Thanks to a tip-off from Gawker alum Richard Lawson, we know that Page 134 of the December 21 issue (the one with Tiger's wife on the cover) shows the above picture with the winner hugging Tom Colicchio and Padma's bad idea bangs. The copy refers to the person in the picture as the "reigning Top Chef champ" and the photo caption says "[the winner]...beat out [the losers]." There is also a recipe for Bell Pepper Couscous with Tomato-Harissa Broth. Don't make it. If you eat it, you will be able to tell the future, but all your friends will hate you for revealing events before they occur.

We're not going to tell you the results of the show, because that would kill the fun of tonight's live blog here on Gawker, but if you are really dying to know, get down to your local magazine dealer and look for yourself.

The picture that they ran is courtesy of Bravo, and it is not yet on Bravo's press website, so that means someone at the network had to release it to People. Didn't they realize the December 21 issue would come out well before December 21? Or maybe they didn't care because it would only be on the stands for a day before we find out who won. We wish People was a blog so a million commenters could leave "thanks for the spoiler alert assholes" under the article. Just so they knew what it's like.

By definition there is no such thing as a two-fucking-part finale. Finale is originally an Italian word for the last section in a piece of music. In television, a finale is the last episode of something, and when it comes to competitive reality shows, the finale is where the winner is crowned. Project Runway doomed us by stretching out this horrible season with the same gimmick, but we can't really blame the Lifetime show, because they steal everything from Bravo, a channel that loves this tactic so much that we got a "two-part reunion special" for the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

The earliest record we can see of a two-part fauxnale was back in 2001 for The Mole, so this tactic has been long with us. It's even leaked into other scripted shows like Monk and House and even movies like the final installments of Twilight and Harry Potter, which will be cloven in two like devil's hooves.

What Top Chef has done is completely inexcusable. In the first part of the fauxnale, there was a challenge and one of the chefs was eliminated. You know what that's called? A normal fucking episode. If you want to get fancy, the penultimate one. It is finale-adjacent, but it is not a finale. And if you don't get to participate in the final challenge, then you are not a fucking finalist. Sorry, Jen, you made it far, but not far enough.

The show is trying to get everyone to tune in because they hear "finale" and even if they haven't watched the show all year, they might want to see who wins. But then you tune in, and there's not even a winner. That, and you have to wait a whole week before you even see who the winner is. That is some stupid bullshit ploy, and we will not stand for it. Next thing you know, you'll only have to watch the premiere episode and then a 15-part finale. Everyone is a finalist! Oh, except the loser who got voted off first. But now he's the 16th runner up!

We want a single winner standing on top of pile of bloody, crippled corpses. Until all the bodies hit the floor there is no finale. Everything else is just foreplay. We love foreplay, don't get us wrong, but if we take some floozy home hoping for the big event and all we get is a quick handy and kiss goodnight, we're going to be pissed off and not call her back. So remember that, slutty reality show marketers. Wipe that lipstick off your face and start acting like ladies.

Jennifer, who speaks only in lipograms—D, the banish't ledder—is the first lamb to arrive at the little train station, innocuous in its pacific rusticity and gabling, emerging like a Böcklin isle from the Napa Valley fog. Her hair is large, a cloud of Philadelphia; her mien, defiant; her face, flushed, rubicund. The Rubicon in front and Germantown behind her. Here comes Michael Voltaggio, imperious, Roman nosed villain. Ave Michael, morituri te salutant! Friar Kevin, a frieze of humility, a walking parable, balding, the only thing missing a cassock, arrives and then the better brother, Bryan, with a suitcase in his hand. It's hard to tell. It's hard to tell but all our love's in vain.

When the train come in the station, they looked Padma in the baby bump (x2) Well she looked so pregs and bangy, that they could not help but comment. "She had a little baby bump," says Kevin, correctly. She had some serious bangs and looked like Hiawatha or Pocahantas. Wrong Indian, Stein. Beside Padma was her paleface brother, the cosmic cloaca but nevertheless talented chef Chief Michael Chiarello, best remembered for being a dick. His eyes, malignant hematite, stared out from his face, a pale anagram for power. "Make me a grape," he murmurs. "Obey me," he means. The hegemony, latent in the resonance of his voice, is the architecture of an assfuck. Kevin worries about motion sickness. They are meant to cook on the train. They all obey. They board a train, plunging into the fog like a needle into flesh to course the cenotes of the human soul, the tidal pools of bitter black phlegm that remain when the quicksilver tide of kindness, that thin skein that separate man from beast (and not in the way you think), ebbs.

A commercial break: Erica, the grand pooba of pasta (Handy!), chancellor of cheese (Fresh!), connoisseur of cold (Chilly!) stuck in eternal repetition of infernal domesticity, the unwanted and illegitimate daughter of Julia Child and Sisyphus since September 2007. The choreography of her misery augmented by the words and sounds that float and freeze across her sound and vision. One voice, a man's; the chorus belonging to women who one imagines wear black velvet dresses; the guitar a twobit Shaft riff from a complacent studio musician named Walter. "Am I insane?" she thinks, panicked behind a Westport smile. "No," she relaxes. "For at least the words the women are saying are the same words that appear on the screen. At least I can hold on to that." Her capillaries relax. But as she holds up her hot dog made from the undifferentiated corpses of a small shtetl of holsteins, (Viceroy of Value!), she sees the word "Tasty" next to her Piggly Wiggly face but hears the word "Yummy!"

The eggshell cracks but perhaps it was just a momentary blip in the world largely seemlessl. She seals her weiner in a Glad bag, still clinging like a rat to rubbish to her happiness. "Thrifty!" the steel gray of the word threatens to bang into her temple. "Alright," she says, "if I hear Wilson Phillips say 'Thrifty' I'm sane and it's all okay. I'm not a sad clown. I'm a woman, a mother. My husband isn't cheating on me. He'll find a job soon." But then the voices come. "Economical!" it says with malign glee. Erica, the grand pooba of pasta, chancellor of cheese, connoisseur of cold, collapses like a soufflé onto her linoleum floor. Her apron bunches, her legs splayed. She's crying and her tears pool on the clear plastic coffins of food unwanted. Happily, her hot dog stays dry. A moment's reprieve is all Erica's misery earns her and then the music starts again. She rises up, compelled by a tourbillon of the wretched, and reties her apron. "Erica!" the voices say and Glad is misery.

Mike Voltaggio wins the Quickfire challenge and thus a Prius, proving also dickheads drive Priuses. Jennifer gets shaft't out of a win, a car, and, as Chiarello says he'll steal her dish, a dish. A crow flies the wrong way against the grey sky, Tiresias weeps and one worries Jennifer is unwittingly on her deathbed. Happily the elimination challenge is completely free of gimmickry: the four chefs are meant to cater a party of 150 using ingredients found only in the Napa Valley. They must make two dishes, one vegetarian and one from a locally available protein. Good for Kevin, bad for Michael, neutral for Bryan and Jennifer. Best of all, good to watch. All the preprocessed product placed gimmicks of earlier episodes—make a dish that embodies the spirit of Kindle DX using only Pantene Pro-V, Vanguard and the John D. and Catherine T. MacCarthur Foundation—seems sluffed off in these final rounds, leaving pure culinary talent as the fault line.

The four swooped onto the fields and glades of the valley, plucking from their bucolic idyll beasts. Kevin stalks a herd of brisket, felling a blubbering brisket calf. Bryan spies a ganglia of short ribs, oozing across the lee. Michael Voltaggio catches a parliament of foie gras, sunning on a rock looking like sponges. Jennifer corners a duck between a barn door and Mike's Prius and uses a bottle of booze to do it in. The brothers Voltaggio maintain a deadly focus. Friar Kevin amiably chats. Jennifer, red and redder, scurries as if a taffeta cloud in the Santa Ana winds. After not grilling her duck on dying embers, though trying valiantly to do so, Carroll confits it. She'll miss the smokiness. Dammit, Jennifer, you are an incomplete coloring book, so much talent in lines predrawn. Color them in, apply yourself, focus.

Hello Tom. Hello Michael. Hello Gail. Hello Princess Mononoke. Wait, holy sounding! Is that you Padma, wearing the castoffs of some unmade Tom Tywker sci-fi flick or is that maternity wear from Total Recall 2: Three Tits and A Little Baby? You look giggling funny, awkward weird, wondrous strange. Mike Voltaggio serves you an egg too runny, bad for the baby, rage flares your nostrils, unhappy Padma, rearing like a Mama Moose to protect her own. Too much soup for Gail in his foie gras. Cocky motherfucker. Next up: Bryan Voltaggio, a Stoic, heroic serving short ribs in the sunset, sun-bathed and lithe like a Nazi propaganda poster. "Could use some salt," says Chiarello. "Could use some pepper," says Padma. Father Kevin, he of brisket, cooked it ropey, may have risked it. Too tinny for Tom, too tough for Gail, is Kevin headed to an epic fail? Finally, Jennifer, the Elizabeth Barrett Browning of the quartet, the George Harrison, the Mickey Dolenz. She pairs radishes and cheese and basil and mushrooms. Too salty, scowls Gail. Marvelous sighs Chiarello. Mindblowing dribbles Tom. Her duck too is duck incarnate, the essence of duck, she's unlocked the duck from the duck like Michelangelo freed David from a block of marble. It's ducky and Tom likes ducky. But love's a bitch, Duck, love's a bitch.

Judge's Table. The opinion at the Stein-Heeren residence is that Michael Voltaggio is a cocky motherfucker and should go home. Feelings are ardently pro-Kevin. One of us feels protective of Jennifer and one of us (the same one) wishes only the best for Bryan, one of the last good men standing. The Death Panel increase their magnification, the contestants sizzle under the inspection like ants caught under the magnifying glass of a masochistic recessed third grader. Mike gets it for his sloppy egg giving, Bryan gets it for his lack of seasoning and his fig-baiting. "It was a figment of your imagination," Toby Young would have said if he wasn't too busy scouring Bartlett's Quotations for his next bon mot. Kevin gets smacked around for his tough brisket. "It's toothsome," he retorts, grossly misusing the word. Happily, no one else knows that though toothsome sounds like it has to do with teeth and thus toughness it doesn't. Jennifer, who has thus far earned accolades for the taste of her duck, fucks it all up. "I wanted to grill the duck to get the smokiness but I didn't pay enough attention to the coals and they went out," she says, unwittingly grasping from the gravedigger a shovel and digging deep into the fertile soil a grave of her exact proportion.

The verdict is read in Padma's overly emotive drawl, a slow motion execution marinated in false empathy. Nothing is worse than this. Jennifer, truly a wonderful person if the producers are to be believed, has done herself in, not with the quality of her cooking but by the intemperance of her disclosure. Though Bryan triumphs, his brother, the villain lives. When Jennifer, wounded but proud and not mortally, pushes those glass doors leading to obscurity, the show has lost a good woman for a bad man. She was truly the grand pooba of pasta (Handy!), the chancellor of cheese (Fresh!), the connoisseur of cold (Chilly!) and she will be missed in the sausage-fest finale. Yet, who can await next week? Two of the three contestants aren't assholes, 66% of them are good people. The odds are a mensch shall be victorious.
So thrift, thrift, Collichio! The funeral baked meats might coldly furnish forth the marriage tables yet.

Toda to Yoni Lotan and Mick Jagger for this video.

Unfortunately, the show's new destination, Napa Valley, probably has its own icky things lurking—such as douche-tastic chef Michael Chiarello, who I'm guessing will show up at some point. After all, you can't swing a dead cat in Napa Valley, it seems, without hitting that guy and his BuyMyNapaCrap.com site. But that's OK, because I can bravely face any icky thing in the entertaining company of the Gawker live-blogging crew. Why not join us? The live blog happens in the comments section below, and the episode starts at 10 pm on Bravo.

It's been two weeks since the last one, because Bravo's programming wizards chose not to air an original episode last Wednesday. Which is only natural, because Thanksgiving Season is no time to be scheduling food-themed programming. That would be crazy! So we'll have to think back a whole 14 days to recall the many highlights of our last live blog, including these:

• We devoted a 20-plus-comment thread to the subject of "our favorite cheeses." Apparently, many of us are bigger cheese fans than Wallace & Grommit. (I must admit that I was alarmed by Terrafractal's favorite—"chihuahua cheese"—until I did a little googling and learned that it isn't actually made out of chihuahuahs.)
• We saw a few blurry scenes from the Bocuse d'Or, which appears to be the most crappily filmed "elite competition" of all time.
• Smirky Jen smirkily told us that she would "make Turducken." But just a lie … a smirky, smirky lie.
• During the elimination challenge, BxgrlJeri accurately observed: "Eli is cooked, unlike his lamb."

Ah yes, what a time it was, that Wednesday evening of a fortnight past! As is my wont, I've compiled a selection of my favorite comments from it in a post that's linked right here. I've also watched couple of preview clips of the upcoming episode, and having done so, I suggest we watch for following things to happen tonight:

• Kevin will sport more of that new "Sienfeld low-flow showerhead" hairstyle we caught a few glimpses of last week.
• The chefs will all cook aboard a train bound for a vineyard, because … ah, who the hell knows?
• One chef will be eliminated at the end, just like in any other episode. Because these "finale, part 1" episodes are always just a regular episodes in disguise. But that's OK. At least it got us the hell out of Vegas.

So as Sheryl Crow once sang, let's pour a drink, pull the blind and wonder what we'll find. In my case, I hope what I find will be the TV remote. I've been looking everywhere for that damn thing.

There is a place where the episode ends
And before the show begins
And there the chefs grow soft and white,
And there Jen's face burns crimson bright,
And there the brothers prep for their fight
To ballotine a thing.

Eli fights for Blaise, the Huck to his Tom Sawyer,
absurd, abstract and color blind, just like Indigo Montoya.
For Kev it's honor; for Jen it's pride
For Mike it's stabbing his brother in the side
But for all the chefs there's no nook to hide
Except in the place where the episode ends.

A chicken inside a duck tucked inside a pheasant
A tranny mess, fucked in a dress, triple stuffed protein ain't pleasant.
Jen triumphed though Eli snorted
Mike harumphed but Jen retorted
Kev and Bry were kind and all transported
To the place where the episode ends.

Lamb or salmon, two garnishes and no room for excuses.
[Technical perfection is, after all, the point of all Bocuses.]
Padma, clad in black and white,
Sent the chefs to stew the night
chew their cud and think what's right
to cook in the the place where the episode ends.

And lo, what an expert panel sat, chaired by Thomas Keller
D. Boulud and T Collicks and lotsa other fellas
And how they ate and dissected
Deconstructed and resurrected
Offered harsh critique and invective
In the place where the episode ends.

So the team served their protein on a mirrored platter
Flaws reflected and fillets thin. Some fillets were fatter.
Kev's was simple but Eli's lamb raw
Jen's salmon fishy, Mike's caught in the caw
Thomas Keller liked not what he saw
In the place where the episode ends.

Would any hack it in real competition, one shudders to think.
In a world gone wrong, the nation on the brink,
would you trust Mike's bouche to amuse?
or Eli's fusion not to confuse
or Jen's nerves not to torpedo her rouxs
In the place where the episode ends.

En fin, it was infant Eli whose head he had to lose
And crying he left blubbering "J'accuse!"
But all's fair in love and war and in the Bocuse
In the place where the episode ends.

[Apologies and deep gratitude to Shel Silverstein and Mike Byhoff.]

Of course, we must all be careful not to become to thigh-quivery tonight, lest the lovely Nigella Lawson mistake us for the perfect panna cotta and consume us whole. We wouldn't want that to happen now, would we? Although if it did, more than one of us would probably die happy, judging from several of last week's comments.

As for this happy little live blog: It will get underway at 10 Eastern (when the show starts on Bravo) in the comments section below this post, where any and all readers are welcome to join in the fray. And the fray should be a fun one, if it's anything like last week's was. Here are a few highlights:

• For several commenters, the sight of Nigella and Padma getting room-serviced in bed was a real high point of the season.
• The Prius commercial reminded youngmarblegiant of "Gail and her love of acid."
• Toby Young uttered several pre-scripted gambling-themed quips, but hasn't managed to work the word "craps" into one of them yet. Perhaps he's saving that for the finals?
• Dot came up with a new product idea: The Snuggie Oven Mitt, which protects one's entire body when cooking drunk.
• We were relieved to see the last of Robin, who blamed her demise on an inability to "play it safe"—an apparent euphemism for "cook good food."

There were also many, many funny comments among the 1,000-plus posted over the course of the evening—and I read every one, because that's the kind of devoted live-blog host I am (and also because I have no life). Click here to read a few of my favorites. But before you do, take a gander at this list of things to watch for as we live-blog tonight:

• The chefs will participate in the Bocuse d'Or, which tonight's episode description brags is an "elite cooking competition." I guess that means the cooking competition we've all been watching for the past 10 weeks is more of the chopped-liver variety.
• The guest-judge will be Thomas Keller, who founded the famous French Laundry restaurant in California. He also founded a laundry in France called "The California Restaurant," although few people know this (probably because I just made it up).
• Jen will make turducken, which sounds unwise. Can any food whose name contains the word "turd" be a good thing?

I guess we'll find out soon, my quivery-thighed courtesans. Allez-nous to the live-blog boudoir!

[Image via the NYPL Digital Gallery]

After new castmember Jack Danny (hello, Cheyenne Jackson!) tells Tracy and Jenna that they should be nice to Kenneth because he could be their boss some day, it throws their whole world order out of whack. Tracy decides to get to know Kenneth's future plans to see if he should worry about the way he's treated him. Of course, Kenneth says, in ten years, he hopes to be running the network, except there won't be a network. Burn, NBC! Looks like that Leno experiment will be the death of you.

There was also another great moment with Padma Lakshmi, though it must be unpacked (like a bag lunch) to get to all the layers of diss that it contains (the clip is below). Lakshmi hosts Top Chef on Bravo, which is owned by NBC. Top Chef's biggest sponsor is the "Glad family of products," a phrase that Lady P must know inside and out. To cast her as an egomaniacal version of herself who thinks she invented the sandwich bag (read Glad bag) but doesn't know the name of it will be a real kick in the shins to the people who write the checks for her show. Also, funny. No wonder there won't be a network in 10 years. 30 Rock is trying to put them out of business themselves!

The fasten seat belt sign chimed off and Nigella Lawson, though tired from her Stansted to Vegas direct, lept from her seat. Anticipation, Satyricon lust, anxiety, hope warred in the ample playground of her bosom. Her nipple twitched in anticipation like a runner at the starting blocks. "Will Padma recognize me?" she wondered, grabbing madly at her Blackberry, "Will I recognize her?" The two food porn actresses would be meeting for the first time since they shared a night of wild Sapphic passion at the Food and Wine Classic in Aspen last year. There, on a blanket of pine needles, Nigella had found herself in the circle of Padma's love. And though time and distance had cooled the warmth of that moment, Nigella hoped they could rekindle that spark and that in the hotter climes of Las Vegas, it could flame to contagion.

The whip-p0or-whill mourned the sun as it rose over the Top Chef complex. Inside, six chefs remained, a bunch of culinary Koreshians: Kevin the Redeemer, Eli the Pissant Devil, Jennifer the Dirty Angel, Mike the Mephistopheles, Bryan the CFO of The Afterlife and Robin The Insidious Echo. The chefs rose and entered into the intestines of the Venetian, a hotel that has recreated Italy but without the history, the Vespa fumes, the marble and the art. In a service kitchen, a phone rings. For the Quickfire, they must cook Padma breakfast. She's above them, in a bathrobe, glowing.

In a bathrobe, glowing, Padma wants breakfast. She has company, glowing and breakfast-wanting too. Things went well when Nigella cleared customs. Padma had had a rough week, nay, a rough year, but had buffed her skin to an Indian summer and had sugared her crotch to depilated perfection. Her landing strip was ready. Her breast too heaved with excitement and anticipation and also, since she had just taken a monster hit from Tom Colicchio's dragon bong, coughing. A speck of spittle, like a diamond froth, flecked her lips like in a Marilyn Minter photograph. As soon as Nigella and Padma beheld each other they held each other, one folding into the other like dough to dough. Later, they made love, watched The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 ("This is the most unrealistic movie I've ever seen," said Padma, "and not in a good way either.") and then went back to their twin beds and slept in their bathrobes. They were hungry for eggs.

Eli, fat baby, who doesn't eat breakfast because he's usually up so late at night playing Scrabble with his Mom at the home he shares with his parents, won. His recipe, a morning play on a Reuben sandwich, will be featured in a Top Chef cookbook. "Cool," he said, over and over. "That's cool, Eli," said Kevin and it was clear he did not think either Eli or his recipe were cool. "Cool,' said Eli, in response.

Doing a grave disservice to Las Vegas casinos, the contestants were then sent to be "inspired" by Las Vegas casinos. Eli attends the saddest Circus in the world, Circus Circus. A concession stand sold achos. Fake fare unfair games, manned by real carnies, preyed like leopards on the fat, the slow, the sick, the fannypacked hasbeen and neverwere calves suckling from the teat of capitalism and getting only thin sour milk. Eli correctly noted, "There's no circus at Circus Circus," and headed to a nearby brothel in Ely, NV, to pay $200 for a halfie. Robin went to the Bellagio and got her mind blown by the color there. "I'm an artist," she unhelpfully and incorrectly explains. Mike went to New York New York, home of fake September 11th and began to build a tenuous connection between firefighters and chicken wings. Bryan soberly assessed a shark tank somewhere. Jennifer gots to get completely hammered watching a wizard and wandered aimlessly across a never-ending pattern of carpet vines. Kevin fondled a dolphin. [Kevin: See The Cove and fondle dolphins no more.]

After their breakfasts, Padma felt gassy and Nigella felt jetlagged. Worse, the night of passion had left smoldering ashes. Worse still, it was by the light of their watch fire in the night, that each saw looming over the other the cast of characters and the accumulated responsibility that throttled their love. Padma worried that Nigella couldn't be the mother she wanted for her child. Nigella worried they could not make up for distance and the distance between their years. They knew their love was a fragile Chihuly flower, a suspended iridescent air bubble racing to the water's surface where it would burst to oblivion. Whether she saw its disappearance as freedom or as death was a secret neither Nigella nor Padma wanted the other to know.

Things were tense at the judge's table. Toby Young, like a child acting out during his parents' divorce, tried to break the ice by making some horrendous jokes. No one paid attention. NIgella tried to concentrate but it was all she could do to not break into tears. Her love was intact and at the same time irretrievable, like a memory beyond the grasp of recall or an insect in amber. For her part Padma, caught in a crossfire of emotion, sank into a slo-mo catatonia. The chefs stood in front of her close but far like in a tilt-shift photo, their words mere sounds and their food dead to a tongue once so passionately entangled. Toby Young, a tattler twat, prattled on, prawn-faced and shrimp-souled, a sad malignant skin tag on television, a twit melanoma given a platform, made even more profane by the love and beauty so close to him passing unheeded and uncaught like waves of a deeper frequency to which he will never be attuned.

It was either Sadcircusfatboy Eli, who tried to make soup from white chocolate and cashew nuts, or Cancertalkbot Robin, who made Nerf Panna Cotta, that would be going home. That much was clear. I had hoped it would be both. It was only Robin, who cried and didn't once bring up cancer. [She had cancer.] Her passing was less gleeful than I had hoped. It was more of an execution than a crime of passion. I won't miss her; no one will. She was no good. But neither is Eli and I am sure his parents miss him. Eli, you should go home. Your mother misses you.

The human soul is a stupid thing. Nigella and Padma held hands on the way to the airport. They weren't trying to recapture something they never had had anyway but merely grasp what was left. Hope trumps memory and the heart wisdom. Winsome and weeping, the two women, cocooned in the back seat of a Suburban packed with their baggage, cut through the Vegas traffic. They were deaf to the horns, deaf to reason, deaf to anything but each other. They were in an air bubble hurtling to the surface. Padma sighed and nestled into the nape of Nigella's neck. "We'll always have Vegas," she whispered. Nigella just laughed, looked out at the Strip where the neon lights, shining in the hot sun, futily glowed and awaited the night.

Thank you to Bruce and Mikey Byhoff and hero intern Yoni Lotan for the video.

That start time, as always, will be 10 Eastern, when our favorite show gets under way on Bravo, and the live-blogging gets under way in the comments section below this post. All commenters are welcome to chip in on tonight's quip-fest—which should be a lucky one, because this is Episode 11, and today's date is 11/11, and 11 is a lucky number in Vegas. Or so Wikipedia tells me.

Hey, you know what else Wikipedia tells me? That tonight's guest judge, Nigella Lawson, "has been called the 'queen of food porn.'" This might help explain the allure of the preview clip I watched, in which Nigella and the Padma lounge in hotel beds wearing (only?) bathrobes, and call up room service asking for a chef to bring them something delicious for breakfast—and then smile slyly at one another. It looks like the start of the most awesome "food porn" flick ever made. Sadly, it's really just a start a quickfire challenge. But hey, I can always dream, can't I?

Before I do any dreaming, though, let me run through a few highlights from the last episode—the one two weeks ago, I mean (Last week they showed a reunion special, which sucked, so we won't discuss that here—although we did have fun live-blogging it). So, during Episode 10 …

• Many of us were struck by Mike I.'s comment that he was "losing time like a banshee," mainly because we were unaware that banshees had poor time management skills.
• We learned that Robin had hippie parents. Moral: Don't be a hippie parent.
• Eli declared that Star Wars was "the only important thing Natalie Portman has done," thereby ensuring that he well never get laid by Natalie Portman. Or course, he never would have in the first place, so he didn't really lose anything there.
• Toby young made it through the entire episode without saying anything stupid. But that's only because he never showed up.
• When Mike I. was eliminated, several commenters spontaneously declared: "Ding dong the douche is dead!" And there was much joy in Live Blog Oz. Even the Winkie guards joined in the celebration—or at least, I'm sure they would have, if any Winkie guards had been live-blogging along with us.

By the way, if you're wondering what a Winkie guard is, click here. And if you want to see a selection of funny comments from our Episode 10 live blog, click here. When you're ready to live blog, don't click anything, just join me in the comments section below.

Instead of opening to a buzzing chorus and a heat-seaking Slushie cruising down the hallway, we are introduced to Fabio, who will be the heavily-accented Virgil for our tour through this fresh hell. Apparently this episode is meant to show us what all of our favorite Glee club members are going to look like in 10 years. Apparently they have all become chefs and been on some sort of reality show, but not all at the same time. They have also given up singing and dancing, which is sad.

He starts bringing in all these people we don't even recognize. First is some chucklehead who must be Finn after getting married: bloated, haggard, but still walking around with that confidence that says he has the biggest dick in the locker room. Then in saunters Mercedes, the big girl with the big voice and plenty of sass to back it up. She's also pulled a Michael Jackson and lightened her skin a whole lot.

Then the Will Schuester arrives. He is going by Ilan these days, and he is still cute in a nerdy way and a little bit too earnest. Shortly after comes Puck, throwing about oblivious bravado just like he used to swings about his massive man guns, except now his mohawk has grown out into a nest of scary nettles. Babygay Kurt's has grown into chubby adolescent and screeches when he sees the sexy and kinda mean Quinn Fabray, who has dyed her hair brown and is wearing a very cute outfit that is nothing like a cheerleader's uniform. They are joined by some guy named Hung who was one of those silent Asians in the background of the Glee club who they trot out whenever they need someone to do break dance moves.

Next is Ken Tanaka, with a face that looks like it was attacked by a hive of bees and a haircut only a lesbian could love. Speaking of which, in saunters Sue Motherfucking Sylvester. Well, at least we thought so, until we realized that this dykey lady was about as funny as spending a night in county jail for public urination. What could have happened to ruin her spirit?

Finally the diva of the show arrives, but Rachel has gone from an awkward, strangely attractive and totally totally self absorbed bitch into an awkward, strangely attractive tall black woman with giant eyes. She's not nearly so full of herself though. Then we see that pot-dealing, Josh Groban-loving Sandy has gone back in the closet. What a sad day to see him without the protection of a sherbet colored sweater tied around his neck like he was pretending to drive to the country club.

Now that we've met the dramatis personae, we're ready for them to start talking about how they're going to put on the show. A little doo-wop and be-bop later, and we'll have ourselves a cheerleader-themed production number that will make every hair on your body stand on end for two whole minutes before falling off your body in exhaustion. It's like the television equivalent of a full-body wax, and it hurts so good. Well, they start talking...and talking and talking. We keep seeing flashbacks of them actually doing things—namely cooking and bitching at each other—but now that are not doing anything. It's like a third year high school reunion, where everyone is still far too familiar and the wounds are as fresh as newly-picked hemlock.

Fabio the Fabulous must be the director, because he's going around and talking to everyone and trying to find out about their character's motivations. We're ready for him to start blocking a scene or something, but instead he just seems to be practicing to host a reality show all his own. Finally, he starts to get things rolling by pulling out this crazy block with a bunch of knives sticking out of it. We get prepared for the massacre, as each gang of two (or three in the case of Babygay Kurt, Quinn, and nameless Asian) draws their weapon. But they're not fighting, they're just randomly assigning numbers. Somehow this translates into Rachel and Sandy having to make dessert, which is funny because Rachel would never eat dessert or else it would ruin her elliptical-based aerobic exercise regime and Sandy only eats dessert when he's stoned. Any situation this tedious would probably sober him up right quick.

Next thing you know, everyone is in the supermarket. This is like some kind of fever dream, when you expect to see Judy Garland dance with Mickey Rooney, and instead you get a Nicolas Cage chewing the scenery up and down a liquor store aisle as he fulls his cart full of the booze that he's going to use to kill himself. But instead of Nic's bad hair, you have a whole bunch of bad lesbian hair all competing for your attention. And it is dotted with all these wretched reminders of better days, when they were playing this awesome game that was judged by beautiful, wise, and witty people, including Parvati, the Hindu goddess of love. But these xenophobes keep mispronouncing her name and calling her Padma. God, Americans are so stupid. There is no mention of the evil goddess Kali, who once ruled the land, but was replaced by someone more charismatic and photogenic.

Then they go back and cook, but not in a way like they're actually trying to get something done (except for nameless Asian who is all high kicks and head spins around that kitchen like he's the third chorus boy in Barefoot Contessa: The Musical!) Rachel is talking about how stressful life is as a star. Sandy is walking around trying to prove how straight he is by hitting on all the lesbians. The lesbians are rolling their eyes, and Sue Motherfucking Sylvester doesn't even threaten one person except with her scowl, which could peel the hides off of a battered cardboard box of newborn puppies.

Director Fabio is making the rounds and asking everyone what they are doing, but we don't really care. We're just thinking that after this extravaganza of tedium that there has to be a great closing number with tap dancers, showgirls in headdresses, and stairs that light up when they are stepped on. Instead they all sit down to dinner. The only way this could be good is if Fabio puts on a corset and a curly wig gets Rachel in a maid's outfit and Finn as a bald butler to flank him for a rendition of "Eddie's Teddy" from Rocky Horror Picture Show, and at the end of the number he rips the table cloth off the table to reveal the body of dead goddess Kali below. But they don't, and we still don't know what happened to Kali Joel.

Instead, they sit around and talk about how hard it is to be on reality television and how no one understand them. Puck has it the worst, apparently, but it seems he deserves it because he behaves so appallingly that it makes it seem like he has some sort of personality disorder. In the middle of all this, Fabio gets all incensed for no reason. We think he's going to suddenly blow his top and scream "prostitution whore" and flip over a table, but instead he just makes some speech that we couldn't quite understand because the only Italian words we know are puttanesca and DiGiorno, which we think means delivery.

They're all eating and everyone likes most of the food, except everyone agrees that Babygay Kurt's pirogi thing is about as bad as that "Single Ladies" song the millionth time you've heard it. Then there are more memories, good and bad and more bitching. We have to check the calendar, because it seems like Thanksgiving came early this year, except we don't get to eat any of our mother's famous Indian Pudding (maybe Parvati stole it?) and we just get all the fighting. Finn tries to keep everything positive, but despite the swagger, no one listens to him anymore because he's fat now. Quinn and Rachel try to make nice and say that Rachel has forgiven Quinn for ruining her life, but we know she was kicking her under the table through the entire meal. She has very long legs now.

After more misty watercolor memories of everyone playing and getting drunk in some dirty room that must be Mercedes' basement where everyone goes to party after an especially tough rehearsal, the whole thing is over. Like sex with a bad hooker or a community theater production of Into the Woods, it ends with no climax, with no big final scene, and it took way too long to get there. We can't wait for next week when everything is back to normal, because this episode of Glee sucked.

As you may have guessed from my opening greeting, Carla will be among the guests. Other memorable chefs from seasons past include Fabio, Stefan, Dale, Hung, Marcel, Casey, Ilan, Harold, and Tiffani. They're so memorable, I don't even have to use their last names!

As usual, the show starts 10 Eastern, and we'll all do the live-blogging in the comments section below. So now's our chance to invent nicknames for cheftestants from the pre-Season 5 era! Remember that era? Those dark days before the Gawker Top Chef live blog existed … how did we ever survive those days?

Judging from the preview clips of tonight's "All Stars Dinner," the chefs will do a lot of sitting around, drinking wine and getting bitchy with each other. Fabio gets the thankless job of playing the show's "host" and interviewing the others. This means he has to ask them stuff like, "Hey remember dat time you act like beeg asshole? Why'd you act like dat?" Not surprisingly, this won't go over well, and things will get a little ugly—so much so that Fabio will say at one point, "Wait … turn off the cameras!" What will happen after that? Watch with us and find out!

Actually, we probably won't find out what happened after that, because Fabio told them to turn off the cameras. But hey, watch with us anyway!

Regular Top Chef will return on Veteran's Day. If you don't know what day that is then find out! And thank a veteran while you're at it.

[For the All-Star edition we're revisiting a classic video by all-star videographer Mike Byhoff]

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.

In fact, your comments made me laugh so hard, I broke my sauce! (I don't know that means. Ask Jen.) Here's a sampling:

• DahlELama: I can't believe there is a room with two blindfolded Voltaggio boys in it and I'm not there. This is the saddest day.
• WillClark: That's the fastest Eli has run since middle school gym.
• Spirit Fingers: The hell is a sablefish? Are we even following a species chart anymore? Never in my life have I heard of a sablefish. Sounds like a muppet creation.
• ronniedobbs: @Spirit Fingers: It's too close to "silverfish" for my taste.
• son of spam: Padma looks smirky and delicious.
• Mediahohoho: I forget, which hobbit is Eli again?
• xcornmuffinx: @Mediahohoho: If there was a "Dildo Baggins" maybe he'd be that one.
• foshow: Padma! Calm down!
• Dot: Failed Mission.
• ms_priestypants: Why can Eli not properly conjugate verbs?!?!?! That bothers me more than his assiness.
• DahlELama: Oof. Cain and Abel are at it again!
• crookedE: See you later, Invisaline. Or not.

Tonight's edition, I'm sure, will be even more entertaining. Why not join in and share your pithy wit with us? The live blog happens in the comments section below, and the show starts at 10 Eastern on Bravo. I've seen the previews of tonight's episode, and it looks like a real sauce-breaker (dunno, ask Jen). Here are a few things to watch for:

• The quickfire will involve making dinners based on randomly assigned TV shows. Quaker Oats is no longer a Top Chef sponsor, so I guess Mister Ed won't be one of them.
• When the chefs learn that they have to cook for Star Wars starlet Natalie Portman — who is a vegan — several of them look pretty pissed about it. In fact, Count Dooku and Darth Sidious probably never eyed her with such malevolence.
• As usual, Toby Young's role will be the Top Chef equivalent of Jar Jar Binks: He will talk stupidly and we will wish he wasn't there.

But I'm glad you're here. Grab your laptop and have a seat. The show's about to start!

[Image via Getty]

There are eight chefs—Dirty Jen, Angel Kevin, Deadweight Laurine, Humanjunk Isabella, Cancer, Fatbaby Eli and the Brothers Voltaggio—left standing and a gaping hole in their hearts after Ass Fuck was booted off last episode. In the vacuum a new protagonist has entered. Her name is rancor and she's real mean. Everyone hates Cancer; Cancer hates everyone; Michael Voltaggio hasn't yet learned yelling "Relax!" at somebody does not make them obey—and conversely, yelling "Obey!" at someone doesn't make them relax. He continues to antagonize his older brother Bryan who is one day going to pummel Michael bloody. I personally feel a great deal of hatred for Mike Isabella who, if he expended as much effort on cooking well and not being such an ass as he does on whiny sycophantic writhing to avoid responsibility, might be a good chef.

At the M Resort kitchen—M Resort! M Resort! I get it, M Resort! It's like a series of small concussions that leave dangerous tau levels by the end of season—the Quickfire challenge is a culinary exquisite corpse. Actually, I think, along with the Mise en Place Relay Race, one of the best challenges. Padma is wearing some whack shirt with words printed on it and next to her is fish chef Rick Moonen, who looks like Brian Lehrer but plus thirty pounds. The challenge was essentially straightforward and on some levels a more apt metaphor for sustainability than the producer's intended (we are largely blind to the generations that have come and ignorant of the generations to follow. We inherit this Earth as guardians and do our best not to fuck it up too bad. At the end, a bearded angelic man will the eschatological janitor, trying to clean up the end of the world, approx. 2012.) A more trenchant moment, metaphorically, metaphysically and meta-y—is when the cheftestants were asked to pull knives out of an unknowable block and there was nothing written on them, save for two knives inscribed, First Choice and Second Choice, respectively. Isn't that almost Calvinism exactly? Calvinism mixed with Existentialism equals deep sadness. The knife has nothing on it. The knife has nothing on it. The knife has nothing on it. Then you die. Nothing, brought to you by the makers of You.

On to Restaurant Challenge! Well-advisedly, the producers decided to forego the dumbest part of the challenge: decorating. Perhaps five seasons of very ugly looking restaurants is enough. Instead the teams—The Great Blue Yonder (JenSexJen, Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie Laurine, Stairway to Kevin, Meatus Murder) against The Bolsheviks (Volcanaggio, The Dad, Fatboy Fat, and Ask Me About Herb-a-Life)—had only to concentrate on the food. They went shopping. They talked about some shit. Kevin et al took their name—and to some extent their concept—from Mission style architecture, which was brainy. The Bolsheviks chose Revolt because, you see, R is for Robin, E is for Eli, and the first syllable of the last name of one half of the team is Volt. And then because Communism is cool and Yay for Stalin and Yippee for Castro and hats off to Mao (and while we're at it, kudos to Ceauşescu!). Intonation is no match for ideology.

Everyone who has read this far has seen the episode, I'm guessing so let's—as is by now tradition—Word Tivo to the outcome. Some quick notes before we press fast forward: Mike Voltaggio can be a real dick sometimes. Robin probably doesn't deserve the scorn heaped upon her. Bryan Voltaggio really faltered here but I wonder if—in the larger scheme of things—whether it is more important to be an okay person (or at least edited down to an okay person) with whom to work and a very very good chef than it is to be an excellent chef but a complete twatty tool. Eli is full of himself and not a great talker. Note to Eli: You are not a great talker. Kind of nasal. Thankyousomuch. Thankyousomuch. Thankyousomuch. Now take your 10K and put that toward getting your own place. Oh! And also, tuck in your fucking shirt, you knob. Just because your E is backwards doesn't mean you can dress down. Have you seen Young Stalin? Sure he had smallpox scars but he cut a dashing figure heisting banks in Georgia.

And now to the Mission! Misery Mission. Mission To Sad. In short, everything sucked. Nothing is sacred. Jen is in the weeds. And a liar. Molly Ringwald was In the Weeds. Eric Bogosian was In the Weeds. Jennifer Carroll was the all-night partier in Slacker. She couldn't cook her fish, but at least she could identify it. Her butter sauce broke which, in case you are wondering, means the fats and the oils separated (I made that up. If someone actually knows, please inform.) Kevin did one thing okay (pork, duh) and effed up the other (lamb). Fartdick sounding-enthusiast Mike Isabella made two boring dishes (ah, the embassy of mediocrity). Laurine just in general tarted about in the front of the house with few responsibilities and even less ability to fulfill them. In the end, she went home, of course. She probably shouldn't have based on one night's performance (the fault rested firmly at SexJenSex's feet) but we all know Top Chef's unities and rule of law credentials are hooey.

At 10:15pm, when the episode ended, some lessons had been learned: No one is infallible. Steaming clams to order is a bad idea. Sustainable fisheries are good. And when we finally do pull the cosmic knife from the block of life, on it will be written Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Thank you to Jonathan Lotan for the video. Mike Byhoff, feel better soon.

I am conflicted no longer: The man's just an idiot. I reached this conclusion last week around the time he stated that Jennifer's meal "was like the difference between a shaved armpit and a hairy armpit." Apparently, he meant this as a compliment—Jen's tasty dish made him think of hairy armpits, a connotation he found so funny and apt, he just had to share it with the rest of us. Because, as I said, he's an idiot. So forgive me for having considered the possibility that Young could redeem himself this season. As my dear mother is fond of saying: "Once an unfunny twat, always an unfunny twat!"

Ok, my mother never actually said that. But it's still probably true.

Hey, here's another thing that's probably true—if you join our Top Chef live blog tonight, you will have fun. Just turn on Bravo at 10 Eastern and start posting witty observations in the comments section below. (For a sampling of the wittiest from last week, click here.) Highlights from our last live-blog-apalooza included the following:

• I couldn't think who chef Charlie Palmer reminded me of, until commenter unclevanya pointed out looks like Frank Nelson, the actor who'd say "yeeeesss?" on old episodes of The Jack Benny Show and I Love Lucy (Click here and compare)!
• Having dined at Jen's 10 Arts in Philly, ms_priestypants posted a review of the meal—which was surprisingly lukewarm. The review that is; not the meal.
• Beardo, who has a pig tattoo, won the pork-themed elimination challenge. What's more, Eli, the quickfire winner, has an Alexia Crunchy Snacks tattoo! Weird, huh?
• We dubbed Ash "Top Bottom" because he's always in the bottom three (among other reasons). He was then promptly eliminated, which always seems to happen just when we come up with a good nickname.

As for tonight, well—I'm psyched. I've watched the previews, and it appears to have all the makings of an episode so good that even the crudest of body-hair-related quips from Toby Young couldn't' spoil it.

First, there's a quickfire "blindfold relay race" thing that looks like a truly fascinating challenge. Also, this is the "restaurant wars" ep, which is always entertaining. Also-also, Robin and Bryan will be on the same team and get all up in each other's faces! Robin should just create her own show called Everybody Hates Robin. She's like Project Runway's Wendy Pepper—but with cancer!

Finally-also, the guest judge will be the always-likeable Rick Moonen, who probably could have won Top Chef Masters last spring if he hadn't blown his chances by plating his quickfire dish too late. Hopefully, he won't blow tonight's judging assignment by eating too slowly.

Yes sir, this should be a good one. So get ready to boot up, drink up and whip out the witticisms! But nothing about food and body hair, please. That's not witty.

A mustache grew in Las Vegas last night, on the upper lip of Charlie Palmer. Something was raised last night in Las Vegas, the voices of the brothers Voltaggio. A whine from the mouth of Eli issued under the Nevada firmament. Something eclipsed the hot sun, momentarily, the large hat of Padma Lakshmi moving sedately, pausing, pregnantly. Someone survived cancer last night. Someone braised pork belly, and as the harpsichord of the heavens plucked dawn's strings, one pig met his posthumous fame, dancing a little jig on the Etch-a-Sketch of the public consciousness before being shaken again to oblivion. Garçon, fill me up!

The scene opens with Charlie Palmer, Matt Dillon plus age plus hair plus talent, in the kitchen, along with Padma Lakshmi wearing Nancy Sinatra boots and—frankly, I couldn't tell you what else because her face is so pretty I only look at that but my wife says it wasn't pretty what she was wearing which makes her 0/2 (with the jumpsuit). Charlie Palmer is to American cuisine what Evander Holyfield was to heavyweight boxing: the real deal. New Yorkers probably know him best for the recently re-opened Aureole but he also has some sort of Boschian enterprise in Las Vegas wherein wine-angels flit around transforming grape juice into pure profit. Another measure of his caliber is that two of the top contestants, the Brothers Voltaggio, worked with him in his kitchen, Bryan for ten years, Mike as Executive Chef for one. Palmer had the honor of announcing the Quickfire Challenge: pairing food with some shitty new prepackaged chip snacks called Adventis, Adrongia or something. Dementia? Advertia? Advertia, yeah, that sounds about right. Anyway, having a chef as high caliber as Mr. Palmer judge a challenge based on a chip is like having John Currin judge a painting contest based on painting with diarrhea. And you couldn't use a brush either. Anyway, Eli won the quickfire. That was fine by all involved.

Everybody who is reading this—I assume—was present for Hippity's liveblog so there isn't any need for me to rehash the particulars of the Elimination Challenge. Suffice to say, contestants were asked to pair their pork dish to a particular wine for Charlie Palmer's big charity event Pigs & Pinot which benefits Share Our Strength. They drew knives indicating which part of the pig they would use and then Padma led in a Mangalitsa hog .The contestants quickly clustered around the terrified animal, no one wanting to plunge their dagger first. Finally, Jennifer Carroll who said, "I did this shit all the time in North Philly," gouged out the animals voicebox—which she made a lovely souffle from—so at least one couldn't hear the beast's cries as the other contestants solemnly but fanatically set about carving up the still thrashing animal. Kevin hacked off the beast legs and as it wriggled like a beached porpoise to the studio's door in a desperate escape attempt, Mike Isabella attempted to tackle it. Wet with blood, however, it shot pigskin-like, across the room and into a boiling vat of Charlie Palmer.

Contestants went home to wash away their sins in the purifying ritual of being annoyed all by the same person and we viewers at home too were abluted by our communal hatred for Robin Leventhal. Robin Leventhal, \self-righteous cancer-surviving yogi. Well known is my disgust—although a disgust tempered by commenter defenses which struck me as reasonable—of Robin's cashing in on her unfortunate medical history for a cheap Quickfire victory. But how her cancer had metastasized to pervade every shred of her being with a holier-than-thou survivor mentality wasn't fully revealed until the talkative tan tank was left to scribble in the lines of her own insanity with a never-ending monologue. Sure, Eli is a whiny kid but the rest of the contestants—even Angel Kevin—can't stand her. What's a poor wretch to do in her midst? Continually kowtow to her story; spend the rest of ones life with one hand cupping her drybreast to feel her heartbeat and the other patting her on the back? Her life-affirmation is deadening. Her cancer may yet prove fatal for it has rendered Robin chronically insufferable.

But lest one imagine all victims are craggy cheesefaced loonies, one need only look at the episode's guest, Food+Wine Editor Dana Cowin who, in 2008, was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer which required "chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, removal of the ovaries and fallopian tubes, radiation, and breast reconstruction"
Amazingly, in all of her 45 seconds on screen, Dana Cowin didn't mention her cancer once! Not once! Instead she talked about the food and the flavors. She liked Jennifer's, she loved Michael Voltaggio's, she lerved Bryan Voltaggio's, she coo'd for Kevins. But did she say, "Oh, this pork rillette is like the cat food I had to eat when I was getting chemotherapy but I survived. Oh Padma, you should be very grateful you got pregnant for life is precious. I know because I had cancer."? No, she did not. She's left cancer behind her. And Robin, who will be eliminated next week during restaurant wars or else this world makes no sense and there's no sense in saving it from global warming because we're all just a bunch of fools, would be a much more likeable and sane person if she let it go too.

Video: Mihkail Byhoffski

In fact, the "fab four" look like such surefire finalists, the only mystery over the next month will be order in which the "drab five" disappear. Will Laurine's near-constant state of invisibility become permanent tonight? Will the Jersey Douche linger on like a summer's eve? I suppose we could always add interest by trying to guess the exact order of the next five eliminations … Eli-Donna-Ash-Mike-Laurine? Mike-Eli-Donna-Laurine-Ash? Did you know that there are 125 possible permutations? That's 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1—fascinating, huh?

Ok, that's not fascinating. Anyway, I think the best way make up for the lack of suspense is by entertaining one another, as we always do, with our rapier-like wit during our weekly live blogs—like the one that's about to start right here, tonight! If you're a regular, welcome back. If you you're not, why not become one? The party happens in comments section below, where we start live-blogging Top Chef at 10 pm Eastern (and perhaps Glee before then).

Last week's edition featured many great comments (click here for a sampling). Here are a few highlights from high time we had:

• During the quickfire challenge, the slot-machine-assigned dish descriptions evoked several "rembrances of flings past." Lizawithazee, for example, recalled a "tart romantic Latin American" she knew once, while SuzyO said she'd dated an "adventurous crispy Asian." And as for the "adventurous nutty American," well … haven't we all fallen for one of those at one time or another?
• I was creeped out by a Tabasco ad that showed just how scary your nightmares can be if you eat too much hot-sauce-coated pizza just before bedtime. Click here to see for yourself … if you dare!
• More commenter "field reports" were filed on contestants' restaurants. Mo MoDo told us about her dinner at Brother Bryan's Maryland eatery, Volt. We also heard new reports on Eli's, Hector's and Kevin's Atlanta eateries from new commenter Jennifer000 (aka Jenner000100, Jennifer000100200, etc. … the numbers in her name kept mysteriously multiplying).
• Ashley got the axe, and many of us will miss her. We will not miss her fake-tuxedo T-shirt, however.

• I've also studied the permutations of two preview clips of tonight's episode, and suggest we watch for the following as we live blog tonight:

  • In the latest chapter of their pathetic, "needy biddy vs. nerdy bully" psychodrama, Eli will yell at Robin, "You're not my mother!" But really, she might as well be, given that he's such a son of a bitch.
  • The contestants will help guest-judge Charlie Palmer host one of his "Pigs and Pinot" events. I've never attended one of these events, but I'm sure we've all been to a few parties that match the description, huh?

  Like this one, in fact (minus the pigs). So grab some pinot, and let's get pithy!

  [Image via Shop Rock America]

Dear Leó Jafar,

By now you must have realized that at some point before she was your mother, your mother, Padma Lakshmi, was pregnant with you. You might as well know that I, Joshua David Stein, am your maybe father. And if, as too often it comes to pass, fathers speak not to sons and sons search in the apocryphal dusk of genealogy for a father to call their own, I'd like to impart to you some things I've learned watching your mother in her role as television hostess of the fifth season of Top Chef. You know, she wasn't always the star of a crappy sitcom. At one time, she held court for a kitchen full of fools and Calphalon.

Perhaps that's uncharitable. FIrstly, Leo Jafar, don't be unkind. Faced with a rigged slot machine, the culinary equivalent of the Great Automatic Grammatizator, chefs were given a short amount of time to make a dish based on three jumbly words sets of which seemed to describe your mother perfectly. [Sweet, Tart, Asian] [Blue, Cheese, Mediterranean] [Piquant, Slow, Pretty]. Amazingly, minor failings in execution notwithstanding, they ably completed this. The challenge was paid for by Cookster.com, a website. Today they featured your mother as author of the day. That's strange and exactly how the world works. Transparency is the last refuge of scoundrels.

For the elimination challenge, son, chefs were formed into randomly knife-block generated pairs and asked to cook for the Macy Culinary Council, the Council on Foreign Relations for the retail giant, in a manner the contestants thought would be pleasing to the five Grand Wizards—Tyler Florence aka Malcolm McDowell; Nancy Silverton, aka Andie MacDowell; Tom Douglas aka Edward MacDowell; Takashi Yagihashi aka Roddy MacDowell and Govind Armstrong aka The Rock—using ingredients found in their bags. Son, do not take bags full of food from strangers and just because your mother knows them, doesn't mean they are good people. She was once married to a man who was under fatwah. But don't ask her about that because she is still sensitive about it. As you'll find out, love doesn't always last and people change but as Ray Davies once sang, "People often change, but memories of people can remain."

This, though, is the real lesson: Working in pairs is difficult. It's much like a marriage and here is what to know: Don't be an asshole. As you'll have noticed, last night, Gashmouth Isabella and Robin Cancer were teamed up together. Robin is annoyingly verbose and has a martyr complex. Gashmouth Isabella is arrogant though his self-regard is unwarranted. Gashmouth didn't listen to one word Cancer said and, in fact, told the camera that he was essentially giving her busy work and then throwing it out. Both characters are useful object lessons. First, don't be an asshole, or if you must be, don't be so loud about it. Gashmouth is a great example of what an asshole is and why no one likes him. No one likes Robin Leventhal because she is an annoying sofa of a human but compared to Gashmouth, one can't help but root for her. As for Cancer, take from her that if you should always be thinking whether people like you or not. For if they don't, as in the case of Cancer, and they probably won't, you are, after all, your father's son, don't lie down for them. Don't content yourself being led by the nose like a mute ox to the slaughterhouse for the unknown road always leads there.

Next is this, drawn from the pairing of Michael Voltaggio and Ass Fuck. Beyond the frontier of respect for others is the heath of self-deprecation. Journey, if you must, to the very edge but don't venture too far afield lest you, like Ass Fuck, undercut yourself to buttress others. Like Robin Ass Fuck was led down a road unknown but unlike Robin Ass Fuck was liked. He was wise to surrender to the superior talent of Voltaggio for his own gain. Nevertheless, his groveling before the judges, comparing Voltaggio to Picasso, was counterproductive and frankly, embarrassing. Know your audience, know you're in a competition. Know, Leo Jafar, that at any moment your friends can and will turn on you. Today's friend is tomorrow's enemy and the social fabric knitting us together is all too easily ruptured by ideology, self-interest and, well, anti-Semitism. This doesn't mean you shouldn't form alliances. But do as Kevin and Jennifer or as Roosevelt and Stalin did: work together but yield little, give less and in no way undercut your ability to defend yourself in the future.

Two more things: Don't listen to spotty squinty bald gits. Monet is as good close up as he is far away. Learn from your mother and her friends, when someone spouts readymade poorly conceived bons mots give them the cold shoulder. Don't deign to respond with the unnecessary but not incorrect observation, "You, Sir, are a useless combination." Simply don't respond and perhaps Toby Young will disappear back into the warm yucky canal from whence he came.

Finally, call me. Reconcile if we aren't already reconciled. Don't wait until it's too late, until our detente is merely symbolic. It was just Yom Kippur and I know I'm a little late but I'm sorry for anything I might have done to hurt you. As for Padma, if you see her say hello. I hope both she and you are doing well.

Love,
Your Maybe Father,
Joshua David Stein

PS Thank Mike Byhoff for the video if you ever see him around.

For example, when last we gathered, we saw the gay card trump the poor-immigrant card, as Ron was booted over Ash. But what if a chef has played both gay and poor-childhood cards, as Ashley has? Is that enough to trump Robin's powerful cancer card? Of course, none of this creates much suspense about who the final four will likely be (i.e., Jen, the brothers and Beardo), since the talented-chef card probably trumps all others. You don't need to consult According To Hoyle to figure that one out.

And you don't need to consult anything (other than your wits) to join this live-blogging game we play here each Wednesday night. So why not pull up a chair and sit in? Just turn on Bravo at 10pm Eastern and start quipping in the comments section below. Here are few highlights from last week—er, last fortnight, I should say:

• We finally came up with a good nickname for oft-invisible Laurine: "Invisaline" (courtesy of commenter DahlELama). But this probably just means she's next to go since, for some reason, chefs always seem to get the boot right after we come up with a good name for them.
• Two more commenters shared field reports on their recent dining experiences in cheftestants' eateries. Lizawithazee told us that she found the food at Ashley's place of employment, Branzino, to be "quite delicious" (read her report here). Meanwhile, at 10 Arts in Philly, where Jennifer C. is executive chef, commenter Mo MoDo enjoyed "about the best breakfast I've ever had" (more here).
• It was also Mo MoDo, by the way, who speculated that Mike I.'s food probably tastes "vinegary" … because he's such a douche.

Many of you made many more funny comments — a collection of which is linked here. So I suggest y'all read them, right after you're done reading the following list of "things to watch for tonight":

• Mike I. and Eli will tussle over Asian mushrooms. Apparently, the shit-talkers really love their shitakes.
• We will hear several references to the word "umami," which I had to look up in the dictionary. Apparently, it describes "a taste sensation that is meaty or savory and is produced by several amino acids and nucleotides." So there you have it. Why not say "umami" during your next restaurant visit? Impress your friends!
• The chefs will cook for the members of the "Macy's Culinary Council"—which reminds me that, somewhat implausibly, Macy's is a sponsor of this show. I guess it's only a matter of time before Top Chef gets a "Macy's Food Accessory Wall."

• One last thing, before we this game underway: That "MisterHippity is the father of Padma's baby" story that's been floating around? Not true. I felt I really ought to try to nip that rumor in the bud (especially since I'm the one who started it).

  Besides, we all know that Tom Colicchio is probably the father. If the baby is born bald, we'll know for sure.

  [Image via the justified sinner's flickr]

And it's a bun! That's right. Padma Lakshmi, the gorgeous, allluring, beautiful, exotic, wonderful, slow-talking, beautiful, gorgeous host of Top Chef is with child. No one is saying who the father is, as of yet, and Padma is keeping a low profile, since her battle with endometriosis means its a high-risk pregnancy. We wonder if the cheftestants will have to cook extra in those Quickfire Challenges if she's eating for two.

In other good news, three of the channel's other reality stars—Real Housewives of New York's Bethenny Frankel, Top Chef's Fabio Viviani, and Project Runway's Christian Siriano—have been given shows of their own. Well, it appears that Bravo got custody of it's little gay stepchild during the divorce with Runway! Siriano will have a show about setting up his own business as a designer. This is going to be a must-watch, catch phrase-spewing machine.

Viviani will also have a show about his business, as he tries to take over California with his charm and accent. Frankel will just be saying bitchy things to the camera and getting in fights with Kelly Bensimon for an hour each week. We wish. Actually, we're going to have to watch her cook and try to make sweet, sweet love to the men of New York. I spotted her at a party the other night on the arm of a very handsome gentleman, indeed, so at least there will be some eye candy. Anyway, now that Bravo is spawning its own stars and giving them their own shows, just how long before it folds in on itself in a black hole of meta? Not sure, but I'll probably be watching when it happens.

[Image via Getty]