Shufflin Dance

In which the born-again Chicago chef gets an hourlong commericial for his restaurant and his book which is in itself a commercial for his other restaurant. It's Top Chef.

It puts the hydrocolloid gel in the liquid or else it gets the whisk again. Spike, that known master of haberdashery, should be less confused by a USDA-approved hair net, an extra one of which somehow ends up over his mouth. Perhaps this is a shout-out to the knife-and-accessories-packed Andrew, as imagined in a pivotal Silence of the Lambs role? Though honestly I see him as more a Red Dragon kind of guy, what with the gluing to the wheelchair and biting off of the lips. And in case you were wondering, my dear sweet Catholic mom read that book when I was like six years old, and gleefully told me about that scene. And I feel it’s made into who I am today.

The voice-overs are getting so obvious and patchy that it’s as if the fake lady who fake-assists you on a customer service call (as imagined by the brilliant Rachel Dratch) is phoning it in for Padma. “I-I-I think you said, ‘A gigantic hourlong ad for Tramonto’s Suburban Starwood Double Restaurant Deal that will pay for his kid’s Bob Jones University tuition.’ Is that right?”

When making use of her own voice, Padma’s accent skitters from Moon Unit Zappa c. 1982 to present-day Avenue C mami chula to a Ferran Adria/Santi Santamaria cage match on the Catalonian border to her usual affected mouthful of marbles in the span of a single stilted, product-placed sentence.

From one of the actual commercial breaks: things that just do not belong together not matter how much DDB or Ogilvy or whomever strive to make it so:
-Michelob Light and yoga ladies
-Wii Fit and actual human fitness
-The M&M format and dark chocolate
-Tom Colicchio, Kathy Griffin and Jackie Warner from Workout

“Gee Padma, I guess it’s probably not hearts of palm season in Chicago right now.”

Former Top Chef Ilan just stuck jammed his whole hand in his mouth on camera, presumably to get at that last bit of poached egg. None of the previous Top Chef winners dining at Chez National Exposure seem to have invested any of their prize money into a basic table manners class, unless I’m wrong and steak knives are meant to be held at 0-degree angles, parallel to one’s face, for the duration of a meal.

And, I cannot wait to see how Sharkface’s hairdo and general fuckwittery hold up in PR, and whether Padma shows up in doorknocker earrings and a drawn-on mole.

A distasteful connection without a redeeming "teachable moment."

Quick, name something more flat-out fucking revolting than edible gold. Or: "Get back down in that mine, Susu needs her medicine money!"

NEW YORK (AP) — A Manhattan restaurant is offering a hamburger that costs $175 and is topped with gold. It’s made of Kobe beef. It comes with black truffles, foie gras and Gruyere cheese in addition to gold flakes.

Wall Street Burger Shoppe co-owner Heather Tierney thinks of it as “a work of art.”

Tierney says the item attracts Wall Street types who down a few beers and then fork over $175 to show off to their friends.

Yeah, hey, send a dozen to your buddies from Bear Stearns! Send a case to those Enron families sharing shifts at Quizno’s because they lost their life savings! Airlift a gross of them to fucking Burma and China! You’re an art-world hero, Heather Tierney, and what a surprise that you were a marketing major in college!

Top Chef: in which any grooming is too much grooming and sexy cannot be persuaded to come back, no matter how much you curse at it.

Funny/sad: the opening credits, or, gallery of losers. Who’s sad Valerie? Cartoonish Erik and his incredible death-metal jumping move? Happy Manuel?

For the love of god would you please. hold. the god. damn. grooming scenes. No thank you to Dale’s stomach. No thank you to Dale applying deodorant. No thank you to Stephanie plucking her brow. No thank you to shirtless Spike. No. No. No.

Aaaand the award for lamest and least-applicable use of the exhausted phrase “sexyback” goes to Padma, Hot Diabetes O’Malley and the salad quickfire. Also, if I knew that finishing close to the top of Top Chef season 2 meant coming back for a cameo wearing Abercrombie’s fall 2004 boy’s line wardrobe that was rejected by the Jonas Brothers as being too much of a suburban mall cliché, I’d have stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes and called it a day, H.D.

They should just re-name this show “With a little bit of,” because every cheftestant uses this phrase every time to describe the last ingredient in every single goddamn dish.

What do we think might be wrong with Spike’s head that he never allows it free and unfettered access to light and air? Bald spot? Tiny horns? Giant Masengil tattoo? Eczema? Psoriasis and its attendant heartbreak? A colony of scabies? A partially resorbed twin? He is Greek, after all.

Meth mouth Andrew says: wasabi helps with tooth decay. Also, what is up with his invoking honor and loyalty ad nauseum? Is this a friggin’ Scout retreat, Hattori Hanso Canteen Boy? Please pack your knives, your crazy, your pseudoephedrine, your ephedrine, your Reynolds wrap, your paper clips, your lighter, your Robitussin, your Sudafed, your Actifed, your acetone, your toluene, your Benadryl, your No-Doz, your tweezers, your fake metal cigarette, your Pyrex glassware, your matches, your forged checkbook, your baking soda and your application for Faces of Meth 2008. And GO.