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]

The night began next to a drunken Atlanta business man named David to whom the premise needed to be explained. He made a lot of jokes about his wife being in the bathroom giving birth. Later he showed me that he had texted her, "Watching Top Chef with a bunch of freaks at bar. Plot difficult 2 follow." For the practiced eye, however, it wasn't.

Like Spanish moss, victim politics swathed last night's episode. At this point the producers are courting it, like a Freudian psychologist eager to bring out the deeper issues of leaving the toilet seat up (anger at mother, fear of abandonment, etc). For the Quickfire, the chefs were challenged to produce a dish embodying the dichotomy between good and bad, or as Jung might say the anima and the shadow. Clearly someone in the producer's booth is a Manichean. Bryan Voltaggio did something smart, a play on darkness and light. Michael made salmon two ways. Kevin put down some fat bacon which turned guest judge Michelle Bernstein into an orchard of desire. But, all was for naught. You see, Robin Leventhal had lymphoma. Little Robin Leventhal had lymphoma and so let no lack of talent, no logorrhea nor the fruits of competition stand in her way. It's like she said, "My mother died," in the middle of a Snaps competition; it's an automatic win but a dirty one. For just as Yo' Mama jokes don't take literal aim at one's mother—Do you really think I think when your mother wears a Malcolm X t-shirt helicopters try to land on her? Do I have that low esteem of helicopter pilots? Have I even seen an X t-shirt for years? Why aren't any on eBay?—neither should the challenge have occasioned such a visceral and weighty response.

Eli's well-directed anger, as well as my own, I suppose, isn't so much because Robin had cancer, though we all hate cancer, but because she's profane enough to capitalize on it for an ultimately petty goal. It's really a matter of cynical and disproportionate use of force. It's just like Sabra and Shatila. See? I'm allowed to deploy that because I'm Jewish.

On to the elimination challenge—what a relief. Escaping that last graf was as hard as getting out of Treblinka!—to deconstruct a well-known dish. By the way, at this point the drunk business man David next to my wife and I were fully enthralled in the show, so much so that he spilled wine all over his penis area trying to unmute the television at the end of a commercial break.

Another great challenge, I'd say, for it truly is a technical one and useful for separating the wheat—the Voltaggio's, Jen Carroll, Kevin Gillespie—from the chaff. Chaff like gash mouth face fuck Isabella who didn't know what Eggs Florentine is. "They're Eggs Foreigntome," he says and feels real clever; Laurine, whose cachet briefly rose when she talked smack on RobinWon'tShutUpCancerTit, but royally fucked up making potato chips and Papa Ron didn't know what either paella or deconstruction meant. Ashley was poor growing up and didn't eat pot roast. ["That boy is pretty," said David.] On the wheatier side of things, Jennifer Carroll deconstructed meat lasagna though it was well beyond her ken but not of her ability. Kevin Gillespie from nearby Atlanta—in fact, during the show, one of the chefs from the Avia Hotel stopped by to tell us he had done his stage under Gillespie and that he had been a consummate intense and very talented chef under whom to work—was selected to (de)make Chicken Molé Negro, a task as difficult as unravelling a black belt Gordian knot made of X'chatik chilis, chocolate and bloodsugarsexmagic. Amazingly he did it which means Ron was finally voted off this island which means we no longer have to be made to feel uncomfortable by his hulking hapless presence and that, finally, we can discuss Toby Young.

Toby Young may be a friend of Gawker somehow but he is no friend of mine. As soon as he stops acting like a twat-for-forehead, beads-for-eyes, mulch-for-brains asshole, perhaps then we can found a truth and reconciliation committee. But until then, don't fucking mispronounce paella, per CC "pa-eya", as, per CC and linguistic British imperialism coupled with ignorance, "pay-ella." Furthermore, when Tom Colicchio, who actually is a chef, calls you out on it, hang your dickball head and silently assent to his superiority. Finally, learn about food. You knew you were coming back on the show which is still, in some small way, about food. Didn't your, "This fennel tastes like anise," comment humiliate you enough last season? Apparently not, for one must have pride before it can be wounded. Maybe if you had had cancer or if your balls were as big as Salman Rushdie's, you might know. Also, your mother is so fat when she wears a Malcolm X t-shirt, helicopters try to land on her and I mean that.

Video by Michael Byhoff.

The object of my conflict is Toby Young, who (judging from Bravo's preview teasing) is set to return as a judge tonight. As veterans of this live blog know, Toby was the object of a fair amount of commenter heckling last season, since many of us found him to be annoying and his jokes to be lame and pre-scripted-sounding. So I was ready write something catty about him this week. But then Gawker surprised me by posting this "Report from inside the Emmys" yesterday, penned by none other than Toby Young (who is introduced in the post as a "friend of Gawker"!). And the piece is actually (I think) rather charming and funny.

So now I don't know what to think: Is Toby on the road to redemption? Should we actually start to—gulp—like him, especially if he's less grating this season and drops the dumb jokes? This "Toby question" is something I suggest we discuss tonight during tonight's Top Chef live blog.

"What's a Top Chef live blog" I hear some of you ask? Why, it's a place were Gawker readers convene and comment on the broadcast as it happens (starting at 10 Eastern on Bravo). Why not join us? It's always fun! Take last week's edition (from which I've posted a few of my favorite comments here). A few highlights from that one follow:

• We learned that Ash was once animal psychologist. I wonder how many bears have been on his couch?
• After Jersey Douche de-slimed a succulent and scored 15 grand, Brian Moylan observed: "If only he could take the slime out of himself like he took the slime out of that cactus."
• Commenters got sick of ceviche, and so did the judges after tasting Tintin's putrid cod concoction. Ron "put de lime in de coconut" (as Mo MoDo put it) but it didn't make the judges feel better.
• Many of us were startled by the appearance of a cheftestant named Laurine, whom we didn't remember ever seeing before. Was she just a desert mirage, or will she appear again tonight?

That's something to watch for … and here are a few other things we can watch for tonight while we're at it:

• Penn and Teller will try to trick us into thinking they have small balls, but will then reveal that their balls are actually quite large. Sadly, this trick isn't as interesting as it sounds.
• The chefs well be given a "deconstruction" challenge—during which, Eli will cleverly deconstruct a pressure cooker using the "explosion" technique.
• Many cheftestants will wear red neckerchiefs in a tribute to Mattin, who was booted last week. When Ashley gets kicked off, I wonder if the other chefs will honor her memory by not washing their hair for a few days?

Also, as noted above, we'll see the return of Toby Young, which I've already suggested we discuss when the show starts. Or better yet, why not start discussing it right away? The Internet pipes are open, and Gawker is accepting your comments now!

[Image via Tony's Blog]

His account follows:

"You're bringing a book?" This was Tom Colicchio's reaction on seeing the paperback in the pocket of my Tux. Had that been a mistake?

It was 1.30pm when I got into the limo with Tom outside our hotel and the Emmys weren't due to start until 5pm. Even factoring in a bit of red carpet action, that was a lot of down time.

Top Chef was nominated for six Emmys this year, including one for hosting and one for outstanding reality show. As a regular judge on the show, I had been flown in by Bravo to attend the ceremony. It felt strange heading over to the event in a limousine with Tom. Back in my days as a hard-drinking rogue journalist I had crashed plenty of award shows, but I'd never been invited to one before.

Gail Simmons was also in the car and we discussed whether to rush the stage if Top Chef won in the hosting category. Technically, the hosts of the show are Tom and Padma — they were the named nominees — but I did my best to convince Gail that if we grabbed the Emmys before them we'd probably be able to keep them.

One of my closest friend in Los Angeles is a television writer and the previous night he'd told me about a similar stunt pulled by a couple of writers on a show he'd worked on that won a Golden Globe. These two writers weren't the named nominees, but they'd rushed the stage, hoping to grab the statuettes, only to be apprehended by security. Afterward, an official of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association came and sat down at their table and told them that all the writers on the show, including my friend, were entitled to take home a Globe. "All you have to do is fill out these forms," he said, pulling a sheaf of documents out of his pocket. The only snag was that they'd have to cough up $750 a piece. "Back then, the Globes weren't as big a deal as they are today," my friend explained. "In retrospect, I wish I'd handed over the cash."

Tom revealed that, as a nominee, he'd had to fill out a long questionnaire sent to him by the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. "One of the questions said, ‘If you weren't an actor, what you be?'" revealed Tom. "I didn't know how to answer that one."

He'd also been sent an elaborate set of guidelines, telling him exactly how to behave if he won. If you were nominated as part of a group, only one member of the group was allowed to speak and if you went on for more than 40 seconds they would cue the orchestra to play you off. Tom didn't think this applied to the hosting category and if he and Padma won they were planning to speak for 15 seconds each.

"Who's going to speak first?" I asked.

"Padma."

"In that case, forget about it. She's just going to carry on talking until they cue the music."

In the event, this wasn't put to the test because the Emmy in question went to Jeff Probst for hosting Survivor. I had joked to Padma the night before that if she didn't win I was going to "do a Kanye", ie, storm the stage, grab the statuette and say, "This should have gone to Padma."

"Oh please, please, please do that," she said, her eyes sparking with mischief.

As anyone who watched the Emmys will know, good sense prevailed. One of the reasons I restrained myself is because I was convinced that Top Chef would win for outstanding reality show and that category was up next. I didn't want to tarnish what would be a proud moment for the show by behaving like a jackass. (There's quite enough of that in each episode.)

I carefully placed the book I'd brought under my chair. Gail and I really would be going up on stage if Top Chef won in this category — "We all go up," Tom explained — and I didn't want to be seen by 13 million people clutching a copy of Hold Tight by Harlan Coben.

Unfortunately, we didn't win for outstanding reality show either. For the third year running, Top Chef was beaten by The Amazing Race. A clip was shown in which a deaf contestant told the host that being in The Amazing Race meant the world to him because it proved that deaf people could achieve their dreams, too. This proved to be such an emotional moment that both the deaf man and the host broke down in tears. Cue rapturous applause in the Emmy auditorium. In the bar afterwards, I told Tom that if we wanted to stand a chance next year we'd have to get some contestants with disabilities.

"That's why we hired you Toby," he said.

Believe it or not, going home empty handed wasn't too much of a blow. We were up against 27 different reality shows in our category — that's how many official submissions there were — and to make it to the final shortlist of six was an achievement in itself. At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I headed off to the HBO party in my limo, reading Hold Tight. In any event, there's always next year …

On a dusty alluvial plain somewhere on the grim scorching prairie of Nevada, the tumbleweed blew as a caravan of Bravo production trucks snaked across the horizon. They had come to lay out the craft table and to construct firepits for a motley crew of cheftestants. In the morning, straight from Whole Foods, like white-toqued mirages, they would be farted from S.U.V.s, directly onto the dusty sweep. There they would find teepees in which to spend the night and firepits with which they would cook their alternately try-hardy and brilliant bids at stardom for ranchers and cowboys. Salt of the earth types, their audience. Along the way, they might discover not only that the heat of an open fire is uneven but that the fire in their breasts was as untrue, flickering and fickle as a late day Mojave dustup.

As the chefs prepared to bed down for the night in tiny two person teepees, there was time in the long-shadowed evening to gaze into the horizon and the future and contemplate how little under the promontory we all are. Flickers in the desert, dots in a buzzard's eye. Introspection and recent aunt-hood spurred Ashley to reverie. She was poor and lived in the woods on food stamps. Papa Doc Ron busied himself ripping apart a tree to build a Voodoo barrier for snakes. Non-person Laurine,, concerned for the dryads therein contained, looked on with horror in her unseeing eyes. Robin Leventhal survived cancer. Tintin-like Mattin waved his scraggly arms in delight and spoke of an ancestral farm. "Zeere were sheeep and hens." (Not mentioned: the pride of unicorns, the bevy of centaurs, the parliament of sequined butterfies.) Gash-mouthed Isabella stuck his penis in his anus and peed and cried himself to sleep because contestants weren't allowed to read Goop and he wanted to know Gwenyth's "fashionating list of Fall (sad face) Winter (even sadder face) trends for 2009/2010."

Aside from the joke contender crazy bad cannon fodder chefs, the minds of the real talent were heavy with the task tomorrow. The red-face Voltaggio, tattooed and cocky, asserted that he wasn't going to debase himself for his hick audience. "You don't change each dish for every customer as they come in," he said, or at least something to that effect, "they come to your restaurant." The right choice considering a) it's true b) though the ranchers might be eating they certainly weren't voting c) despite the ranchers being ranchers, they aren't idiots and can certainly appreciate good food. On the other hand, Cancer wanted to do something like barbecue so she made shrimp and sausage because, as you know, people who work outside have no idea how to eat anything subtle. Older Voltaggio looking like a shaven Wyatt Earp straddled the line, eschewing both Cancer's patronizing attitude or his brother's elitist dashi.

There were a bunch of saveeches made, an interesting choice for a hot day. Papa Doc stormed the kitchen demanding a sword so he could split a coconut in which to put his salmon saveech. Mattin made saveech three ways. Hosea made a saveech out of Leah kisses and Far Side comics. Hung made a saveech out of kosher beef and arrogance. Austin Scarlett made one out of crushed velvet and sidelong glances. Georgia O'Keefe made one out of vaginas and irises. You get the point.

So finally, the gay cowboys shuffle in. Some have beards, some have beards, many have vests, none were stupid, some had accents, all had interesting commentary. Tom was wearing a real cheesy shirt (she's real cheesy this season.) Padma was wearing a denim vest a la Little House on the Prairie. The other judges—Gail Simmons, an angel, and Tim Love, an straight-talking Texan—were fine. No comment. IN fact, no comment on Gail Simmons until next week when there will be ample time to bemoan her absence when shit-stained twat Toby Young comes and already makes a bunch of overwrought stupid puns in his twerpy voice makes his season debut. God damn you, Toby Young, I was finally getting a handle on my anger issues.

Obviously older Voltaggio wins because he's wonderful and professional and very serious. I bet he'd be a good dad. His bro is bummed but understands. Both Jennifer and Kevin were overlooked but whatever but since they're certainly in the top three, no big deal. I'm just happy Isabella finally was on his own so he could get notably excluded from the winning cull. On to the losers, the glorious losers. Robin Leventhal whose shrimp stank turned into a sad old lady in a blink of an eye as all the energy she expended in keeping her spirit upbeat, young and unbowed was immediately sapped. Papa Doc has no idea about anything so he was blithely untouched. Mattin, boynicorn he of the unedible saveech and uncooked cod, had no idea why he was there. "I sought eet was wahnderfool," he protested. Tom, Slomo Padma, Tim Love and Gail Simmons disagreed. Outclassed and underperforming, the Basque twink took his red bandana and white togue and headed back to Pamplona and somewhere, as the sun rose on the Mojave, the light filtered through a coyote peeing on a cactus and for a moment, the sand was splashed with rainbows.

Video by Michael Byhoff.