Have we really gotten so far into the current season of "Top Chef" that Bravo feels the need to start dragging out the suspense -- namely, when will Robin be eliminated -- with an arbitrary, 11-chef reunion special? In retrospect, we should have known that that Very Special Natalie Portman episode was preparing us for an agonizing, two-week hibernation. Wake us when it's sweeps week.
In actuality, "Top Chef All Stars" was less a "where are they now" gift to loyal fans than it was a five-season clip compilation for non-fans, reminding them that the current Vegas edition, entertaining as it is, can't hold a candle to the pissy dysfunction -- or bad hairstyles -- of seasons past.
Presided over by Season Five's grade-A diva Fabio, the evening mostly succeeded in being a mellow, low-tension meeting of 11 "fan favorite" cheftestants. And don't think they got a free trip to Los Angeles without having to cook, either, although at least this time they were granted a luxurious $500 budget at Whole Foods. Still, drama and revelations were in short supply, while the most prominent theme of the evening was -- newsflash -- Marcel is still a dick. (Although he and Ilan seem to be legitimately chummy nowadays.)
The Season Two pipsqueak with the loud mouth and Robert Pattinson-on-steroids hair dominated this so-called reunion, both in present tense and in lovingly edited montages. You want a replay of Marcel talking over the judges during his critique? You got it. Care to revisit the unsuccessful attempt by his housemates to pin him down and shave off his downy brown locks? We don't, if only because it didn't produce the desired result: Marcel crying like a bald-headed baby.
At the mid-point of any reality show -- let alone one involving a bunch of ambitious, successful, mostly alpha-male chefs -- a clear villain emerges. And the way things have shaken out on "The Next Iron Chef," we're left with a strange mix: Two are the nicest chefs you could imagine (Jose Garces, Roberto Trevino), two are boy- and girl-next-door types (Seamus Mullen, Amanda Freitag, respectively), and two are the meanest, cockiest, backstabbing-est bastards the Food Network casting director could hope to find (Nate Appleman, Jehangir Mehta).
Picking from among the nice ones is hard -- Garces and Freitag are constantly offering up help to the others and downplaying their talent -- but the heart of banal evil of "TNIC" is a little easier to pin down. Sure, former A16 and soon-to-be Pulino's chef Appleman is your average aggressive, tatted-up, overly confident young chef. And yes, his quote during last night's Indian-themed "pressure" challenge was enough to make us hurl: "I'm a white boy who never cooked Indian before and I just cooked 5 dishes -- I think I've pretty much won this."
But if it's the devious grin, the glint of sabotage, the air of smug condescension you're looking for, there can only be one choice: Mehta. We're sure Graffiti's wunderkind is, as its Web site puts it, "truly a nice guy." But if you've been watching the way "TNIC" editors slice-and-dice Mehta's reaction shots -- not to mention his own proclivity for undermining his co-contestants by hoarding ingredients and gadgets whether he needs them or not -- he's the leading candidate to be the show's mustache-twirling bad guy. And judging by the voting, he'll continue to be.
At this point in the usual "Top Chef" season trajectory, you might expect a certain focus and discipline that naturally comes with narrowing the playing field down to seven ambitious young chefs, each working at the top of his or her game. This year, however, is another story.
Maybe it's that the talented and reliable Jen is off her game, or that the universally derided Robin is still around or that the twerpy Eli can actually put together an interesting plate of food for once. In any event, Wednesday night's episode felt like a detour into a "Top Chef" bizarro-world, where up is down, left is right and nobody knows anything anymore. Well, almost anything: Robin still sucks, Michael V. is still a cocky jerk and Kevin is still the model of modest brilliance.
Rattling off the random highlights of the episode sounds as scattered as Robin's cooking philosophy: Dirty jokes! Vegetarianism! Natalie Portman! No Toby Young! A Quickfire challenge that revealed itself to be a desperate marketing ploy! Make that two marketing ploys! In fact, Portman's description of one dish neatly summed up the entire episode: "It makes me smile and laugh -- and I'm confused!"
Let us pause now to reflect upon Jeffrey Steingarten, award-winning writer, fearless gastronomist and utterly irascible judge of "The Next Iron Chef." Every cooking competition show needs its Simon Cowell, after all, a grumpy, hard-to-please, perpetually underwhelmed quipster whose general lack of enthusiasm makes for great, nasty sound bites. But Steingarten is in another class entirely: He's so disaffected, it's hard to tell if he's got a pulse half of the time.
Week after week, Steingarten regards the Iron Chef hopefuls in the same way a crusty professor might deal with a snot-nosed student who happened to stop by his office outside of office hours. The man may certainly have his cheerful side, but by now we've gotten the feeling that every week, the "TNIC" editors decide to save up and splice together all of his best "You got me out of bed for this?" looks, and parse them out over the course of the last 15 minutes of each show.
When in doubt, they zoom in on one of his particularly befuddled stares -- no doubt there are plenty to choose from -- and try to give it some sort of significance, as if the man can't believe what he's hearing. You imagine that a Steingarten comment like "my flan is a little curdled" was probably delivered politely, gingerly to chef Jose Garces -- but when the tribal drums of failure are added to the soundtrack, man, does it take on a sting.
If you're like us, you've been waiting all season for the ultimate knock-down, drag-out Voltaggio brothers showdown on "Top Chef Vegas." Ah, the boys next door we love to hate, with their cutting comments, their undermining of each other's abilities, their constant bickering. ... We're not sure what dinner was like in their house growing up, but no doubt it involved lots of flinging of peas and acting out, followed by long, unbearable silences.
You can even see it in their food: Robotic big-bro Bryan and his classically flavored, cooked-to-perfection entrees; sneering bad-boy/skate-punk Michael and his crazy textures, flamboyant technique and exotic flavor profiles. It may be a few episodes too early to say it, but last night -- on the occasion of "Top Chef"'s customary restaurant wars challenge -- we finally saw the their sibling hatred in full effect.
Jehangir Mehta: 'The Next Iron Chef' villain?
Photo: The Food Network.
What was that on the Food Network Sunday night, you ask? Thudding sound effects, suspenseful music, extreme shaky-cam cinematography -- it had to be one of the "Bourne" movies, right? The opening of a scene from "Saving Private Ryan"? A straight-to-video "Mission: Impossible" sequel?
No, that trumped-up spectacle you witnessed was not the next John Woo movie -- it was, of course, the semi-celebrity chef competition "The Next Iron Chef." It's unlikely that anything can challenge Bravo's "Top Chef" as the premiere American cheftestant show, but as an old ad once put it, being No. 2 means you just try harder.
And trying really, really hard is what "The Next Iron Chef" is all about. In fact, all the music, fancy editing and bright lights are beginning to take their toll: Even the eight remaining chefs can't muster up quite that much energy. When your losing chef can utterly shrug off his failure -- something along the lines of "even great chefs have bad days; at least I have two great restaurants and my lovely family to go home to," yadda yadda yadda -- you know you've got a low-stakes kind of show. It's not as if these folks are going to go back to toiling in obscurity, with the added insult of "reality show failure" being tattooed on their foreheads.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. "The Next Iron Chef" has its pleasures, even if they're in a watered-down, "Top Chef"kind of way. Any episode that sings the praises of Los Angeles' myriad strip-mall Asian restaurants can't be all bad, especially when the four chosen for the show are all authentically, unequivocally tasty. Even the blatant product placement of the overexposed-but-still-delectable Kogi Korean-taco truck didn't bother us -- in fact, the mere thought of their short rib tacos gave us the Pavlovian impulse to check their Twitter posts to see if they were nearby.
Since the very beginning of "Top Chef Vegas" -- when she sheepishly chose immunity over a prize in a quickfire challenge -- the spazzy, chatty 40-something firebrand with the Kool-Aid hair has been courting the hatred of just about every mammal on the show, including the dead ones she's overcooked in the kitchen.
Even the cameramen seem to be joining in the slander. Each week, her pancake makeup looks a little worse, her puttering around the house more aimless, her early morning pilates routine more ridiculous. If you're looking for someone to teach you the doggy paddle on your front lawn, Robin's your girl.
Call it ageist, call it sexist, call it discrimination against the uniquely untalented, but certainly the bile and vitriol directed her way are disproportionate to her overall annoyance factor -- or are they? This week, the show's editors played up the Eli-vs.-Robin smackdown, wherein the elder stateswoman of "Top Chef" had the gall to suggest a nice serving platter for the Weeble-like Eli's scallops.
"You're not my mom," the snotty 25-year-old shouted, just after reminding us that he still lives with his mom and dad -- and is quite happy with the arrangement, thank you.
Not enough tension in your cooking competition shows? Do you find your blood pressure leveling out to near-normal readings during "Top Chef"? Do you wish that "Chopped" had more creepy smoke-machine fog piped into the set? Would judges' decisions be more exacting if only they were accompanied by loud, metallic wooshing sounds?
You're in luck. Last week brought the return of "The Next Iron Chef," one of the Food Network's variations on the legendary Japanese cook-off show, and with it a heaping helping of adrenalin-fueled, hacksaw-edited mania. After just two episodes, it's clear the show isn't going to give us a moment's peace, whether to pour ourselves a nice glass of sherry or grab our anti-anxiety meds -- or both, should it ever come to that.
Now it gets ugly. This is when the tears start flowing, the chefs get sick to their stomachs and the not-quite-least-deserving go home just a little bit before their time. That's right, we're over halfway through the Vegas season of "Top Chef" -- episode seven, to be exact -- and for the most part, the wheat has been separated from the figurative chaff. Only the best remain, and the smallest misstep could cost them.
Well, that's not entirely true: Cheftestant consensus would have it that Robin -- she of the fiery red hair, weird lips, incessant nattering and "I will survive" cancer back story -- should've been gone weeks ago. And in a double-shot of reality-show irony, this week saw her randomly partnered on a team challenge with her nemesis, Jersey Mike -- just about the only person who annoys us more.
Admittedly, the man can pull together the occasional impressive dish, and once you get past his egotism -- best signified by his countless rocker-fist salutes to himself -- you might uncover the Fonzie-like charm that lurks somewhere within. But when he's presented with a grocery bag full of Asian ingredients and doesn't have a clue as to what to do with them, you kind of wish he would just suck it up and play second fiddle, if only for a moment.
Instead, we get the team-challenge friction that only "Top Chef" can provide: Jersey Mike blithely quipping that his game plan involves "throwing out all the stuff" Robin cooks. The ever-humble Ash makes suggestions to would-be superstar Michael V., but, after being rejected, chooses instead to decorate the dinner table, tail between his legs.
Robin, the thorn in Top Chefs' sides. Photo: Bravo.
Toby Young really missed his potatoes last night. In his return to the "Top Chef" judges' table, the snarky British author and all-purpose pundit was presented with a couple of deconstructed dishes that, at their best, would've celebrated his homeland.
At their worst, however -- and as prepared by Ash and Laurine, respectively, they were at their worst -- the two concoctions were an outright affront to the dear old Blighty: fish 'n' chips and shepherd's pie. Even guest judges Penn and Teller, chosen for their skill at deconstructing magic tricks, couldn't contain their disgust.
Credit Laurine for at least trying: Her cube of halibut, pile of zucchini relish and smear of tomato confit was what an eager community college-student might think deconstructed cuisine should look like. But the all-important tuber was merely represented by a tiny communion wafer of chewy, parsley-infused potato. Missing "what you call fries, what I call chips," Young and company summoned her to the loser's circle.
Ash's, meanwhile, was a mess of elements on a plate, ranging from inconsistently cooked lamb chops to pea puree, glopped on in a desperate attempt to make up for a potato-parsnip side dish that was "too gluey" to serve. As if that admonition wasn't enough, the young cook went so far as to confess that the only shepherd's pie he had ever tasted was his own, which brought to mind nothing so much as Jodie Foster in "Nell," living by her own special language that no one else could understand.
Laurine, the calm amid the 'Top Chef' chaos. Photo: Bravo.
Break out the chaps. Dust off your spurs. Get ready for Padma to ring the dinner bell as only she knows how -- that is, gingerly and timidly.
That's right, with "Top Chef" stationed in the middle of the Southwest this season, we knew there'd have to be some sort of roughing-it challenge to go along with all the gaudy glitz of the Vegas strip. The only question would be just how much roughness our cheftestants would have to endure.
Surprisingly, quite a bit. With only the most mysterious hint of their destination, the dozen remaining chefs were shipped off -- after countless shots of them enjoying the plush luxury of their product-placement Toyotas -- and left to fend for themselves in a remote desert ranch, in teepees, no less. "Is Padma sleeping in a teepee? I'd just like to know," asked Kevin.
That would be an emphatic "no." And while some chefs used the opportunity to wax nostalgic on their outdoorsy upbringings -- some (Ashley) more convincingly than others (Robin) -- some just weren't having it. Cue the urbanite whining of Atlantan Eli, or the voodoo-spellcasting of Haitian Ron, whose elaborate warding off of snakes was appreciated, if not understood, by bunkmate Ash.
Brian Boitano, living to entertain. Photo: Food Network
Is it just us, or is Brian Boitano already running out of ideas? After just four brief episodes, the figure-skater-turned-foodie is so strapped for a reason to entertain, he throws a finger-food party for a Spanish-American friend with a 6-month-old baby. Why? Because she "made it."
We'll ignore for a moment what the alternatives might be for mothers of newborns. Maybe that's the beauty of "What Would Brian Boitano Make?": The man needs no excuse -- or even a reason -- to whip up a few frilly themed appetizers. Or rather, his show is the excuse.
This week's installment was pure stream-of-consciousness Brian -- a day in the life, if you will: Wake up, fire up your vintage Wedgewood oven and make a Spanish tortilla, which reminds you of your Spanish-American pal Yvonne, which in turn prompts you to learn about making paella from her mother.
Eli, Kevin, Ron and a lot of attitude. Photo: Bravo.
Cocky much? You'd think that in the highest-stakes episode yet this season, a bunch of young cooks with their reputations on the line would be too busy sweating the details to gloat.
But on Wednesday night's tribute to the art of French cooking, awe quickly gave way to a swaggering show of braggadocio the likes of which we haven't seen since Eminem was doing freestyle rap-offs on the streets of Detroit. Chalk it up to nerves -- or ironic editing -- if you want, but when the headstrong, "I'm better than my brother" Michael V. seems the most shy and unassuming of the bunch, you know something's out of whack.
Sure, a few were in awe: Not only did the cooks have to make snails for Daniel Boulud in a quickfire challenge, but none other than Joël Robuchon held court at the elimination dinner.
We should've known better. You can't expect a figure skater to lay off the sparkles forever, and sure enough, our man Brian Boitano was back to his old tricks this week: goofy skits, crudely animated fantasy sequences and laughing at his own jokes.
But while his aesthetics are regressing, at least his cooking is maturing, from the fussy appetizers of the first two shows to something resembling a real meal.
The fabricated meal-making scenario this time followed an eager Brian ready to impress his handyman in order to gain acceptance into an "international dinner club" -- cue many references to the Wonder Bread-ish Brian's Italian heritage.
For the moment, we'll ignore the incongruous fantasy of a dashing, 40-something French handyman willing to whip up his mother's coq au vin recipe for a bachelor client. (And is it just us, or do the shots of Brian's spacious, garden-facing kitchen and his narrow San Francisco living quarters seem a little... lacking in continuity?)
Padma, Gail, Tom, Mark Peel and the troops. Photo: Bravo
Note to "Top Chef" editors: You fooled us. As with any reality show with a dozen-plus contestants, the ones who get the most face time in the early episodes are usually the superstars, or the ones who'll be packing their knives and going home.
By that logic, perma-cryer Jesse -- who managed the ignominious feat of having the lowest scores in the previous two episodes -- was marked for doom this week. But at least she owned her status -- or lack of it -- as the loser of last night's quickfire challenge: "I'm on the bottom again -- balls!"
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