Lisa Garza Shuts Her Quiche Lorraine Pie Hole

Fightin’ Foodies of the SideDish Nation, Lisa Garza has gone silent on us. Yesterday she didn’t return phone calls or e-mails asking for her usual Monday blog post. However, I did get a “I’m-in-a-meeting” text so I know she hasn’t been fitted with cement Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals and sunk in the East River.

In absence of the reality TV Lisa, I will present SideDish’s first Blogality Post, a blurb based on a reality TV person written by a real person pretending to be a reality TV person. That “person pretending to be a reality TV person” shall remain anonymous.

“Geezy man, what a stressful show Sunday night. How stupid was that little Brownie or Bluebird or Girl Scout, or whatever she was. She certainly isn’t going to get a badge in couscous from me. I mean really, my son Ian’s first word was “haricovert.” (Duh!?) His first complete sentence was “Mommy, can I have a bottle of 1995 Chateau d’Yquem with a lovely assortment of St. Paulin, Brie de Mieux, and a small slice of St. Nectaire for a snack?” (Oh, he’s so cute!) Just what have these other contestants been feeding their children. Or themselves? Oh, I gasp at the thought. (I bet Kelsey grew up on Trix. Her complexion is still orange from food dye)

But back to the show. Can I tell you upfront that Bobby Flay is H. O. T. He can grill me any night of the week and I will turn myself over so that he can grill me again on the other side. No basting necessary. I would do anything for Bobby, and I have. Whoopsie, you didn’t hear that from me because I’m signed a strict contract and agreed not to talk about that stuff in public. (Note to lawyer: Are blogs public?) Wanna hear more?

Bobby has been soooo sweet to me. Did you see him wink at me Sunday night when I walked past him? My husband and co-owner of Suze, Gilbert, did. Needless to say he going to cut off what is left of my hair. But I have to admit, at first I was sooo happy to see those little girls come into the studio kitchen. I just knew that it was going to be my night. But that little brat who was assigned to me must have been paid off by one of Aaron’s fans because she soooo lied to me about horseradish. How was I to know she was allergic to it? And do her parents really think I can afford to pay her hospital bills? I mean, seriously.

Do I care? No, because I am going to win this competition. God bless Martha Stewart that wimpy little Adam is gone. He should have smoked another one before his restaurant, The Smoked Joint, closed because he was about as creative as Henry Kissinger in the kitchen.

And yes, I did go all gah-gah when they “surprised” us with the fact that we were going to get to do a live food demo on Rachael Ray. (Bob-O told me ahead of time so I had to act surprised, it’s in my contract.) In fact, we all had to act excited when any of the Food Network stars showed up on the set. (However, Adam did not have to act when Cat Cora was in front of him–he could not stand up straight. Can you say, tent pole?!)

Sorry, back to Rachael: By the time I was ten seconds into my demo, I wanted to drop kick that pushy broad back to Cape Cod and hit the streets of Manhattan and down a couple of cosmos with SJP. But I toughed it out and made my way through the demo with my arms looking really buff. (Thanks, Jake!) Then we all went back into the studio where Bob-o-luscious and the other members of the selection committee, Susie Creamcheese and Spongey Bob, were waiting to critique us. Susie, who desperately needs some hair and upper arm firming advice, had the nerve to attack me like a starving pit bull. She said Rachael beat my ass; well guess what, that is not what happened.

In real time reality TV, Rachael not only followed me out of the studio, she asked for my cell phone number and for my super-secret source for fresh, organic free-range horseradish. Pluhleeeze, she’s a puppet.

And Spongey Bob, who so obviously has a thing for Aaron. Once again, the stories I could tell you about what goes on in that apartment. More specifically in the bathroom of that apartment. But I’m not going to sink to that level, or rise to the $500-an-hour lawyer fees, to go there.

The way I see it, my only hurdle is Miss Turning-Trix Kelsey. Don’t let that ratted-up hair and plastic Bando fool you, one of her two “mothers” is an original Roller Derby champ and the other one played on the LPGA circuit for 40 years. Kelsey grew up in a trailer eating nails for an iron supplement. She scares me. I might shave my head for the final episode. Oh, did I just give next week’s epidode away?

Do I care? No. I still have my culinary point of view and my Prada pumps. And Bobby’s cell phone number. Ciao!”