This morning Che and I got up an hour early, skipped downstairs, and poured ourselves a cup of coffee with extra sugar before addressing our latest DVR'd installment of the ninth season of Top Chef. What awaited us were no less than the third qualification round and long-awaited Back-of-the-Pickup Cook-Off, which taken together would determine the occupants of the final places in the GE Monogram kitchen. My notebook and I settled into our favorite toile-upholstered armchair, got up again to search for the remote, and returned to our seat in anticipation of the spectacle to come.
Once again, we were foiled by technology. Loyal readers are painfully aware that my DVR has become somewhat temperamental of late and sure enough, it had failed to record the latest adventures of Pads, the Heimlich Maneuver, the Unibrow, et al. Disconsolate, I retreated back upstairs with my latest read (Cruise Confidential by Brian David Bruns), while Che had harsh words with the mischievous device.
Several hours later, Sir figured out the reason for the malfunction. Having been programmed to record Top Chef, it had subsequently failed to recognize Bravo's use of the qualifier Texas when scanning the schedule and neglected to spring into action when my favorite show aired at 10:00 last night. I'm not blaming anyone, but I suspect that nefarious agents of certain candidates' presidential campaigns have infiltrated and sabotaged my cable box's search parameters. I shall be writing a sternly-worded letter to the Republican Party of the Lone Star State as soon as I can find the time. Fortunately for me, Bravo repeats every episode of every series like, a zillion times a day, so we were able to record the mayhem while I was at work today. Wasn't that lucky? I knew you would.
Off to the Top Chef kitchen, where our last group of culinary combatants was confronted by Pads wearing something that looked suspiciously like a circus tent. Unibrow, smirking beside her, was introduced as an ex-Master and responded with a lame comment about how good it was to be on the other side of the judging table for a change. This rather obvious statement was greeted with the sort of sycophantic giggles one might expect from ten chefs about to have a collective nervous breakdown.
As well they might! Each competitor was given an ingredient and a random amount of time in which to make from it something reasonably edible, if not truly fabulous. The challenges ranged from What's the Fuss? (trout in twenty minutes, Brussels sprouts in forty) to Full-Blown Panic Stations (forty-minute short ribs and sixty-minute oxtails). The customary frenzy ensued, during which we were introduced to Chaz who - despite having to cook risotto (the downfall of more would-be Top Chefs than any other single dish) - took the time to TH about his love of our bodacious host, 'the most beautiful woman in the world'. He confided to the camera (and however many hundreds of sad sacks like me who watch the show) that throughout his middle-school career, he hung in his locker a poster of Pads before which he bowed down and duly worshipped.
All I can say to that is if she knew, she'd probably feel really really old.
Fatally distracted by his memories and daydreams (a quick trawl of the internet reveals that his poster might have been quite salacious indeed!), Chaz was unable to plate his risotto in a timely fashion and got sent home for failing to feed anything to the judges. Although the editors made it look as though the HM was lobbying to try the dish anyway, Pads wasn't having any of it. I imagine the poster went straight onto the compost heap upon the would-be-arborio-artiste's ignominious return to wherever.
A lot of the not-quite Top Chefs were booted in this round. Kim, concerned by her fennel's failure to cook properly, was auf'ed instead for a greasy, over-cooked 20-minute lamb chop. Jonathan was sent home for 40-minute Brussels sprouts that were neither 'cooked nor seasoned'. Bernice's short ribs were so appalling they didn't merit a comment or an explanation, just an admonishing finger pointed towards the door. Ashley was dismissed for her failure to cook her oxtails sufficiently: I myself would have sent her packing for her incompetent handling of her pressure cooker. She claimed never to have used one before (that's almost as bad as a microwave phobia, in my opinion) and, watching her attempt to open it while it was still on the burner - angrily hissing and steaming - I could well believe it.
Two were sent to the Back of the Pickup: Andrew (who looked like he was suffering from apoplexy), for greasy spinach, gritty mushrooms, and a sloppy plate; and Laurent, a guy from France. 'Een Fraaahhhnz, you eyezair beecalm a kook, a preest, or an arhmy guy. Zee whairst beecalms a kook.' Whatever: he's the sort of French kook that in Paris probably couldn't get a job as a plongeur. Into the Back of the Pickup for a dish that left the judges, to put it politely, embrouillé.
This left six Bubblers to fight it out for the remaining two places. Janine, showing remarkable mathematical insight for one about to go into deadly combat, remarked that they each had a 33% chance of certain stardom - not bad for a gal lacking computational aids of any description. Tragically for one of such intellect, she failed to impress the judges with the 'raw-tasting' relish that accompanied her scallop. Molly overcooked her shrimp; Andrew produced a baffling panna cotta to accompany his otherwise praiseworthy mussels; and Laurent made a scallop tartare in a shade of unappetizing grey - just like they do at Le Grand Vefour, no doubt. Grayson emerged victorious with her bacon-wrapped shrimp and intriguing fig sauce, and Edward (despite very nearly amputating his finger and having to cook one-handed while the medic tried to sew the errant digit back on) squeaked through despite an overcooked duck breast.
So that's that. Two weeks of foodie fisticuffs and we've only just now decided who the final sixteen will be. The previews make it look as though we're going to be in for a pretty rough ride, Texas-style. I just hope my DVR is up to the task.
Yee haw.
Addendum: My money is on dear sweet Lindsay, who cooked a dish of sixty-minute veal chops that managed to stun the HM into an admiring 'Well done'. And somehow she still found the time to instruct Ashley on the use of her pressure cooker!
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