoral soul posted of his Grandmother watching 2 Girls 1 Cup. The dignity of the olds shouldn't be sacrificed for the pleasure of the young.

Let's face it: We all know Blayne is rotten to his carrot core. He's a bad egg. He's ugly cabinetry. He's a mediocre fool and what's worse than that? He's a gay little Gromit. He's bird poop straight from the cloaca. And when he says "Holla Atcha Boy" it makes me want to scream.

I was in a bind. It would be insulting to preemptively warn against spoiling. What kind of animal would even consider it? It's like walking down the street with a friend, seeing an old man with shiny shoes and bits of stubble where he missed while shaving, and sternly warning your companion, "Hey man, I don't know if you were going to do it but don't kick that guy in the dick." Would you really want to be friends with someone for whom that warning is necessary? On the other hand, the stakes are pretty high. Not only could this episode's dramatic tension be lost, but the thread for the next three episodes would be cut short too. This season five isn't strong enough to endure that. So I watched and ate Indian food in dread.

We watched models being interviewed. They had nothing to say. We wondered whether that cute designer from Portland named Leann Marshall is related to Cat Power aka Chan Marshall. She isn't. We saw Stella of the Junkie Lean create a horrible asymmetrical dress that looks like it came from Hot Topic. We watched Blayne say he loved Stella's leather face. We found it funny how she says "leather" the way Billy Joel says "fire" (and "danger") in The Stranger. We soaked up our Chicken Tikka Masala with naan, All the while, eying nervously the cable box like it was an atomic clock. Twenty minutes until the end. Ten. Five. Until the contestants were on the runway and it was clear either Chan Marshall's unsister was going home or the good looking but bland Wesley. Twenty seconds left. Heidi's face filled the screen, an expanse of Germanic skin and brilliant teeth. The elimination music started. We heaved a sigh of relief. And then...

From out of the corner, a voice: "I read that Wesley is going home...." WHAT. THE. FUCK. whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. Beetlejuice! Yes. It happened. I had stepped out of the prison gate and was struck down by a speeding truck. What is this urge to tell? "It's not like those five seconds were going to make a difference," the spoiler said. In his mind, he had euthanized the episode—arguably a good call. He had done it for his own pride but he also killed it for the rest of us. I left that house fuming, full of ਚਿਕਨ ਟਿੱਕਾ ਮਸਾਲਾ and rage.

As a coda, I'm talking to Richard Lawson now on Adium. He tells me the spoiler said Suede was headed home. Not Wesley. Suede won sooooooo.....I don't know. I'm still filled with anger whether the spoiler's spoil was a joke or a lie or mangled truth, the effect was the same. He kicked the old man in the nuts. It might not have been murder but it certainly was manslaughter.

Of the sixteen contestants, three really standout as people you'd cross the street to avoid but also who you might want to follow at a discreet distance to better observe them. Are they really born of woman? Can the same crimson blood that course through their veins course through ours? Yes! Or, yes if your blood is made of Kool Aid, Heroin and Suede.

Blayne Walsh, 23: Tweaked-out Norfin Blayne says he's been a designer for six years. He's from Seattle, WA. He's tiny and will be played by Mary-Kate Olsen in the movie adaptation to the sequel to his life. He's also—I hate to say it—god awfully annoying. No 23 year old Seattle elf should bandy about the phrase, "Holla at your Boy." That is a bad thing to do. On the other hand, he is obsessed OBSESSED with tanning which explains a little bit why he looks like an orange alien. Blayne also says Girlicious a lot and even went so far as writing Girlicious on the poor girl who became his model. She's like chattel but dressed in a goofy diaper.
Fun Fact: Blayne's real name is Richard and he's a barista! Also, he might be the most annoying person on planet earth.

Stella, 42: Woah! It's like a Ramone is on the show. Stella looks like Cher but every time Cher turned right to get Botox injections, Stella turned left onto the Bowery to score. She seems permanently stuck in the junkie lean and has the monotone intonation that accompanies central nervous system damage. I don't know about you all, but watching her makes me really nervous. She almost went home but Lloyd from Entourage went home instead. This is a good thing since watching her is exhilarating albeit in a bum fights kind of way.
Fun Fact: Her middle name is Barbarella and her Myspace page is AWESOME!

Suede, 37: I suppose no reality television show is complete without someone who refers to themselves in the third person. Like, "Suede gotta do what Suede gotta do!" The first thing faux-hawked maybe-future-Dale Suede had to do, apparently, is change his name from Stephen Whitney Baum which he did! Now Suede's Suede (let's call a Suede a Suede) and he moved from Seven HIlls, OH to the city. Is he the Chris March of the season? Who knows but I do find that he addresses himself not only in the first but also second and third persons to be a good sign of things to come.
Fun Fact: Suede is loaded. According to this article, he owns an apartment in Chelsea, a 30-acre hideaway in the Catskills and he set up an endowment at his alma mater, Kent State.

Assorted Notes: 9 pm is a horrible new time. It means dinner at 6 which is just embarrassing. Probably has something to do with the fact that Lifetime viewers are all old women who are eating their television meals alone at home anyway on one of those seats that also is a toilet.

The guy from Detroit is like Kevin from last season but even straighter and cooler. He's from Detroit. He has no use for this noise.

I didn't realize how much I had missed Michael Kors until I saw his large incredulous puppy face.

That might be a little unkind. The finale wasn't completely rotten and the winner of Season 4, Stephanie, certainly deserved to win. She is a great chef and, if Bravo's editors haven't diced her personality beyond recognition, a nice person too. The winner was clear last night. Sadly, new father Richard pulled a Casey last night and choked. It happens. Even when aspyhxiating, Richard was a joy to watch. He was genuine, curious and down-to-earth. However since it seems Bravo was adamant that a female win Top Chef, one wonders if even if he had been on point whether he would have prevailed.

Lisa, well, Lisa. Lisa Lisa Lisa. Goo goo kachoo. What's there to say? Her persistent larval anomie and her glee in broadcasting her meanness to others was epic. In fact, her consistency deserves some respect. She's gone now, Lisa is. And, إن شاء الله we'll never have to see or hear from her again. She'll disappear deflated from our consciousness, a villain no longer. When she passes us on the street, exhausted and bitter after a day in the kitchen of the failed Mai House, we'll feel a vague gurgle of hatred though we won't be able to recognize its source. Old villains don't die, they fade away. The same could be said for reality television series.

Far from the rage or joy I felt after the finales of seasons 2 and 3 (in that order), when the television blinkered off last night, I was just kind of left let down. The producers of Season 4 have played so fast and loose and brutally with the viewers' emotions, so manipulated our loves and hates, maneuvered so cynically to whisk up drama, and rammed Glaad products and Evian so strongly down our throats that unless Lisa met her untimely end after getting tangled in a Force Flex bag gradually being pumped up with Evian or won, the finale was inevitably going to be anticlimactic. By last night, I'd felt enough in Season 4. Like a dropped transmission, the producers could use as much slow motion and jump cuts as they wanted, but I just couldn't get it in gear. No amount of shots of Padma's loopy mug slurring "It's deshilishsush," or genuine celebrity chefs like kooky Dan Barber nor even the travesty of putting Tim Zagat whose restaurant reviews consist entirely of opinions not his own, on the judging panel could muster up a minyan of feeling.

Watching Season II, I mistook the chefs for real people and had no disbelief to suspend. Watching Season III, I noticed the strings holding up the marionettes but rather liked watching them herky jerk around. But watching Season IV, the house lights were on and the mystery dissipated. It's like a third marriage. All right already. We get it.

Congratulations to Stephanie, shrug. Richard, good luck with the baby. Lisa, rot in hell. Padma, I emailed you so you have my number. Call me if you want to go to Shake Shack or something. I'm saying goodbye to all this. Or at least until Season V.

The other edifying part of the interview is how frequently Lewis insists on inserting "Everybody laughs" after every piddle-headed thing he says. Anyway...

• Steve Lewis on Todd English: "Todd English is a two-bit, lying punk and should, in my opinion, never be trusted by anyone – community boards, investors, women, anyone."
• Camille Becerra on Throwing the Competition: "You know you have to leave because it’s just not where I want to be. And so yeah, it gets to a point where it’s like, ‘How do I get out of here? How do I get out of here with dignity?’ Because all of these people, all around America are watching you."
• Nikki Cascone on Being the Sexy Chef: "If I read the blogs, I’m the ringer because I’m the pretty girl, you know? That’s the way it’s been."

• Steve Lewis's Makes Everyone Laugh:

"These two ladies, and I’m using that term without knowing them that well… (Everyone Laughs) … "

"It sounds more like a platoon in the army. (Everyone Laughs)"

"SL: Camille, Nikki just made this statement. You’re a year removed. A year further away from the confidentiality agreement. ...Everyone Laughs"

"SL: You did get voted New York’s sexiest chef or something, didn’t you?

CB: Yes, Steven.

Everyone Laughs."

On May 29th, Richard and his wife Jazmin Zepeda welcomed into the world, Riley Maddox Blais. She weighed 7.9 pounds and was 21" long (long? how do you describe things that can't stand up?) These photographs were taken by Whitney and Jesse. It should be noted that on the same day Blais became a father, Lisa probably cut in front of an old woman at a supermarket, opened the Emergency Exit gate in the subway setting off a horrendously annoying alarm though she could have just as easily have gone through the turnstile, stole moleskin from a Mom & Pop drugstore, slashed the tires of an ambulance, hacked her way into an ex-girlfriend's email, and tapped aggressively on the glass window of a pet store, scaring the adorable puppies therein to the point of catatonia.

Joshua David Stein is back briefly to talk about Bravo's Top Chef whose eleventh episode aired last night. For a number of reasons this week, it occurs to me that maybe Earth is a crummy planet, or at least crummy to the extent it is inhabited by man. Our reign at the top of the food chain is near its end (Three fine examples of why may be found here and here and here) Last night's episode of Top Chef did little to reinvigorate my faith in man, mankind and man's kindness.

Lisa stays. Any creature with a heart and soul must agree that for Lisa, a human being riven with maggoty and fetid misery, to remain on the show for yet another episode does not bode well for our fate as a species. And yet, though it pains me to write it, Lisa stays. If Lisa is right side up, the world is upside down. Admittedly, in fairness, her food didn't seem that bad. (I lay the blame for this whole situation on last week's guest judge Tony Bourdain who axed Dale instead of Lisa in a fit of pique. Had the even-keeled Tom been there, this situation never would have arisen. Goddammit, TC! What charity was so important he had to miss his scheduled appearance on reality TV anyway?!!?!) Spike went home instead. He was always a bit of an idiot but really?. Lisa stays!?!? Ai!

Critics you might say that I only hear what I want to, that I don't listen hard. You might even say I don't understand if you really care, I'm only hearing negative. But no. No. No. There is hope yet. And it comes from the past, what was, and the future, what yet shall be. On this episode, former winners Harold, Ilan and Hung were guest judges. My optimism comes not in the form of Ilan who is still an unctuous twat nor Harold who is nice but boring but in the form of the once-vilified Hung. Shown outside the competition setting, Hung is elegant and smart and kind and charming. All the things that, in competition, he wasn't made out to be. This means two things: Maybe Lisa isn't actually as miserable a wench as she seems. Ah fuck it. She is. But it also means, that good can still win in this world. Indeed, it seems inevitable which is a good thing.

Think about it: Lisa is out next week. She has to be. She took Spike's job at the Manhattan restaurant, Mai House so you know girlfriend didn't win. That leaves Richard, Antonia and Stephanie as possible winners. All three are fundamentally solid people, good people. Sure Stephanie might be boringish; Antonia might be too much like an emo Helena Bonham Carter and Richard is called Blais (and not like Cendrars) and has a faux-hawk. But all three of them seem genuinely kind, enthusiastic, smart and talented chefs. They are mensches (menchiz?). Clinging to the assumption that Lisa is gone next week—an assumption that makes living possible—we can afford to be charitable and magnanimous in victory.Lisa's greatest or rather only contribution to the season is to cast the menschlekeit of her competitors into warmer contrast. That's why we need villains, to make heroes. But now that she's served her purpose, it's time for Lisa to pack her knives, her scowl and her hideous haircut and leave.

The challenge seemed promising: Restaurant Wars. We love restaurant wars. Who doesn't love restaurant wars? It combines two primordial passions: food and fighting. Since perky pesky single mother Antonia somehow managed to snatch the Quickfire challenge victory away from Dale, she was allowed to choose her team. She picked faux-hawk duckling Richard and blah blah Stephanie. This left Spike, Dale and Lisa together. Obviously we knew what team would win.

Mai Buddha, the Asian restaurant Spike, Dale and Lisa create, is an unmitigated disaster. The food stinks. The decor stinks and mistakes—many of them—were made. Spike, the unctuous oily slitherer, dons a suit and works the front of the house. He knows his team is going to lose and he just wants to save his hide. Dale beats Lisa in a coin toss to become executive chef. Lisa, on the other hand, whether by design or by ineptitude, manages to crumb up every dish she creates. Her laksa soup is all smoke and no spice. Dale, no angel himself, curses a lot and makes a bad decision regarding an unhappy coupling of scallops and butterscotch (the doughy whiteness of one not melding well with the sweetness of the other). It's clear either Dale or Lisa is getting kicked off.

Lisa stays. Dale leaves. He cries in the exit interview. He was by far one of the most talented chefs, along with Richard and Stephanie. He put himself out there. He had skills and he took himself and his work seriously. It was sad and unexpected to see him be sent packing. Especially when one considers Lisa. Lisa's entire focus seems to be shivving other contestants. She's fixated not on the flavor of the food or the success of the challenge but on protecting herself from the chopping block. She can be charming at times, a glad-handing politician. But anyone with a brain can see through her ruse. Her main technique is dishonesty. Her defensive stance and villainous grin mask a serious lack of skill. What was most disappointing about last night's episode is that a fundamentally respectable institution (Bravo!) made a serious error in judgement by electing to retain and promote a petty, crummy, talentless hack. The decision hurts not only the institution but the viewership as well. We don't need more crumminess. Dale was no hero but he didn't deserve to be let go. Lisa is no nothing. She's nothing but negativity and self-service. And I eagerly await the day when her heartbreak soup comes back to burn her.

Seriously though, police officers do suffer from a high rate of obesity. This has less to do with donuts and more to do with the "long hours and the on-the-go nature of police work [that makes] it hard to find time to eat well and stay in shape." In fact the LAPD recently hired a dietician to cut the BMI's of the force and Chicago's police superintendent recently floated the idea of mandatory fitness tests. Anyway, what made last night's episode enjoyable/risible was the reappearance of Sam Talbot, the almost winner almost chef of last season. He's diabetic and has crap taste in sweaters.

Yesh, yesh kittehs. I know. According to many, I haven't the best track record in sweaters. But, srsly, what the shit was Sam Talbot wearing? First of all, he changed costumes more than Padma. During the Quickfire, he wore some khaki green blazer/flak jacket thing with a menagerie of necklaces. By night's end, Talbot boasted a chunkystripey shawl-type sweater, fingers covered in silver and some sort of Dark Crystal type amulet. I don't care if he has diabetes. Blindness does not account for his fashion choices. Douchiness however, pretty boy unctuous self-righteous douchiness, does. He is incredibly good-looking though. I mean his face. It's like an angel face.

So that's fats and ugly sweaters. Next up: Villainy. Who's villainous? Well two people really: Spike and Lisa, the self-promoting skeazy puppy-eyed stoner and the ugly lesbian, respectively. [NB: I will no longer refer to Lisa as an ugly lesbian however since I do believe that gives other ugly lesbians a bad name. Sorry Judith Butler, Andrea Dworkin, Ingrid Sischy, Annie Liebowitz, Andy Borowitz. No harm. No foul.] Spike won the Quickfire and thusly had first pick of Box Lunch ingredients. What he chose others couldn't. So Spike shrewdly fucked everybody by eliminating lettuce, tomatoes, chiclen and bread from their arsenal. But like an idiot asshole, he didn't put any of it to good use. He made a crappy chicken salad with a slice of tomato, a leaf of lettuce and some burnt pieces of toast. But whatever. His villainy was at least strategic and not personal. He handily kneecapped everyone. He didn't single out one victim.

The same could not be said for shit-for-tits Lisa. True, Andrew, who got sent home and who deserved to be sent home, did not follow the rules of the challenge. He forgot grains. But to throw him under the bus at the judge's table was not only pointless (of course the judges knew he had erred) but just plain scummy. Lisa is, I'm sure, an opportunistic amoral sorely losing bitter pill. She may be able to parboil some salmon or dice some carrots but she has none of the qualities of a chef. She spend most of her time pointing out the flaws of others and evading responsibility. Andrew, despite his many flaws, at least stood for something and understood some things. Sure he was crazy and annoying but he was loyal and passionate. Additionally, that Viggo Mortensen Eastern Promises moment in the Stew Room was pretty amazing.

From now on, we just have to wait for the Final Three. Gawker's bets are on Richard and Dale (obviously) with Stephanie hanging in there too.

A couple quick asides: 1. Padma Lakshmi, still hot, still high. 2. The relay race quick fire challenge is always my favorite. It is, to me, exactly what Top Chef should be about, a distillation of skill and ability. For all my hatred of her, the ugly lesbian lady with the bad attitude did supreme those oranges astonishingly well. Richard showed his prowess with the uglysexyscary monkfish. Stephanie, who somehow always seems to have just stepped out of the shower in all her interviews, showed herself a true champ whisking that mayonnaise. The same could not be said for Nikki who actually admitted to taking a break while making her mayonnaise. IT'S A RACE, LADY!!! She also hasn't made mayonnaise by hand since culinary school. Dale, one of her teammates, was not happy. When they lost, in part a cause de Nikki's torpor but also for Spike's manhandling of the artichokes, Dale punched a locker. He had, however, thoughtfully wrapped his hand in a towel.

Normally, I'm not a fan of team challenges or weddings but this one was actually okay. Mostly because the challenge (cooking for 125 people and making a wedding cake) moved the underlying dilemma along. Well set aside the winning team. Richard, I love you more and more. AND you are married!!! But, of course, it is to the losing team that our interest is attached. The breakdown of labor follows:

• Nikki, after sandblasting it into our heads and that of the groom that she's Italian and therefore can cook anything from that region, refuses to take a leadership role on her team. I think she actually says, "If they fail, then at least it won't be on me." Instead she focuses on making pasta...again!!! Oh yeah, she fucking botches it too.
• Ugly lesbian makes an ugly lesbian cake: tasty, solid, squat.
• Spike spends the entire time making sea bass. It looked good.
• Dale would not stop bitching and looking like an Asian Terrence Howard. He cooks just about everything. The only problem is that he doesn't do it well. He does nearly nothing well. He just does a lot of mediocre work.

Obviously it was between Nikki and Dale. The ruling would basically validate one of two very different principals. Either Nikki would stay because, as Russell Simmons wrote, "Do yourself." In other words, she made a wise decision by abdicating responsibility, by letting her crew drift stranded on their own pieces of jetsam, because at least she couldn't be accused of leading them to failure if she didn't lead them at all. On the other, hand Dale, who compounds being an asshole with being a peevish fucker, refused to delegate responsibility due to his utter lack of respect for U.L., Nikki and Spike as chefs.

The difference is Dale's approach still values food while Nikki's values only Nikki. Her legacy will be that of a Scottie Pippen who notoriously and often shied away from leadership positions.(Thanks, Will!) preferring to insulate himself from the danger of failure. At root, this is cowardice. Furthermore, her criticism of ball hog/tugboat Dale, "You don't throw someone under the bus up there," is particularly hypocritical since her whole program was to throw as many of her teammates under the bus as possible. Anyway, it was nice to see Bravo actually reward a values system I, and I think many people, agree with. And it's nice to see Nikki finally get her due.

The episode—in which contestants were asked to create a meal for four people for ten dollars and were helped during the preparation by disadvantaged children—reeked of a Lifetime special. As was communicated throughout the show via the valorization of Antonia, a single mother contestant, the target demographic of this challenge was...single mothers, a demographic more likely to be sitting in front of a television tuned to Lifetime than to Bravo. And not just single mothers but low-income single mothers which even moreso places the focus on a Lifetime-esque demographic. That said, the kids were cute as buttons. (Not these buttons. These buttons.) How can you make fun of kids!? What kind of bumptious stinker would dare attempt to? In this way, however, the show has already showed itself more interested in inoculating itself against criticism rather than making good television.

Of course, the winner was Antonia, the single mother! Why? Because, in the words of Gail Simmons who may or may not be pregnant but has certainty gained some weight which I totally understand because during the course of the show I ate an entire large pepperoni pizza from Posto and a slice of strawberry pie I got upstate in this weird hippie bakery that was actually the kitchen of a couple named Bob and Valerie who had moved to Woodstock twenty years prior and set up a pie shop, "it was so natural for her." Well, fuck, of course it is natural to her. She's a single mother (though she does live in Beverly Hills.) But authenticity is no reason anyone should win anything. I would have liked to see Crazy Andrew win because he used to be fat and now is skinny but of course that might be read as fattist, not to mention sexist, by the sexy fatty Lifetime viewership. So there's Antonia—-who, make no mistake, I genuinely like—smiling and telling funny/dirty jokes to her kid. (Knock knock/Who's there/Smellmap/Smellmap who? Get it?/No/Smell my poo!/Oh. Ha!)

Two other moments of the show are also noteworthy. Firstly, that quick challenge really totaled my faith in Padma. Contestants using UNCLE BEN'S RICE had fifteen minutes to create an entree. The screen was immediately flooded with a panoply of UNCLE BEN'S PRODUCTS!!! Padma was excited. How that woman could be so excited by such a lame challenge or at least act that excited by such a lame challenge questions if, and when, she tells me that she loves me, how can I believe her? It just seems so shammy. What a put on! What a laugh! You love me you say?! A love that is so easily bestowed that it falls on a product placement so heinous is no love that I want, Padma.

The other moment of emotional amusement was when crybaby loser (and handsome Australian Kiwi) Mark accused Tom of not liking him. After sending him home Tom said, "I don't dislike you." It's not as if Tom is using litotes to communicate his intense affection for Mark. "I don't dislike you" is like when a girl tells you (or you a girl, or you a guy or a guy you) "I don't not love you" which, even more than "I really like you," means "I don't love you" which is all to say, this new life-affirming Top Chef? I don't dislike it at all!

I always kind of liked Jennifer, the shorter mohawked girlfriend of Zoi the Boi. She seemed down to earth in a Northern California way. She seemed loyal, consistently standing up for her girlfriend. And she seemed like a great chef. Something bad happened though between the point where Zoi was sent home and last night, when Jennifer teamed up with similarly tolerable Stephanie in yet another ree ree challenge: The contestants were forced to cook according to the shouted out suggestions of Second City Theatre goers. Improv crowds are, as anyone who has walked by the UCB theatre at around 7:00 pm on a Sunday night knows, are not the coolest lot. Anyway, the girls got, if I recall correctly, the words: Turned-On, Orange, and Asparagus. But what the girls really got was incredibly flirtatious.

It all started with an errant shot at the Second City Theatre. Jennifer's arm was casually draped around Stephanie's broad shoulders. Jennifer through her dork hot indie glasses was looking at Stephanie with a look of love, lust and respect we had previously only seen on her face when she gazed at Zoi. But Zoi was out and the need for emotional intimacy trumped whatever qualms Jennifer had about openly pursuing a Sapphic and adulterous dalliance on national television which surely her girlfriend was watching. So the flirtation continued, communicated to us viewers at home by bite-sized cuts of handslapping, smiles, and warmth. An astute observer of Bravo's latent morality couldn't help but suspect that Jennifer would be axed for her infidelity. She, of course, was.

The most interesting part, at least to me, of the reason why she was exiled was that the two women (one openly gay, the other unopenly ungay or openly ungay or something) created an explicitly phallic dish. The germane phrase was turned-on. There's no reason why they had to choose a phallus—-culinarily expressed as a piece of flaccid bread and a wilty spear of asparagus—instead of say a clitoris to be the turned-on element. This is a particular bitter morsel in the history of sexual inequality in terms of gratification. Why a lesbian would forsake her own sex in this context for a man is unfathomable. I guess it would be hard to express the sex that is not one on a plate. But crafting a menage a trois of goat cheese, crouton and asparagus whilst focusing exclusively on the phallus seems to undo as many decades of feminist thought as Dale's insipid stereotype of male homosexuality did in the last season. The real question is whether Jennifer got booted off for betraying her girlfriend or for betraying her entire sex.

This week, especially when he actually suggested he shuffle around on his knees as an Oompah-Loompah, one began to wonder if his quirkiness passed into DSM-IV territory. And then it's no longer fun to watch. It's kind of creepy and sad. It's like when you find out your weird and crazy uncle actually is schizophrenic and paranoid and then you hide every time he comes over. You know what is fun to watch? Angry lesbians and it seems like next week, the back room of Top Chef's kitchen is a rage-filled Sapphic playground!

I guess what I'm saying is the teaser for next week's episode was exponentially more interesting than anything that went on this week. Manuel left. Clearly he had to go. Next week, I hope it's Nikki. The following week that eyebrow-pierced lady has got to skedaddle. In fact, let's just cut to the final three: Stephanie, Richard (the mohawked tweety-bird who is weirdly growing on me) and Dale. Next week though, the super cool mohawked lesbian (she is great, I think) knocks over a chair in what looks like a confrontation with Spike who I can totally see being an enormous prick. Bets made at the time of viewing indicate that she is made violent in the course of defending her girlfriend, the bad-vibey Zoi. But what I really really want to see is Dale go batshit nuts. If I am remembering correctly he says something like, "You feel the need to justify all your mistakes and blame them on other people." Pause. "I feel that is bullshit." This is accompanied by athletic hand motions in which his palm is facing downwards, his arm is upraised and his elbow is bending like a metronome, emphasizing his points. I found it sweet that even when he is yelling at someone he introduces his opinions with "I feel..." which is a sign of a good arguer. Anyway, thoughts, hypotheses and bets on what goes down taken in comments.

There was an audience poll (think of all the revenues from the text messages!) in which 61 or something percent agreed that moreso than vulture, penguin, lion or gorilla, Tom Colicchio is most like a gay who "tends to have hairy bodies and facial hair; some are heavy-set; some project an image of working-class masculinity in their grooming and appearance, though none of these are requirements or unique indicators. Some bears place importance on presenting a hyper-masculine image; some may shun interaction with men who display effeminate style and mannerisms, although some actually exhibit these traits themselves."

So that happened which was a relief to those of us who have been waiting for the show to openly address the obvious. I'm just amazed there wasn't some sponsor tie-in with, for example, the DVD release of I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry But let's move onto the challenge: Design a menu for 200 people based on the diets of five animals using only ingredients those animals eat. Humma, wha? I mean this really approaches absurdity in terms of contrivance and stochastic challenges. If we're this random in the second episode, imagine four weeks down the line when the chefs will be asked to create a seven course meal out of yellow, snozzcumbers, the shavings of deodar cedar, late-market capitalism, the later work of Luc Tuymans, memories of Maya Deren, the ten Inuit words for snow, "Snow;" by Orhan Palmuk, the idea of Orphans, the ideations of Oprah, all to be judged by a classroom full of cactii. I bet Richard will win, the cheesy fuck.

Of course last night the loser wasn't simply linear thought. Also that short cheffette from Chicago named Valerie went home which is fine because really, who cares? Aren't they starting to film 30 Rock again anyway?

Predictions for the season are always welcome. For my part, I think Richard and Spike will be the villains. That dude Manuel is a sweetheart whose personality will continue to shine. Andrew, still top three.

First of all, Padma Lakshmi continues, bizarrely, to become even more winsome. By the end of last season, her beauty already seemed to approach absurd. And splitting with Salman has only made her even more beautiful. At this point it's hardly even enjoyable to see her. It's rapturous, of course, but you get the feeling this is what dogs feel like when they chase sunbeams. Only, I want to sleep with the sunbeam. Also, the first shot of that scar! What a sight for sore eyes.

Second of all, if the first three minutes of Top Chef Chicago is to be any indicator of the rest of the season, we are in for some heavy heavy product placement. Remind me again what exactly Pizzeria Uno has to do with culinary anything? We all knew product placement was coming but it arrived with such alacrity and ferocity that it took me, at least, off guard. I thought initially we had been unwittingly taken to commercial break in a clever way. In a way we had. But in another way we had just been had.

Thirdly, motherfuckers! People cuss so much on this new season it is kind of amazing. Of especially dirty mouth and charming cadence is Andrew. He looks like a cross between me and Wallace from Wallace and Gromit. He got fucked by Richard, he of mohawk and smoked mayonnaise. Every talking head interview with him read like a scene from Scarface. He's in the final three for sure.

Other observations include: Rocco DiSpirito's face gets fewer wrinkles and more injections day-by-day. Anthony Bourdain's pants are really tight which is a wonderful thing. Erik made the ugliest scat-implying soufflé ever. And I'm pretty certain, though it's too early to tell and I'm interested in what you think, that the final three will be Jennifer (the Sapphic San Fran chef); Andrew and Richard.

If I sound down on the show well, it's because I am. Both this week and last week and, come to think of it, the quickfire challenge in the first episode, stink of a gimmick built around a sponsor thought up by a team of suits (or probably no, they probably all wear American Apparel now) in marketing who have no idea what being a chef is like. The balance between testing the skills of the cheftestants and pleasing the advertisers has been upset. It makes for unenjoyable television. I mean whatever that dude's name was Erik, he deserved to go no doubt. But this isn't Top Caterer, it's Top Chef. Both Valerie (played in real life by Rachel Dratch) and Eric (played by David Brockie) were kicked off for errors that resulted from transport issues unique to caterers. His corn dogs were soggy. Her blinis were too. As Ted Allen noted, they steamed en route. But neither one of these situations would ever arise in actual kitchens with a restaurant in front which is, presumably, what the contestants are vying for. Erik should have been kicked off for being essentially TGIF line-cook way in over his head. And he was but it's condescending and infuriating to gussy up the reason for his dismissal as a transport issue.

The other thing I feel compelled to note is the idiocy of the audience poll which looked like one thing but was actually another. The poll question was, if I remember correctly, "What will America have first? A female Top Chef or a female President." The winning answer, according to the poll and my Mucinex-and-Theraflu soaked memory, was Female Top Chef. This prima facie seems like an endorsement for Obama. "We'll have a Female Top Chef before we have a Female President." However, since the next President won't be decided at any rate until way after the next Top Chef winner is, whether Hillary wins or not, the answer is really just a vote that a woman will win this season. Statistically, this seems like it should be true since you can bet Bravo is getting pressure to hand the victory (deserved, of course) to a femilady and because of this season's chefs, the women, especially the shorter lesbian lady and Stephanie who won the first challenge, are particularly strong candidates.

Hopefully next week we can actually see the chefs cook, that is prepare a meal that really does showcase their talents and not whatever brand payed a premium for integrated content that week. In the meantime, since the whole kit is just depressing, I really need a pick up. Something that will change by existential angst into exhilarating grinning. Maybe I'll just help myself to a handful of Paxil*, a serotonin-specific reuptake inhibitors and this post's proud sponsor.

*Do not use Paxil if you are using pimozide (Orap), thioridazine (Mellaril), or an MAO inhibitor such as isocarboxazid (Marplan), tranylcypromine (Parnate), phenelzine (Nardil), rasagiline (Azilect), or selegiline (Eldepryl, Emsam). Serious and sometimes fatal reactions can occur when these medicines are taken with Paxil. You must wait at least 14 days after stopping an MAO inhibitor before you can take Paxil. After you stop taking Paxil, you must wait at least 14 days before you start taking an MAOI.
Before taking Paxil, tell your doctor if you are allergic to any drugs, or if you have:
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Inside the auditorium, host Hannah Storm enounced every line like she was blowing the Teleprompter. Her scarlet folds announced David Chang's win for best new chef with the tone of voice usually reserved for dirty nothings and unnatural requests. Perhaps because everyone seemed alternately skeaved out and erect, the awards were an endearing if chaotic shitshow. Envelopes were delayed, cues dropped, and lines flubbed. Execution issues notwithstanding, the chefs who won and presented were uniformly adorable, enthusiastic and wholly charming. But we heard there was food in the press room so we quickly decamped from the auditorium to where, apparently, the party was at.

The press room, in the outer bowels of Lincoln Center, resembled a feed lot. The sum total of New York's food scene—those who write, those who cook, the PR handlers, the hacks and the flacks—was present. Ozersky, Leventhal, Levine, Laren, Leuzzi, Thorn: They were all there, gazing at the telecast. The winners and presenters would cycle through the room, gracious and harried. We—as you can see—caught up with Big Head Todd, Teddy Allen, Wolfgang "Elmer" Puck, Padma Lakshmi and others. Enough can not be said about the languid beauty of Padma Lakshmi. We're not sure if she and Wild Salman are still together, but we glumly noted she was sporting two gargantuan and seemingly matrimonial rings. Her face, breathtaking on television is even more beautifuller close up and in person. It's bigger (weee! perspective!) but more to the point, it means you're standing close to her in person. With a miniature stuffed red pepper gingerly held between her fingers, Padma turned to us and said, "Oh Gawker! You guys aren't always so nice to me."

"No," I said a little too fervently. "I'm nice," I said, "and enamored." And then, like it wasn't the greatest thing that ever happened in my life, though plainly both of us knew it would be, she rubbed my shoulder and told me I was sweet.

As the ceremony finished, the press and the guests and the chefs filed out to the foyer for a massive gala dinner. Chefs from around the country manned tables and distributed tiny portions designed to showcase how talented they were. The stakes were high. José Andres, a mad Spanish genius, served those crystalline olive oil drops Marcel tried and failed to pull of in Top Chef. If little Vigneron had managed to capture that salty taste explosion, he surely would have won.

The reception felt strangely like a very well-catered prom. People cared less about the party than the after party. Word was shit was gonna be off the hook at Picholine, Hawaiian Tropic and Cafe Des Artistes. Chang had even hired a party bus for 30 chefs, complete with a stripper pole. The night would end, we were told, at Momofuku Ssam Bar. But since it was close by and since we'd never gone, we threw our lot with Jeffrey Chodorow's Kobe Club a few blocks away. Chodorow, who was neither mentioned nor nominated, wasn't around but his ninja swords were. Like so many Damocles, we munched on subpar crab cakes and mini cheese steaks. Billy Joel's wife was there without her man, but we were holding out for some Easy Exotic company, she who rubbed us and told us we were sweet. As one turned two, the morning earlier and we older, our eyes, so eager for Padma, started to droop. So sad. Wherever was she? —Josh

James Beard Award Winners

[Video: Richard Blakeley]

The place, as Eat for Victory reports, is going to be another fucking hot dog stand. The puppy we thought might fetch a hefty bid from a forward-looking art collector is now perched on the awning, hawking $2.50 dawgz. The whole thing seems like a sordid metaphor. Maybe about the state of art, or the state of downtown, or, because it's Friday and we're out of things that it could be a metaphor for, the 2008 Presidential race. Like the store, we're currently open for suggestions. —Josh

Good Dog's Menu Revealed [VV]
Earlier: East Village: St. Marks Going to the Dogs

Shake Shack [Shake Shack]
Earlier: Shake Shack Full of Doody, Shake Shack Not Full of Doody

...If time stood still, which contrariwise moveth so round that a froward retention of custom is as turbulent a thing as an innovation; and they that reverence too much old times are but a scorn to the new.
—Francis Bacon

Girl at Mall: Oh my god!
[laughs at Freud's introduction]
Sigmund Freud: You seem to be suffering from a mild case of hysteria.
Girl at Mall: You are such a geek!
[walks off with her friend]
Billy the Kid: Way to go, egghead!
Sigmund Freud: Wha...?
Socrates: GEEK!
[laughs]
Sigmund Freud: What is a geek?
— Chris Matheson, Ed Solomon, Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Not so long ago, when Lewis Lapham still helmed Harper's magazine and the office was filled with smoke from his unchained melody of Parliaments, the annual Christmas Party was the stuff of legend. To hear Lewis tell it, one might, without undue surprise, stumble upon Kurt Vonnegut defrocking a young Mia Farrow, or Walter Cronkite making the acquaintance of a young Jayne Mansfield's buxom. As an intern at the magazine, it was hard not to imagine the Christmas party as the orgasm that made the 10-6 skullduggery of the internship worth it, even more than the lunch with Lewis at the end during which he'd tell variations on a story involving him as a cub reporter, a koala, and delivering the goods (with his organ) to a wealthy San Fran widow. But tempis fugit mors venit. Smoking got banned, Lewis got canned and last night at Pravda, Harper's looked its age.

Here, in a vaulted basement vodka bar, elegant captains of industry, bespectacled journalists and dyspeptic former interns gathered to celebrate another year of getting on with it. The party wasn't a bore, exactly; just staid. For a magazine that once advocated the assassination of the President, that indicted the same man for voter fraud, that so insouciantly played with the possibility of time travel as it pertains to reportage, one have hoped form for some vestigial radicalism. Alas, no one seemed desirous to upset the delicate balance of champagne flutes on silver trays. Marlene Kahan, a taut-yet-aged woman who began introducing herself as "working for ASME" but quickly amended the title, metonymically, to, "I am ASME," pondered whether "dancing on the table, after this martini" would enliven things. Wiser tempers concluded it would most likely result in a herniated disk and flashbacks to Kingpin. Tony Hendra, who may have Down Syndome, seemed happy as a clam casino, glowingly declaring this the best party Harper's had thrown at Pravda since last year, when Harper's threw a party at Pravda. After hours of staring at Harper's circa 1880, Paul Ford, aka Gary Benchley, the adorable writer tasked with yolking Harper's archives online, cast the party a success, growing glassy-eyed and giddy over tumblers of cachaca. Sinclair "Pee Wee" Smith, and his fiance Kristen Richardson, an ex-intern, bemoaned the jumping of the Harper's party shark: "Back when I was an intern, there was smoking upstairs and coke in the bathroom." Sadly, there was neither. Searching for the missing element, Richardson paused and suggested, "Jews?" But Frederick Kaufman, one of the few Jews there and professor of Journalism at CUNY, suggested, "We should yell anti-semitic slogans at Art Spiegelman." As Shuggie Otis' "Strawberry Letter:" played, it became clear the party was at war with itself. More than lingering sales or the shortage of tail to chase, that is the coal in the Harper's stocking. When Francine Prose jumped ship early on she told us she had never stayed for the Harper's Christmas dance party We didn't have the heart to tell her there never was one. No one was singing the same tune.

Second to Alec Baldwin, the elephant not in the room was Roger Hodge, the current editor. Home. he claimed, sick. Instead, it was up to deposed king of Harper's Lewis Lapham to work the room and rally the troops. Yes, he of the large cock and no socks, the gravelly-voiced demagogue. His fingernails tobacco-stained but well-kempt despite their froward struggle against time. As a cub editor, I had worked with Lewis at his fledgling, (and perhaps stillborn) quarterly just a few months ago. And when we shook hands, his bright eyes clouded behind his glasses. "Hi Jim, great to see you." It took a moment to realize the minence grise had erred. But by then, he was outside, blowing Parliament smoke out on to the empty wintry street, and doing what he does best: retelling stories of Christmases past.

Harper's Christmas Party @ Pravda [Photos]