I guess if you want to get technical about it, Julia Allison is employed by a magazine. But her main occupation is fameball. So when I saw her, in a white dress, dramatically posing for photos as if she was getting married, it made me question whether these magazine awards were supposed to be some sort of society event. Apparently so! The following people showed up to present awards, for no discernible reason whatsoever:

• Anderson Cooper. Who did not say anything gay.
• Former New Yorker editor and current Clinton family stalker Tina Brown. "She looks like Hillary," someone whispered loudly when she appeared.
• The aforementioned Padma Lakshmi. She said some stuff about her food show, too.
• Former baseball star turned investor turned magazine publisher Lenny Dykstra. Though he can't be 50 years old yet, he shuffled, mumbled, and spoke with his mouth an inch from the mike in a disquieting impression of Muhammad Ali in the throes of Parkinson's disease. Or maybe it wasn't an impression.
• Obama girl.
• New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly. Who, after the ceremony, was deep in conversation with New Yorker editor David Remnick. A conversation I imagine going like this:

  KELLY: Congratulations on the award.

  REMNICK: Thanks. Coincidentally, we're going to be doing an investigative piece on the NYPD soon.

  KELLY: You are under arrest.

• Judah Friedlander and two other people from 30 Rock. They also made awkward, jokey attempts to somehow tie their show to the magazine industry. Not their fault, though. My guess is they were just as mystified that they were there as anyone else.
• Charlie Rose

The "Nick Denton Could Make This A Metaphor" moment of the night: Portfolio editor Joanne Lipman, after receiving an award, tried to walk off stage the wrong way, and had to turn around and double back.

And here, the night in poor pictures. I'm having some trouble aligning them correctly, so I will put the captions here, and the pictures below. 1. The view from the ballroom, and also what this crowd of media honchos controls: the world. 2. Here, Anderson Cooper, live on stage! It's really him, I promise! 3. Police Commissioner Ray Kelly walks away from me in fear after I challenge him to a debate on media consolidation laws. 4. Fameball Julia Allison and New York Magazine writer Vanessa Grigoriadis, whose article about this site was nominated for an award last night. They're both very personable!

That's about it.

Or maybe Salman doesn't. He has also recently been armcandied by Kay Saatchi, who it might be said resembles nothing less than a blonde, heavyset, English, old and white Padma Lakshmi. Also, Padma might be dating "billionaire Ted Forstmann" but whatever. While Mr. Forstmann has been making love to Padma Lakshmi on a pile of gold-plated diamond-crusted 100 dollar bills,"on Oct. 7 [Rushdie] whooshed up to Ontario to give a lecture 'in the provocative spirit of Bernard Shaw,'" and on October 18th he was in Ithaca. So we all know who the real winner is.

Of her Emmy nomination, "It's a big fucking deal." Of her divorce: "I'm so fucking sad." On her living accommodations: "Now I'm staying in a fucking hotel with all my shit in storage." There are also things that don't involve fucking. Or at least not explicitly.

Sales also seems to catch Padma in a vulnerable moment, or perhaps Lakshmi is, like R. Kelly, a flirt.

Later, she was sitting in [the former head of Motown Records] Andre Harrell's lap.....

Near the end of the evening, Padma was traveling around the room making people taste her "chocolate soup." It was supposed to be ice cream, but it didn't quite take..."One taste," she insisted of Harvey Weinstein, as he backed away with his hands up (he recently lost 55 pounds)

"O.K., O.K.," he finally said, allowing Padma to spoon-feed him. "Mmmmmmm," he said.

...

[Russell] Simmons went on with his teasing, squeezing Padma's lovely knee.

A Taste of Fame [VF]

Just saw Top Chef's Padma Lakshmi at Boom Fitness on the Upper East Side. Wasn't sure it was her until I saw the scar. She was singing along with her iPod as she worked out. Very pretty.

Emily thinks a dance remix of "It Ain't Me Babe." I'm going with Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun." Doree, taking Padma's age and stonerness into account, goes with Ace of Base's "I Saw the Sign." Choire suggests, "I guess Pat Benatar's 'My Clone Sleeps Alone' because she's A ROBOT." Balk submits the ex-Mrs. Rushdie was jammin' out to U2's "The Ground Beneath Her Feet." HMM?

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

Still! She seemed the sole arbiter of taste at the judge's table. Padma slowly recited her words (she had sent in a written report) like some Holy Scripture. "The maitre d' at Restaurant April had a serious sweating problem," she wrote. Real trenchant stuff that. But it just got worse, as Ms. Strong seemed to prove the adage those who can't cook write, those who can't write blog, those who can't blog send e-mail newsletters and those who can't do even that end up as a guest judge on Top Chef.

But the other demoralizing aspect of the show was the Baghdadian lack of rule of law. Contravening the explicit and implicit framework of Top Chef, no one was eliminated. Sure ,the two chefs on the chopping block—sweaty Bryan and shonda fur dir straightem Dale—didn't really deserve to be sent home, but the implicit contract the network has signed with the viewers stipulates that someone must be sent home. To apply this selectively not only violates the main premise of the show but the trust of the viewers; for more on the problem of selective enforcement, see McCleskey v. Kemp (No. 84-6811). [Ed. Note: Josh? Are you okay?]

This sort of thing has happened before on the show, as well as on other shows, of course—but each time it occurs, a little bit of trust has been broken; a bit of the validity of the judges' decisions erodes. Entrusting the bulk of the decision making to someone like Andrea Strong only hurts us all more.

The men's preparations were notably brief. They all put on striped shirts and the bald ones oiled their heads to a high shine. The ladies, on the other hand, spent hours crimping, picking out outfits and applying eyeliner. Boobs out, faces on, they were ready to party. Casey spoke longingly for the release she hoped to find on the dance floor. Sarah's decolletage was marvelous, probably scented. Hopes were high. But when they approached Nikki Beach, the "hottest club in Miami" [NB: So not true!], there was Padma, looking prettier then any of the ladies. And there was a block full of knives. She informed them they'd actually be cooking all night in cramped mobile kitchens instead of partying! Yay!

Casey, the cutest of the women left on the show, clearly was planning a way to stab Padma. We felt the same! Padma, like Gwyneth Paltrow, seems to be one of those beautiful women who like to torture other women. Already we've seen the cutest of the contestants offed and now Padma is just toying with the remaining ladies. It's just like when third wave feminists turned on second-wavers, accusing them of biological essentialist principles! Except hotter and meaner and dumber and chances are we won't have to take some dumb N.Y.U. class on Top Chef interpersonal dynamics.

Page Six honcho Richard Johnson, who resides in Hampton Bays, was among the first to arrive. He looked like he had just walked out of a screening of "The Sorrow and the Pity." "That was the longest beheading scene ever!" he said. Johnson was accompanied by his hobbledehoy son and a svelte blond nanny who wasn't much older but was suspiciously beautiful. Richard sat in the backyard garden, which is kind of like the kiddie table at the seder.

A table of beautiful Argentinean models sat at table 17. Among them was Delfina Blaquier, the wife of star polo player Ignacio "Nacho" Figuera, the polo player. They hadn't seen the movie either. But we all agreed to say that it was "action-packed."

D.Scho was chatting with Sandra Ripert, the saucy wife of Le Bernardin's Eric Ripert. "Oh my God, he was calling me during the whole movie!" Sandra said. "He's in Aspen being a judge for 'Top Chef!'" Talk turned to the breakup of "Top Chef" hostess Padma Lakshmi and Salman Rushdie. "I knew the marriage was on the rocks," Sandra said. "We sat next to them during the Beard dinner. Padma was all like, 'What party are we going to hit up next?' and Salman said, 'We're not going to any parties. It's late!'"

Inside, Rick and Kathy Hilton had some salmon. And then we saw Julia Allison approach the table. But as the blur of cleavage and brown hair got closer, we realized it wasn't her at all, but instead her somewhat classier and more successful doppleganger, ABC News correspondent Gigi Stone. She was trying to work up the nerve to say something to Zucker. He was chatting with some old people a few tables away. "I know we have a special connection," she said. "But he is the boss of my rival station." They don't call them stations anymore though. Her breasts were large and overwhelming and pushed up. They would have been at Zucker's eye level.

In the previous seasons the Top Chefs haven't been too hard on the eyes. Ilan is a little porcine tampon, admittedly, but he is technically cute, as is Marcel in a puckish Ducky way. Who can forget the Stephen Malkmus of the kitchen, Season One winner Harold Perilla Dieterle?

Who do we have this year? Fireplug Howie and oafish Joey. Then there's CJ, who is handsome but only half a man (in the testicle department). In the ladies department, Padma has already made quick work of the competition. Clearly the most pulchritudinous chef is Casey—but she's already been on the chopping block twice. Sara isn't too bad looking bur her job as executive chef at the horrible "restaurant" Boucarou certainly doesn't bode well for her future.

[SALMAN RUSHDIE is at a table in an Atlanta chophouse. He is sitting alone and talking to himself.]

SALMAN

Perhaps I'll start off with a salad
Then maybe a bowl of soup
For dessert, a hot fudge sundae
Or pecan pie or melon coupe

In between those two endpoints
Comes the entrée or main dish
From the looks of this very large menu
I can have anything that I wish

So maybe I will have some pasta
Maybe I will have a steak
I will order from the waiter.
It will come. I will partake.

A restaurant's a funny thing
You ask for food and wait for it
The menu is a type of scripture
Gastronomic holy writ

By the stars I do declare
I see the waiter over there.

[It is not the waiter. It is a busboy. He refills SALMAN RUSHDIE's water glass from a pitcher with lemon slices. SALMAN RUSHDIE gulps down his water. The busboy refills it. Again, SALMAN RUSHDIE drinks it as if parched. After a third time, the busboy hurries away, disconcerted.]

SALMAN

Where is the waiter?
I demand service.
Now's better than later.
I'm feeling quite nervous.

[Finally, THE WAITER arrives to take SALMAN RUSHDIE's order. He is very young. It might be his first week on the job.]

WAITER

Well, sir, well, yes, well, alright
What can I get for you tonight?

[SALMAN grabs the WAITER's shirt.]

SALMAN

Okay, I will admit my fear
Of sitting here
In solitude
I cannot bear to eat alone
Can I postpone
Your leaving, dude?

Come sit with me, please, dear waiter
Indulge my verbal promiscuity
If you do as I say, dear waiter
I'll leave a ginormous gratuity

[SALMAN points to the chair. The WAITER sits.]

SALMAN

I have a story
A story of lives
A story of husbands
A story of wives
A story of cultures
Clashing and meshing.
This water with lemon
Is highly refreshing.

[The WAITER signals to a busboy. The water glasses are refilled. SALMAN, still looking lonely, motions to the WAITER to drink water with him. The WAITER complies. They each drink three glasses.]

SALMAN

Some years ago I took a wife
I pledged myself to her for life
It didn't work out quite as planned
I unhappily untook her hand

Within the year I wed again
Refilled my spirit's fountain pen
She was a writer, just like me
That marriage dissolved rapidly

Four years went by, then wife the third
Appeared to me; my heart was spurred
This time, seven years went by
We couldn't quite see eye to eye

I tell you these three horror stories
To bring you closer to the glories
Of my fourth wife, whom I adore
And have done since two thousand four.

Her name is Padma Parvati Lakshmi
In Sanskrit her first name means "lotus."
I loved her, you see, like a staunch employee
But now I've been given my notice.

It is the best of times
It is the worst of times
That's from Tale of Two Cities, of course
On the one hand, I loved her. My heart knew no bounds.
On the other hand, now it's been bound by divorce.

[THE WAITER opens his mouth to speak.]

WAITER

Uh, sir, I need,
Well, sir, see, we'd...

[SALMAN RUSHDIE stills him with a hand.]

SALMAN

Yes, yes
I think I understand
You recognize my face
You wonder
Why I would descend
Upon this modest place

Well, we would come here every week
By we I mean the wife and I
We'd laugh, we'd eat, we'd laugh some more
I can't believe she's said goodbye

A Booker, two Whitbreads, a James Tate Black
The Kurt Tucholsky Prize in Sweden
All of these honors have come to me
But it's wifely love that I'm needin'

[THE WAITER stands.]

WAITER

Yeah, well, uh, but,
It's not just what...

[The hand of SALMAN RUSHDIE stills him again.]

SALMAN

This story is rich with twists and reverses
The heart's aspiration, the heart's demolition
I'll reflect on it in my newly penned foreword
To the Satanic Verses collectors' edition

The fatwa may be gone
But the wife, she is gone too
That bothers me tremendously
Dear waiter, does it bother you?

WAITER

Uh, no, sir, well, see, the thing is,
I really need to take a whiz
I know you're sad and hope you don't get sadder
But I desperately need to go empty my bladder

[The WAITER exits briskly. SALMAN's phone rings. It is an iPhone.]

SALMAN

Oh, joy, my cellular
I can tell it's her
Padma, Padma, I'm answering now
Tell me that you won't renege on our vow

[It is not Padma calling on then iPhone. It is the top Al-Qaeda lieutenant AYMAN AL-ZAWAHRI. He's angry about SALMAN RUSHDIE's recent knighting by the British royalty.]

AYMAN AL-ZAWAHRI

Listen here: I hear tell
You were knighted in Britain
Given high honors
For what you have written

You know what they say
Bitten once and shy twice
Our response will be violent
And pure and precise

This is no joking matter
Your culture depraves
It's all in my speech
About the Indian slaves

You may think it wrong
It's not yours to decide
That is our threat
Unless the knighthood's denied

[AYMAN AL-ZAWAHRI hangs up. SALMAN RUSHDIE stares at the phone.]

SALMAN

That is so freakin' weird
That guy just appeared
On my telephone line
To denounce and malign
And threaten and lecture
I cannot conjecture
Just how that occurred
I can't believe what I heard
As soon as that waiter
Comes back to the table
I'll recount the story
As best I am able
I'll tell it with gusto
I'll be dashing and deft
And then I will leave
And go watch Top Chef

[SALMAN waits for the WAITER. THE WAITER isn't coming back.]

THE END

Ben Greenman is an editor at the New Yorker and the author of several books of fiction. His latest book, A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both, was recently published.

Previously: Fragments from 'Jeannette! The Musical'
Bonus: Do you love Ben Greenman's musicals as much as we do? Would you like to see them performed live on stage? Of course you do and would! Well, here's your chance: Tuesday, July 17th, Greenman's Fragments will be part of The Rejection Show's Music Series. The event takes place at 8 P.M. at Ace of Clubs, 9 Great Jones Street. See you there!

As New York magazine reports:

Two weeks before her soon-to-be-ex-husband Salman Rushdie announced he was granting her a divorce because of "her desire to end their marriage," Padma Lakshmi quietly shopped for a new apartment. Sources say the former model may be looking to lease instead of buy, since last week she had her broker check out a $10,000-a-month penthouse duplex at the Modern, a "green" luxury rental building on West 16th Street. (Fashion designer Norma Kamali eyed the $11,000-a-month maisonette there but hasn't committed.) The location certainly makes sense for Lakshmi, who hosts Top Chef: It's right across from Chelsea Market, where she tapes episodes of her TV series.

The Flat Beneath Her Feet [NY]

Salman Rushdie and Padma Lakshmi To Divorce [People]

While Rushdie was being knighted by the Queen of England last week [Ed. note: Mazel!], Lakshmi was spotted hanging out into the wee hours at the Rose Bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel with a well-known chef who was there without his spouse. "They seemed to be quite interested in what each other had to say," said a witness. "They were oblivious to the people around them."

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.

Inside the auditorium, host Hannah Storm enounced every line like she was blowing the Teleprompter. Her scarlet folds announced David Chang's win for best new chef with the tone of voice usually reserved for dirty nothings and unnatural requests. Perhaps because everyone seemed alternately skeaved out and erect, the awards were an endearing if chaotic shitshow. Envelopes were delayed, cues dropped, and lines flubbed. Execution issues notwithstanding, the chefs who won and presented were uniformly adorable, enthusiastic and wholly charming. But we heard there was food in the press room so we quickly decamped from the auditorium to where, apparently, the party was at.

The press room, in the outer bowels of Lincoln Center, resembled a feed lot. The sum total of New York's food scene—those who write, those who cook, the PR handlers, the hacks and the flacks—was present. Ozersky, Leventhal, Levine, Laren, Leuzzi, Thorn: They were all there, gazing at the telecast. The winners and presenters would cycle through the room, gracious and harried. We—as you can see—caught up with Big Head Todd, Teddy Allen, Wolfgang "Elmer" Puck, Padma Lakshmi and others. Enough can not be said about the languid beauty of Padma Lakshmi. We're not sure if she and Wild Salman are still together, but we glumly noted she was sporting two gargantuan and seemingly matrimonial rings. Her face, breathtaking on television is even more beautifuller close up and in person. It's bigger (weee! perspective!) but more to the point, it means you're standing close to her in person. With a miniature stuffed red pepper gingerly held between her fingers, Padma turned to us and said, "Oh Gawker! You guys aren't always so nice to me."

"No," I said a little too fervently. "I'm nice," I said, "and enamored." And then, like it wasn't the greatest thing that ever happened in my life, though plainly both of us knew it would be, she rubbed my shoulder and told me I was sweet.

As the ceremony finished, the press and the guests and the chefs filed out to the foyer for a massive gala dinner. Chefs from around the country manned tables and distributed tiny portions designed to showcase how talented they were. The stakes were high. José Andres, a mad Spanish genius, served those crystalline olive oil drops Marcel tried and failed to pull of in Top Chef. If little Vigneron had managed to capture that salty taste explosion, he surely would have won.

The reception felt strangely like a very well-catered prom. People cared less about the party than the after party. Word was shit was gonna be off the hook at Picholine, Hawaiian Tropic and Cafe Des Artistes. Chang had even hired a party bus for 30 chefs, complete with a stripper pole. The night would end, we were told, at Momofuku Ssam Bar. But since it was close by and since we'd never gone, we threw our lot with Jeffrey Chodorow's Kobe Club a few blocks away. Chodorow, who was neither mentioned nor nominated, wasn't around but his ninja swords were. Like so many Damocles, we munched on subpar crab cakes and mini cheese steaks. Billy Joel's wife was there without her man, but we were holding out for some Easy Exotic company, she who rubbed us and told us we were sweet. As one turned two, the morning earlier and we older, our eyes, so eager for Padma, started to droop. So sad. Wherever was she? —Josh

James Beard Award Winners

[Video: Richard Blakeley]

Rushdie, Crushed? [NYO]