Did you miss me? Maybe you were just too busy eating leftovers or participating in a die-in? Well, if you’ve gotten that white guilt out of your system, maybe now we can return to our normal lives of complaining about things like bagel places that give you a tiny little tub of cream cheese instead of spreading it on your bagel for you. More importantly, we can talk about Top Chef.
Since we have to wait two weeks until the inevitable disaster that is Restaurant Wars, I decided to hold off a bit on this recap so you could avoid the Top Chef shakes (guys, don’t tell my editor, but I’m actually just a lazy sonofabitch who failed to get to this until now-ish. Sorry, Jason.).
But anyway, the holidays are upon us! So what does that mean in Top Chef TV-land? That’s right! Thanksgiving in the middle of the summer. And since, apparently, outfitting the cheftestants with old-timey elephant guns and sending them on a turkey shoot was disallowed by the lawyers and insurance adjustors, what do we end up with? Right again! A cranberry bog race.
You guys are smart.
We’re getting close to the halfway point, folks, and it’s anybody’s game.
And by “anybody,” I mean Hipster Urkel or Voltaggio’s protégé, Mei. Everybody else will slowly be picked off the Top Chef vine like so many sour grapes.
Okay, I take it back. Grissom’s not gonna sleep with Keriann. He’s gonna sleep with Katsuji. Hate turns into love faster than you can burn bacon, or so I’m told. I’m a marginal cook at best, certainly nowhere near this crop of cheftestants, who get to cook at Cheers for this week’s quickfire. Doug, the little guy, thinks that one of the most highly rated sitcoms in the history of sitcoms was based in Chicago because people had moustaches (is he confusing Ted Danson with Tom Selleck?). At the risk of aging myself, this—along with their sense of entitlement and their general being younger than me-ness—is what’s wrong with millenials.
Sorry for the delay on this one, folks. I had a real tough time tracking down my “Sexy Bowl of Ramen” Halloween costume for my weekend’s festivities. But enough about my First World struggles–let’s get to the topic of today’s discussion: this season’s class of hopeful young (and one bitter old) cheftestants.
Episode 3 begins with some residual bickering between Keriann and Grissom. Turns out Grissom has an 8 Mile story about his childhood and that’s why he acts like an adult-sized baby and secretly loves Keriann. These two are definitely going to sleep together before the season’s over. It’s only a question of when…
Okay, you can throw last week’s racing form out the window. My snap judgments didn’t exactly hold (rather similar to Aaron Grissom’s bourbon onion “jam,” but more on that later…).
We have learned some very new and exciting things about the cheftestants, like the fact Sarah McLachlan superfan, James Rigato, has a PATRICK SWAYZE tattoo. Not sure I would have gone for The Outsiders (I’m more of a Point Break guy), but stay gold, cheffy boy.
The Top Chef Handicaper’s Recap:
Because I’m super thorough and one hell of a researcher, I’m arming myself with only the premiere of Top Chef Boston to handicap the cheftestants’ odds of winning and make snap judgments based on their looks. If you sat through Richard Blais’ maiden voyage as judge (good for him) and tried to see who’s who on your own, perhaps we can have ourselves a dialogue in the comments (or you could tell me how worthless this recap is–internet’s free if you have a library card). For now though, let’s take a look at the field, none of whom will be representing our fair city (closest thing we got is a birth certificate from Coatesville) this season (sucks to your assmar, Bravo).
If you’re reading this, then you already know. Even if you were among the half-million folks in and around Philadelphia without power, news of our hometown hero bringing home the hardware was all but unavoidable last night. While Nick was up in New York with runner-up Nina waiting for shotskis, his TV buddy Jason Cichonski hosted a viewing party down here at recently opened Gaslight in Old City. And the rest of us watched it all play out on Twitter with the TV on in the background.
I know this entire thing played out months ago, but I can’t help being resentful of these cheftestant jerks gallivanting (yes, gallivanting) around Maui like extras from the cast of Lost. I suppose they deserve it after weeks of psychological torture and sequestration, but still. It’s fucking cold here in Philadelphia and I am a spiteful man.