Nigella bites.
And gnaws.
Photo: Bravo.
By all indications, it shouldn't have been a standout night. Were there big surprises? No. Did the show's editors play up the usual themes -- "I miss my kids/significant other," "people misunderstand me as a chef," "this show will make or break what little reputation I have"? Of course. Are all the chefs who remain all equally deserving of the "Top Chef" title? Not at all.
Still, the show had a weird cumulative power, in large part because we've gotten to the point where we've invested a lot of time and faith into this motley crew. They may be burnt out by the sweltering Vegas sun and the even-more-searing comments of the judges, but we're not ready to see them throw in their aprons. So when Jen grumbled "I'm ready to go" before she was even called to the loser's circle, we wanted to stage a self-esteem intervention, stat.
Certainly this week's choice of challenges and the ebullient guest judge weren't to blame for the dark cloud. Who wouldn't want to cook breakfast in bed for Nigella Lawson? Far from being the usual polite, impossible-to-read celebrity, Nigella was an open book. Although a tough grader -- you could see her recoil in revulsion later in the episode, at Eli's peanut-raspberry-popcorn soup "fiasco" -- she positively beamed at his "hangover cure" of reuben-inspired eggs benedict, complete with a clever Thousand-Island hollandaise (why didn't we think of that one before?).
Challenged to fashion a dish around a popular Strip casino (what, no Harrah's?), the chefs were sent to wander the gaming floors, notebooks in hand (when was the last time you saw anyone write in Vegas?). Kevin and the brothers Voltaggio were their usual brilliant selves, to be sure. The stuffed souvenir sharks at Mandalay Bay inspired Bryan to go the sustainable-seafood route: slow-cooked halibut with a parsley gel that "sounded disgusting" but apparently tasted heavenly.
Meanwhile, the faux-metropolitan New York - New York somehow made Michael dream of buffalo wings (huh?). But that unassuming wing – boneless, skin intact, cooked in fat and adorned with a "blue cheese disc" – must've been spiked with a narcotic, mind-altering spice to put him over the top. (We're beginning to wonder if Natalie Portman's "who is his dealer" comment from two weeks ago wasn't more true than we ever imagined.) Michael's winning dish even prompted judge Toby Young to remark, apparently without irony, on the tattooed surfer-dude's "very delicate, sometimes quite effeminate" style of cooking. Michael's grunting reply: "I'm a great believer that your personality's definitely on the plate." Is he putting us on?
Still, even the frontrunners were not immune from all the free-floating doubt. Jen's raincloud even wafted over to the Mirage, where Kevin played with dolphins in a tank as he mused in voice-over, "everyone assumes that I'm going to be a really big redneck." Not to worry: His steak and eggs and salmon with mint and tomato water, while not the week's winners, were further examples of his blissfully simple-yet-sophisticated, lick-the-plate goodness.
Which left the true losers. When Jen couldn't even bring herself to defend her "sword in the stone" medieval hunk of meat -- which Nigella had to gnaw on to consume -- we felt yet again like we were watching the tragic descent of an honors student to the ranks of a juvenile delinquent. Tough as her meat might've been, though, we cringed most at Toby's assessment that "it was more Spamalot than Camelot," which has to rank in the annals of Worst Critics' Puns Ever.
And if you're wondering why it's taken us so long to get around to Robin, well, it might just be because we don't want to kick the poor woman when she's down. After weeks of wishing and hoping that the resident "Top Chef" pariah would be kicked off, already, the show's editors had to go and curry our sympathy for the 40-something blabbermouth with the bizarre, asymmetrical hair -- just before eliminating her for good. Sure, she was up to her usual, addled tricks: wandering around the Bellagio prattling on about Dale Chihuly's multicolored ceiling sculpture and her cooking "art," and getting in the way of a-hole Michael again in the kitchen.
When her sculptural sugar sheets melted, her colorful panna cotta set up too hard and her accompanying syrup tasted like Slurpee, we were geeked for her inevitable axing. But then a funny thing happened. Eli's Circus Circus-inspired peanut soup prompted such strong negativity -- "I'd rather eat sawdust," "I had to bring every part of my upbringing to bear not to spit it back into the cup" -- that we started to think a firm, bland panna cotta sounded delicious by comparison.
Add to that Robin's final-hour admission -- and we had to believe it was truthful -- that her culinary flights of fancy were done to impress her peers, and the whole thing started to seem a little tragic. Where her chutzpah once felt idiotic, last night it seemed downright admirable. "I'm trying to impress people, which I don't know how to do yet," she tearfully confessed, pledging to return to her specialty, namely, comfort food. Robin, we can't exactly say we'll miss you, but you can whip us up a nice pear crisp anytime.
