Erratum

Thank you to the sharp-eyed reader who pointed out that, were I to duplicate Floyd's Top Chef Master-worthy dish of upma with braised mushrooms, I would be violating the quacks' standing orders and inviting the wrath of the gluten gods.

Upma is, in fact, made from semolina.

I blame Bravo's editors, who in their weird menu-speak designated the dish upma polenta. Naturally, given this description, I assumed that the Indian breakfast/snack food was made from corn meal like grits, mielies, or putu (or polenta, for that matter). It looked a lot like polenta, too, albeit the creamy soft stuff from the eastern part of Italy, rather than the stiff mixture from Rome and the west - hence my confusion.

I also blame my NyQuil-addled brain, which is never at its sharpest when in the throes of a common (though fearsome) cold.

I still feel like death warmed up.

I'm sorry Floyd's comfort food of choice is off the menu.

That's just what I need right now.

Top Chef Masters Finale: Pity Party

Right now, I am supposed to be sitting in state in the grand dining room of Philadelphia's Ritz Carlton Hotel (the marble dome is 'majestic', according to 10 Arts' website), enjoying Spanish rock octopus with grilled romaine and parmesan black pepper vinaigrette; brook trout with bok choy and hazelnut brown butter; and chocolate rice pudding with cocoa nibs, butterscotch, and sour cream sauce.

Oh, well. The best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley, as the poet said, so instead of sipping on Campari whilst considering an amouse bouche I am coughing and sputtering, my eyes a-water and my throat a-swollen.

I'm sick!

At least I got to watch Top Chef Masters in a timely fashion, although that is small consolation as I languish in my tuile-upholstered armchair surrounded by used tissues and bottles of cough medicine. Perhaps it's my mood (sour, depressed, and self-pitying) but I watched with a certain amount of detachment and disinterest, not really caring all that much about the outcome.

I don't feel well!

The challenge set by What's-His-Name for Floyd, Traci, and Mary Sue? To cook the best three-course meals of their lives (what else were they supposed to do? pave driveways? tame wild horses? run for office?) based on key culinary moments in their pasts and those of their judges [yawn]. I'd already thought the food memory thing to death after Episode 15 of Top Chef All-Stars, so I was unmoved - and did we really need to hear about Gael's love life again?

*cough cough*

The ending was in some doubt thanks to the disinformation and foreshadowing seeded by Bravo's desperate editors in an attempt to whip up some suspense. Would Floyd be able to recover from time wasted in Los Angeles' famously bad traffic? Would he be brought down by his poorly-butchered fish? Did ever a cheftestant utter more potentially-damning words than, 'You have to have a discerning palate to get my dish'? (Floyd again). And what about his attempting to braise his oxtails in two sessions - with a break in the fridge overnight? 'Yes,' he TH'd, 'It's a very dangerous thing to do.'

Sir says I sound 'positively awful'!

Now that I come to think about it, the only doom hinted at by the producers was Floyd-related, so naturally he was declared the winner. Traci cooked a 'very technical and very correct' meal and Mary Sue's lemon souffle was the single best course of the evening, but neither could beat the cumulative success of Floyd's upma with braised mushrooms or rendang with beef two ways. Both these dishes looked positively delicious, particularly the upma, which I shall be attempting in my own kitchen as soon as I am able to face food again.

Did I mention? I'm miserable and my nose is running!

So Top Chef Masters comes to a close and for the first time since the middle of September there will be no foodie fisticuffs on my DVR when I wake up an hour early on Thursdays. Yes, I know - Rocco's Dinner Party will be taking over the time slot, but the Botoxed One will have to get on without me.

I don't have the strength.

Top Chef Masters, Episode 8: Battle Hymns of the Republic

This week, the patriotic producers at Bravo decided to pay tribute to our gallant armed forces by presenting the Not-Quite-Masters with the challenge of cooking a homecoming buffet for our brave guys and gals returning from overseas.

Let's see how the Cheftestants did, shall we?

**

Sung to the tune of The Halls of Montezuma

Mary Sue made tomatillos,

avocados and barbecue

For a Marine from Guatemala,

not Bolivia or Peru.

The judges loved her ribs and corn relish,

and her breh-hed pudding - whew!

So she won lots of cash for her charity -

and goes through to the finale, too.

**

Sung to the tune of Anchors Aweigh

Meatloaf all day, my boys!

Meatloaf all the way!

Traci ground some beef up

even though it's not gourmet.

So it's not gluten-free,

but it isn't dumb -

for the tars in our Navy

she baked peach cobbler, baked peach cobbler - yum!

**

Sung to the tune of The Caisson Song

Floyd loves spice! Thinks it's nice! Uses it to flavor rice,

His masala goes rolling along.

He was scared, didn't dare, chose to cook some simple fare.

He thought cayenne would be much too strong.

So it's steak, you see! All rare and garlicky!

With spinach, and mash and mushroom jus.

Though it was very plain, all the Army guys exclaimed,

'We love Floyd's beef, and so-o should you!'

**

Sung to the tune of Up in the Air, Junior Birdman

Naomi was mean to the nice man!

He was her dad, tho' she didn't know.

She yelled and she yelled, but he's a big fan!

And let the matter go.

She got a surgeon from the Air Force,

From Hawaii - how very glam.

She tried to make shrimp and poke, perforce -

But should have cooked him Spam!

Top Chef Masters, Episode 7: Scientific Method

Whilst galivanting around the southern hemisphere I missed just one episode of Top Chef Masters, a cringe-making romance-fest involving an on-camera marriage proposal; the unedifying spectacle of What's-His-Name flirting (not too convincingly, I might add) with The Shoes; Gael Greene describing her dalliance with Elvis yet again; and Celina getting the boot for a decidedly un-sexy dish of pretzels and salad. Yes, you heard me. Pretzels and salad. 'Nuff said.

This morning, I settled down expectantly in my favorite toile-upholstered armchair to watch yesterday's DVR'd instalment with only a cup of coffee for company, as Mlle. Malaprop insisted she needed her beauty rest. Without my customary note-taking medium at hand, I was forced to rely upon my memory for the episode's highlights - no hardship, as it turned out, because with only a few competitors left it was easier to keep track of the festivities. And what diversions there were!

First, we were treated to the traumas of our foody fighters as they attempted to cook breakfast in microwave ovens. Of course, they were all offended by the very existence of these valuable appliances and went to great pains to insist they never, ever ever used them in their restaurants and - indeed! - had never touched one (not even once!) in their entire lives. Well, that is as may be - but it seems like chopping off the greens to spite the scallion, if you get my meaning. Had these people really never, ever melted chocolate, reheated leftovers, or defrosted butter with a few beeps and a whirl on the turntable? They all claimed to have kids - did they never take the chill off babyfood? Did they never simmer milk for a custard, heat soup to perfection, boil up sugar to its required temperature, or melt wax for cheese-dipping? Had they truly never experimented to see what microwaves can do?

There's such a thing as being too highly trained (or pretending to be, anyway), and I cackled delightedly as the whiners produced limp bacon (of course!); tough biscuits and bread (naturally!); and chewy eggs (well, what did you expect?). I'm sorry: of sympathy I had exactly none. I adore my microwave and use it. A lot.

But this dismissal of microwaves' usefulness was as nothing compared to the mind-bending manifestations of hubris and lack of inquisitiveness that followed (yes, Unibrow, I'm looking at you!) when the not-yet-Masters were confronted with a selection of severe-looking scientists in bright white lab coats; nifty equipment such as beakers, bunsen burners, and litmus paper; and technical terms such as acidity, viscosity, emulsion, elasticity, and Maillard reaction.

What fun! What joy! Each of our gastronomists was tasked with preparing an edible demonstration of a basic culinary concept for a high school science fair.

How fantastic was that?

Well, not very, if their expressions were anything to go by. Even with the help of their impressively pedigreed sous chefs (a nanotechnologist from UCLA! an evolutionary biologist from Stanford!), our competitors never even scratched the surface of the limitless possibilities offered by this groovy challenge. Unibrow quickly got on the wrong side of his bespeckled geek (a polymer physicist from MIT) by displaying a woeful lack of curiosity about, well, anything at all really and Naomi never seemed to get her mind round the notion that elasticity and plasticity are, like, two completely opposite things.

That was too bad, because of all the projects, Naomi's had the potential to be the most informative and interesting. She originally came up with the awesome idea of demonstrating elasticity through the fabrication of pizza dough using a variety of flours and comparing the effects of their differing gluten compositions on the final product. Somehow, she got side-tracked by gelee (huh?) and melted mozzarella ('Look how elastic it is!' she exclaimed after pulling it to stringy and irreversible oblivion) and we never heard how the gluten experiment turned out.

Other yawn-fests included Traci's use of lemon juice to 'cook' tuna (she didn't seem at all sure about the mechanism behind this phenomenon and mumbled something about 'loosening up the proteins'); Unibrow's emulsion of a simple mayonnaise (it broke down, much to James Oseland's discomfiture); and Floyd's demonstration that beef cooked shabu-shabu style will never get crustily brown even if you leave it to bubble until the stock reduces to a salty quagmire. Mary Sue won for her collection of variegatedly-viscous sauces drizzled over hot crispy churros and that was that.

I admit that as the episode unfolded I went from happy and excited to gloomy and peevish. Having always been taught that cooking is chemistry I was a little dumbfounded by the chefs' failure to grasp pretty simple concepts and present them in an interesting, challenging, and tasty way. My naive supposition that Harold McGee is required reading on all culinary schools' syllabi, was, I am sorry to say, unfounded in fact - and none of the competitors, I presume, has as yet added a copy of Modernist Cuisine to his library shelves.

What a missed opportunity! What a chance to show kids how cool science - especially food science - can be! I was reminded of the Harvard course I plan to audit at the first available opportunity, the one where visiting professors Achatz and Dufresne teach first-years all about the fabulous feats of which molecules are capable when treated with imagination and flair.

Oh, well. I guess they all can't be Top Chef Masters.

Addendum. Naomi's failed gluten experiment called to mind an article by Melissa Clark in yesterday's New York Times online (no, I haven't bought the subscription yet - I'm still on my monthly freebies) about the great strides being made in the quality of gluten-free baked goods. Hold the phone, I thought. What have I been missing? Is there somebody out there who's cracked the conundrum and is producing - even as I self-pityingly lament my misfortune - delicious, gluten-defying pastries and cakes?

I hastily scanned the article and saw the words ethereal, fluffy, tender, and feather-light. Wow! I grabbed my best black Sanford Micro Uniball and prepared to take copious notes on the origin of these splendid products -  prepared to pay any price! go through any hoops! put my friendly UPS man to any trouble! - so I could have cases and cases of gratifying gluten-free goodies delivered to my door, directly and without delay.

Alas, 'twas not to be. Careful reading of the article revealed the usual qualifications, caveats, and apologies. Those fabulous muffins were in actuality only 'better then most other whole-grain muffins made with whole-wheat flour' - faint praise if ever I heard it. Cakes tested with g/f flour were 'only a little more crumbly' than their traditional counterparts. The article took joy in the fact that xanthan gum, 'once available only in ... food-processing plants - is now in a health food store near you!'. Ye gods.

I myself take no satisfaction in the fact that 'Sixty [gluten-free] cookbooks were published in 2010 alone': that's sixty too many, in my opinion. Why shouldn't I be disappointed that g/f brownies are 'sticky' and pizza dough 'crackerlike' when made from sawdust and bean shavings? Once again, we are told that we must 'let go of our expectations' and settle for 'different, wetter, softer' doughs and batters.

Well, I'm done settling, thank you very much, and the only expectation of which I've freed myself is that I'll eat bona fide wheat-flour pastry or cake more than once or twice a year.

And you know what? I'm OK with that.

Coming this weekend: ever the optimist, I experiment with an intriguing new recipe for almond and orange cake.

Top Chef Masters, Episode 5: Fast Food Haiku

When wheat-wrap'd, cheap eats
from a drive-thru can be good

but not gluten free.

Top Chef Masters, Episode 4: The Good News

Yesterday I postponed my discussion of Top Chef Masters because of the Royal Wedding.

All right, I admit it. This morning, despite my avowed disapproval, I watched the very end of the ceremony as I ate my breakfast of organic super-yogurt, chia seeds, Hunza raisins, and home-made cherry/blueberry preserves. Normally I would have spent this quality time reading the NYTimes online, but I am currently suffering agonies over whether or not to pay their monthly subscription. While my indecision festers, I am without my usual breakfast diversions.

Anyway, who can resist a rousing chorus of Jerusalem? Not me! And didn't Kate look lovely? Sir was quite taken by her dress. Humming God Save the Queen, we departed for work feeling that there was still hope for love in this crazy old world.

But I am obliged to comment on Top Chef Masters because this week's thrilling episode touched on two hot topics that are near and dear to my gluten and lactose-free heart: artisanal cheese and weight loss. While I don't suppose these things are usually considered in the same breath (except as mutually exclusive items) I am obsessed with both at the moment, as loyal readers are well aware. The other event requiring examination is the departure of my dear, sweet, heroical Suvir, who behaved in a way that I found understandable but unforgivable, having myself been both the victim and perpetrator of his crime.

What was this sin, you may ask?

Preaching to others about what's good for 'em.

But first things first. The cheesy quickfire was awesome, if only because we got to meet Norbert, a bow-tied and bespectacled evangelist from The Beverly Hills Cheese Store, which is apparently a shrine for fromage-lovers of all shapes and sizes (a quick look at the establishment's website reveals details of the highly-coveted American Artisanal Treasure Awards, which I shall be seeking in a number of categories in due course). Norbert was the geekiest, dweebiest, most outrageous character to grace my TV screen in some time and I dearly hope he gets his own show soon. And boy, does he get excited about cheese!

The chefs were tasked with creating Norbert-pleasing cheese dishes in twelve minutes flat and did a pretty good job, too. Of course, I am a total cheese snob now and can speak so knowledgeably of rinds, affinage, cultures, and butterfat content that I viewed the challenge with the sort of discernment only two weeks' worth of cheese expertise can engender. Of particular interest to me were Celina's Manchego with crispy carrots. figs, golden raisins, and sherry; Naomi's Chaumes with apples, skirt steak, onions, and balsamico; and Traci's Columbier with prosciutto and arugula. I had more or less decided that these three cheeses were the ones I needed to fabricate in my own kitchen without delay, but was brought up short when I looked up their recipes in my Cheese Tome (get it? tome? tome? never mind). Tragically, Manchego is made from sheep's milk, which is unavailable to me locally. Columbier is made from raw goat's milk, ditto (although I would dearly love to keep some Nubians in the back yard, there is a local ordinance against it). That leaves Chaumes, a washed-rind cow's milk cheese that we used to eat by the pound when France was on our doorstep. My tome tome does not contain a recipe for this orange-skinned wonder, but a washed-rind cheese is now definitely on the List of Things I Need to Make. I shall brew up some Reblochon instead and be content (but not this weekend: this is Wensleydale weekend, as per Sir's special request).

As if to punish the viewers for worshipping all those fat calories, the quickfire was followed by a weight-loss challenge, where our gladiators were required to slim down horrifically-laden plates of corned beef, cheeseburgers, meatball sandwiches, and something called a 'Chinese buffet' for contestants on Biggest Loser (another one of those cross-schedule promotions for which Bravo is justifiably famous). The guest judge was BL's preserved-in-vinyl host, accompanied by two fitness trainers who looked like an escaped Vegas lounge act.

After the usual stunned consternation at being faced with the sort of food than normal Americans supposedly eat every day (Unibrow commented that he could feed his entire family for a week on just one of the plates set before him), the chefs got down to it and produced some tasty-looking substitutes that pleased their customers no end.

Except for Suvir. Oh, Suvir, whatever were you thinking? Tasked with creating some sort of healthy alternative for a lover of bacon cheeseburgers, my guy completely lost his grip. He decided that by presenting his client with any sort of beef he was pronouncing her death sentence and instead went totally off the rails with a hare-brained scheme to convert her to veggie-burgers. 'It's about changing the paradigm!' he proclaimed as everybody else looked on in disbelief. 'She may not enjoy it,' he continued, 'but there's a statement to be made.' 

Yikes.

I knew he was doomed even before he got up onto his soap box and went on and on and on about how beef was killing more Americans than any other fatalistical agent this side of a Black Death epidemic and how it was his responsibility - nay, his duty! - to bring The Message to all heathens unfortunate enough to be within earshot. It was a cringe-making performance that succeeded only in shaming his poor Loser to red faced embarrassment (although she recovered sufficiently to steal Unibrow's beef portions from her table-mates' plates) and irritating his fellow cheftestants no end.

Now I know something about what it feels like to be told what to eat. I also know that one's first instinct at being preached to by Those in the Know is to stick one's fingers in one's ears and start humming Jerusalem. But I also know what it feels like, as a proselyte, to see others crazily ignoring what (in one's own mind, anyway) is sheer common sense. Was it only last October that I vowed I wouldn't jump onto the natural foods bandwagon just because I couldn't eat cake anymore? Now I can barely contain myself when I stand in supermarket lines behind people loading up the conveyor belt with hormone-filled chicken breasts (Those chickens were quartered in China, you know!) and huge bags of frozen shrimp (Their aquaculture is destroying the oceans and they are full of chemicals!) and ice cream barely worth the name (I know it's only fifty cents a gallon - but it's disgusting!) All I want to do is escort these lost souls personally to the produce section and organic aisles to show them the light - or at least what real food looks like.

Luckily common sense, a certain sense of decorum and, I admit it, timidity usually prevail - although I did once warn an unwary shopper about the perils of gluten-free pancake mix, a testament for which she expressed seemingly joyous gratitude.

I would not like to turn into a Suvir, all self-importance and scolding 'I know what's good for you better than you do' - and that is always a danger with a new convert. 

I'd rather be a prophet of blooming cheese than a prophet of unceasing doom.

Top Chef Masters, Episode 3: Crunchable Bugses

Last week I despaired that, due to uninformed celebrity guests and a paucity of language on the judges' part, we were doomed to a season of Top Chef where drama outweighed cooking and fans were left in the dark as to what was sitting on the plates when all the culinary contending was concluded. 

I am pleased to say that the TV gods (or maybe it was the producers at Bravo - same thing, really) heard my lament and last night outdid themselves quickfire-wise with delicious erudition, lots of tasty informational tidbits, and handy hints for cooks at home.

Let's get started, shall we?

Our courageous cheftestants skipped into the kitchen and were greeted by What's-His-Name and a prep table covered with a veritable explosion of rainforest abundance: leaves, flowers, roots, and a variety of other greenery clearly intended for culinary use (we had to guess what many of them were from context, but visible to my untrained eye were aloe leaves, salsify, sparklers, coriander, lemongrass, and amaranth). But wait, whatever could be concealed behind that sinister-looking screen? Jars and tanks of live creepy-crawlies, that's what, unveiled with a half-hearted flourish and a feeble cackle by our forgettable host. The chefs appeared nonplussed as he tried to sell them on the various creatures' nutritional virtues: hornworms (full of protein!); Darkling beetles (also full of protein!); Canadian night crawlers (rich in calcium!); crickets (loaded with iron!); and scorpions (vitamin-laden!). As if these benefits were insufficient, the Australian One had one final perk up the sleeve of his cardie: all the drogos were organic!

Now, I'm not sure it was that big a deal. Although I have never gone to a restaurant and intentionally eaten a bug, I have been known on occasion to make like a monkey and dig termites out of their mounds with a stick. They taste like mint and are not at all objectionable, although in my opinion they are not sufficiently filling to be considered a complete meal. At any rate, I think most foodies these days have come across shock chocs with cayenne and crickets; crispy barbecue-flavoured larvae in foil bags; and ant-containing lollipops - not to mention that much of the rest of the world consumes insects and other similar delicacies as a matter of course. Have we learned nothing from No Reservations and the Discovery Channel?

Before they got down to cook, however, all the contestants dutifully pretended to be horrified and there was much wrinkling of noses and THing about how 'I've eaten eyeballs and ear wax and toenails but bugs is where I draw the line'. Right.

Although there was quite a bit of food footage of crickets frying and beetles in blenders, one matter that was not touched upon was how the actual butchering was accomplished. Somebody appeared to euthanize their night crawlers by chopping them into little wiggly pieces and Mary Sue talked about 'dry-toasting' her beetles, although it was unclear whether or not the creatures were still alive for their adventure in the skillet. I for one would have been most intrigued to hear how one prepares a scorpion for cooking. If, as Glen Beck claims, we'll all soon be eating whatever we can scrounge in our basements as we crouch fearfully in the face of world-wide apocalypse, it would be nice to know the correct and most humane method for silverfish slaughter. Those MREs won't last forever, you know.

Suvir niftily skirted the abattoir issue by serving his hornworms alive and angry in a jar garnished with a blowtorch, thus allowing the diners the satisfaction of preparing their protein to their own taste (don't you hate it when you ask for your annelids rare and they arrive well done?). He claimed that, as a devout Hindu, his 'hand could cook but not kill.' Now, I am no theological expert and am even more woefully ignorant of the Dharmaśāstras than I am of kashrut - but this sounded to me like having your proverbial goat biryani and eating it, too. My hero seemed pretty pleased with himself for so neatly ducking out of his chefly duties and I awarded him ten full points for cheekiness.

The Quickfire guest judges were Ruth England and Mykel Hawke, of the adventure series Man, Woman, Wild.  Never seen it - but I was impressed by their obvious knowledge of and enthusiasm for the entomological fare placed before them. Also, 'She' and 'He' seemed to know a lot of words, including adjectives, which enabled the viewer (well, me, anyway) to understand what the chefs were serving up. They had a nice little double act going: She was all posh-English with taste and refinement, He was all down-home Kentucky bluegrass-boy with little patience for ceremony aor cutlery.

It was not clear whether What's-His-Name was tasting the protein component of the dishes or not: his comments seemed limited to the leafy and tuberous items on the plates.

Naomi: tempura-fried night crawlers with elderflower and herb salad and pistachio vinaigrette. She disliked the dish's bitter aftertaste but He announced they were the best worms he'd ever eaten (I would imagine that after twelve years in the Special Forces, He's eaten quite a few and knows of what He speaks).

Suvir: 'Himalayan jungle and market salad' with the above-mentioned jar of live hornworms and a blowtorch. Without the benefit of explanation for the raw protein, She declared the dish a 'cop-out.' He gamely offered to perform the table-side flambé, pulling the poor creatures into two and letting them drain a bit before setting them alight and giving them the 'old stab and jab'. Suvir complacently opined that the tasters had earned his respect for having indulged his cultural idiosyncrasies - but further details on the dish's success were not forthcoming.

John: grilled scorpions with smoked poached eggs and oyster. She didn't have much to say about this one, but He thought the dish 'worked really well' when all mixed together. What's-His-Name was limited to commenting on the smokiness of the egg - which he could have done without tasting the dish at all (it's possible, I suppose, that such was the case). Scorpions, of course, are not insects but arachnids, as we all know.

Unibrow: tempura crickets with sunchoke and carrot puree and a blood orange vinaigrette. This looked awesome to me and the judges loved it. She: 'The puree is really delicate, more of a mousse really.' He: 'It tastes great!' They agreed that inadequate cricket cookery is an all too common problem in this crazy old world, but that these specimens had been sufficiently well done.

Alex: angel hair pasta with beetles and flowers. He: 'This tastes dang good!' She: 'I like the crispiness of the beetle contrasted with the softness of the angel hair.' The dish's creator was clearly surprised and gratified to hear such knowledgeable criticism after last week's travesty.

Mary Sue: Thai sunchoke salad with toasted beetle vinaigrette. She: 'We're big coriander fans, and this is chock full of it!' He: 'Tasty.'

Traci: Carrot and coriander salad with chipotle-dusted fried scorpions and aloe vinaigrette. She: 'The aloe makes it a little bitter.' He: 'This little critter is all swolled up! I don't like it when they do that.' Home cooks take note.

Celina: Soy crickets with salsify salad. Another dish that looked very appealing. She: 'They look exquisite with the hair still on their legs.' He disagreed, pointing out that when crickets are prepared with due attention to detail, the legs are removed since they tend to 'be scratchy going down the throat.' See what I mean? Riches for the foodie survivalist!

Floyd: Omelette of night crawlers, amaranth, shiitakes and bacon. He 'was digging' the addition of worms to an otherwise standard and very delicious dish.

George: Hornworms and coconut soup with lime, lemongrass, ginger, and arugula. He: 'That's awful-tasting!' Apparently, hornworm-skin is 'plasticky', necessitating that the creatures be chopped small for textural delightfulness.

On the bottom? Suvir for his wriggling hornworms, although the judges offered him a ridiculous namaste head-bow prayer-hands pass when they heard his sob story. George had no such excuse to offer and was deemed the Quickfire loser. I predict he will not be around much longer.

The winner was the Unibrow for his tasty and nicely-cooked cricket-sunchoke combo. Having already been auf'd from the show, he felt it necessary to make some sort of Easter-related comment on the Resurrection, which the judges ignored - granting him immunity, nonetheless.

Oh, there was an elimination challenge, too: something about a 10-course dinner, and Naomi acting like a Miss Bossy Pants, and John being sent home for risotto that was 'safe and boring.' (What is it about Top Chefs and risotto? It's always, always, a disaster and yet they can't seem to stop themselves.)

Anyway, it all passed by me because I was busy fantasizing about how I will prepare for the Armageddon that is surely to come. I already have sufficient condiments stashed away to outlast any emergency, and soon there will be cheese to boot. We may not have scorpions living in our basement, but in the summertime we have copious supplies of crickets. A little application of heat from our butane burner and I think we'll be able to outlast any calamity that comes our way.

Dinner, anyone?

Top Chef Masters, Episode 2: Where Did All the Adjectives Go?

I know there are many difficulties involved in televising a cooking competition week after week. How do producers keep viewers' interest piqued when those at home can neither taste nor smell the results of competitors' labors?

Our good friends at Bravo clearly think they have hit upon a winning formula: manufactured drama (Producer: 'Let's make our cheftestants' grind their meat in hand mills that don't fit onto the prep tables and see what happens!' ~cue ominous music);  interpersonal tensions (Suvir: 'The divas were hogging the burners and so I was forced to overcook my veal in a deep fat fryer!' ~cue ominous music); and guest celebrity judges (Sue: 'I love Kelis. Didn't she do that song about milkshakes?' ~stupefied silence).

I know that one of the ways Bravo likes to build suspense is by withholding crucial information from the viewers until the last possible minute, rendering the verdict at the judges' table a complete surprise. While I disagree with this premise (I don't really watch Top Chef with any care at all for who actually wins), I can just about understand it. What I can't understand is the judges' utter inability to articulate what they are tasting and whether or not it's any good. I mean, I know the concept of 'good' is laden with all sorts of cultural and philosophical baggage, but it would help the poor viewer appreciate what was going on, at least, and who was cooking with reasonable skill.

Here's a wild and crazy idea: what if the judges talked about the food? Here's an even nuttier concept. What if the judges used - oh, I don't know - some sort of descriptive language that would aid our understanding of what the competitors were cooking and how it tasted?

Adjectives and adverbs would be a good start.

During the Quickfire meatball judging, for example, I became so hypnotized by Kelis' repetition that I almost forgot to log her verdicts. Here is the sum total of the modifiers she used to characterize the dishes she tasted:

• good
• salty
• edible
• mild
• really good (ooh - an adverb!)
• nice

Oh, and she didn't know the difference between dill and fennel.

I was just commenting to Mlle. Malaprop that this was easily the most unhelpful commentary I'd heard in many, many seasons of Top Chef viewing when the Unibrow (yes, he's back after last week's elimination - don't even bother asking why, I don't have the strength) THd that it was all just 'pointless criticism.' I'm not sure that he and I were talking about the same thing, exactly, but I felt his pain.

The worst meatballs came from George ('odd'), Floyd ('salty'), and Hugh ('battle' - but I think that's my handwriting deteriorating along with my will to live). Tops were Sue ('great'), John ('worked well' - my stars, a verb!), and Suvir ('sweet and spicy' - he gets the full treatment with two entirely different attributives - never mind that they've already been worked to death on this show).

On to the Elimination Challenge, where the gladiators were required to update 1960s 'classics' such as Beef Wellington, Beef Stroganoff, and Veal Oscar but not, vexingly, my favorite Chicken Divan. Due to a lack of explanatory verbiage, it wasn't clear until the last two minutes of the episode that the chefs had to produce two versions of the dish - the classic as well as the 21st-century variation - so the fact that each presented a plate with a pair of piles on top made no sense to us, the bewildered viewers.

Once again, the judge's paucity of language did a disservice to the chefs' efforts. George's Chicken a la King was 'soggy'. Christine's Grasshopper Pie was 'off'. Celina's Coq au Vin (that's a 60s classic?) had 'too much vinegar'. To be fair, that last one was an almost-useful remark - it came from James Oseland, of course.

The top three were John for his 'great' and 'well executed' Oysters Rockefeller (so inadequately described that I was surprised to hear it was served warm); Floyd's Ambrosia ('good concept'); and Mary Sue's Devilled Eggs ('delicious').

On the bottom were Sue, whose Duck a l'Orange 'wasn't anywhere it needs to be' (Lyon? Bordeaux? Toledo?) or 'well cooked'; my hero Suvir, who offered up veal that was 'overcooked' and 'tough' (one judge really conjured an image in my mind's eye when she commented that 'it was a big piece of food'); and Alex's bread pudding, which 'wasn't good' and 'quite disappointing' (another adverb!).

It was Mary Sue's turn to to go home. I can't say I was disappointed or surprised, since her own eloquence about her dish was limited to 'One year my father helped me make Duck a l'Orange' - a recollection that was probably meant to sound significant but somehow, well, didn't.

The only truly valuable word to emerge from this episode came to us from James Oseland, who was rendered verklempt by the whole experience.

I know just how he felt.

Next up: we return to Jim's basement for some camembert construction

Top Chef Masters, Episode 1: And We're Off!

Before sitting down to the first episode of the new season of Top Chef Masters this morning, I felt the need to explain to Mademoiselle Malaprop why this show is my absolute favorite of all Bravo's TC franchises. Top Chef All-Stars finished before Mlle. came onto the scene and I hoped to get her up to speed before the fun began so she could better understand my enthusiasm.

What is it about TCM that is so great? Oh, let me count the ways!

First of all, there are the cheftestants themselves: honest-to-goodness chefs with reputations galore and nothing to prove. This makes for a collegial 'how did we get ourselves into this ridiculous situation?' vibe that is a joy to watch. Hubert Keller, Rick Bayless, Jonathan Waxman, Susan Feniger - old soldiers like them really couldn't care less whether they win and more often than not they throw up their hands and laugh uproariously at having to cook in a dorm room, or a haunted house, or a gas station. The exception to this rule, of course, was Ludo Lefebvre in Season 2, who was the biggest ass to grace my TV screen in some time. 'I am Furensh, so I am a better kook zan all of you!' was his refrain and it made me want to slap him silly during his [albeit very short] time on the show.

The judges are fabulous, too. Jay Rayner is my favorite (as good and irreverent a writer as the great Bourdain, in my opinion), although Gael 'I slept with Elvis' Greene also has her moments. Her hats give even The Shoes' shoes a run for their money. James Oseland is pure class. For this esteemed panel, it's all about the food - and they know of what they speak.

I also really like the format. Since the competitors are busy folks with restaurants to run, they only appear a couple of times before the finale - it's more of a sudden-death sort of arrangement, with only four cooks competing at a time. This gives ample opportunity for the lucky viewer to learn about the personalities under the toques and the food they cook. Since only one individual moves on from each week, there are more losers than winners and there's lots of backslapping and cheerful commiseration among the auf'd with the victor being the odd one out. At the end of each episode, they all sit down to a gorgeous-looking repast of wine, cheese, and charcuterie while the judges deliberate. It's all very civilized and good-humored and I adore it.

So, with happy heart, I explained the conceit to Mademoiselle; we took our places in my favorite toile-upholstered armchair; and settled in for a convivial hour of courteous and considerate culinary contention.

! Horrors !

First problem. They've re-jigged the format! It's now Top Chef, all the way. Twelve cheftestants battling it out in a series of Padma-styled challenges, with one competitor going home every week. Sigh. It's like a real competition, now, which takes away about 30% of the appeal.

Second problem. They've changed the cheftestants. I'd barely heard of any of these guys - although one or two names rang a vague bell. Part of the fun of the old way of doing things was watching gargantuan talents like Susur Lee and Anita Lo trying to figure out how to make something palatable out of, say, a vending machine, knowing full well that these are folks who like earning Michelin starts in their spare time. These new Masters? Frankly, some of them are known no better than *shudder* the Voltaggio brothers, even before they started shilling for Williams and Sonoma.

Third problem. They've misplaced the judges! My beloved Rayner and Greene are gone, although Oseland remains. The replacements are one woman I've never heard of (her name escapes me still) although the other is the always-fabulous Ruth Reichl, food critic extraordinaire. Although I had previously thought from her writing that she lacked any sort of caustic wit, her description of one of the quickfire dishes as 'loathsome' prompted me to re-evaluate my opinion. There's a new host, too, one Curtis Stone, of whom I was previously unaware. He's seems pretty interchangeable with the host from previous seasons, what's-her-name, so his presence doesn't bother me too much.

Since most of the cheftestants were new to me and they're going to be around for a while, here were my first thoughts on their masterfulness:

• John Currence (City Grocery Restaurant Group). He made absolutely no initial impression whatsoever, and I relied upon his glasses and bandanna to recognize him as the show progressed. 
• Suvir Saran (Devi). In his opening TH, he theorized that only insanity - perhaps brought about by the bite of a rabid dog - justified his being on the show. When asked about his greatest strengths as a chef, he listed them with an utterly straight face and a twinkle in his eye, 'My good looks and eloquence.' I fell madly in love with him after ten seconds.
• John Rivera Sedlar (Playa). Barely even rated a TH. Instantly forgettable.
• Alex Stratta (Stratta). The token egotist.
• Mary Sue Milliken (Border Grill restaurants and truck). One of the few women, so I felt the need to cheer. Also, I think I heard of her once.
• Traci des Jardins (Jardiniere). Her entrance into the kitchen appeared to stop the other chefs in their tracks: they stood around in awe for a few moments, I kid you not. Also, she worked in France at some point and is best pals with Mary Sue. You go, girlfriends.
• Naomi Pomeroy (Beast). Absolutely nobody seemed to know who she was, so she had to introduce herself to the others in a way that was kind of humiliating. Turns out she's from Portland, which was the only possible explanation for the inexplicable decisions that followed.
• Hugh Acheson (Five & Ten). Claimed to be likable, which means we'll hate him in no time. A self-taught cook, which is never a good thing on these shows. I tried not to hold his unibrow against him.
• Celina Tio (Julien). I remembered her from Next Iron Chef: she rocks.
• Floyd Cardoz. Listed as being from New York, which I guess means he's currently without gainful employment.
• George Mendes. Another one from New York. They didn't even bother to introduce him until the episode's nineteenth minute.
• Sue Zemanick. New Orleans. She was introduced even later in the show than George.

The quickfire was stupid. Head to head, each pair of cheftestants was tasked with preparing a dish using two dumb ingredients. The pairings were canned corn beef and marshmallows; chicken livers and popcorn; sardines and dragon fruit; cockles and Marmite; black licorice and peanut butter; and frog legs and cottage cheese. The chefs were all, like, 'Eeeewwww' before getting down to it and banging out some respectable dishes. The notable events were three chefs' failure to plate: Celina was unable to sauce her dish in time and decided therefore not to offer anything; John Currence forgot half the components of his dish; and Naomi apparently was too busy meditating to get round to dishing up at all. Props went to Traci for her duo of salads (celery with peanut butter vinaigrette and black licorice with orange), which I thought was a copout but the judges loved. Praise was also heaped on Mary Sue for her cottage-cheese cake topped with frogs legs meuniere, which I thought looked quite delicious. My beloved Suvir was the recipient of the above-reported 'loathsome' comment for his corned beef and marshmallow chaat, which looked like a big bowl of gooey pulao rice. He looked positively wounded by the verdict. Never mind, Suvir - I still think you're cute as a bug!

On to the elimination challenge, which for some strange reason was Restaurant Wars. What a confusing thing to do to us this early in the game! Teams were divided up and responsibilities assigned: for not-so-mysterious reasons, Naomi's team decided she would be 'great at front-of-house.' More mysteriously, they decide to go along with her insane plan to seat all the diners at once (like they do in her ashram, presumably), so that everyone has a feeling of 'community' and 'one-ness'. Since her colleagues spent the rest of the episode bemoaning the implications of this idiocy on kitchen organization, one can only assume they hoped to get her sent home first. She was saved, however, by her incredible flourless chocolate cake with meringue and Grand Marnier (the recipe for which is unavailable on Bravo's appalling website: I know because I searched for it, determined to prepare the dessert for my next gluten-free gala dinner party).

The winner was Alex 'Token Egotist' Stratta, with his celery root, potato and spinach fricassee, yawn.

The loser? The Unibrow, whose doom was sealed the minute he opened his scallops.

Or rather, opened his tin of scallops.

Can you imagine such a thing? Tinned scallops! On Top Chef Masters! To make them palatable, he drowned them in salt and then - piling sin upon sin - undercooked them. The judges were horrified and quite rightly sent him packing. They seemed genuinely disappointed to be doing so, but I for one could not forgive his foolishness. I mean, tinned scallops - how could he be so unthinking?

So that was that. More Top Chef than Masters, so Mademoiselle couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. I foresee the sorts of tantrums, throwings-under-the-bus, and back-stabbings of which this franchise had been previously been free, as the larger-than-usual number of whippersnappers get their knickers in a twist about outcooking their peers and winning a reality show.

As my hero Suvir so succinctly put it, 'The younger the chef, the more fragile the ego.'

Wit and wisdom - and he can cook, too. Now there's a Top Chef Master.