"You guys are gonna cook for us, " Jay announces on behalf of the five-member entourage he's invited over. The girls look around perplexed, but Robin jumps in and saves the day. She now talks so much like a caricature of herself that her speaking voice should be rendered in colored pencil with an enormous head and roller skates as drawn by an artist at a small-town waterfront street fair. The girl sounds like she's doing a trash-talking, drunken impersonation of herself: "We nee summ CHEEK-in! An'sum FLAH-wuh! An'sum swee-buh-day-doze. An'GREENZ!" Ssssssh! Jay responds that they have everything but the greenz, and wacky montage-ing ensues as the girls slap the meal together. But, as we are quick to learn, even the nicest apartments in New York require some kind of space compromise, and even if a place is big enough to accommodate a grand piano, someone's still eating dinner on the piano bench. The group sits around a makeshift table as Tyra notes that the pasta looks "absolutely weird," but she still stands to unbutton her pants "to prepare for the feast." Because top models always eat perfectly balanced meals, and to imply otherwise would mean that sometimes people make it to the top of their industries using certain enhancements as an unfair advantage, like athletes with steroids or presidents with lying.
Strumity-strum-strum in the key of minor signals we're about to move into some Serious Issues, like if we suddenly found out that Ty had lupus or if someone had shown up wearing the same outfit as Jay, heaven forbid. But no! For it is even worse than that: a close-up on Elyse's plate signals that she has eaten her fair share of pasta, but Giselle fills in some treasonous inferences that she'd prefer not to put down in writing because then it would be libel and also because she can't really spell: "It's kind of an issue right now whether Elyse has an eating disorder or not." Kesse fills us in that, yes, Elyse did eat a full portion at dinner, "but she mentioned to somebody that it was because Tyra was there." But in her own confessional, Elyse is asking us to wait just one gosh-darned New York Minute, in an anxious denial that finds her telling us, "I eat when I'm hungry and I stop eating when I'm full." Don't know about you guys, but that sounds like an eating order. Besides, her twin sister just told me she's doing fine, so...I'm convinced.
Back at the Are-You-Sure- You're-Not-Going- To-Eat-That-otel, a piece of Tyra Mail! Tyra Mail! informs us that the girls have to meet in the London room (which, at first, I believed was going to be actual London, which is only significant because it would have provided me with my first legitimate "Pack your bags, y'all" reference in, like, ever) the following morning for "publicity training." Because if there's a shallower and more backbiting cobwebby corner of the entertainment industry than modeling, where the mutant mole people hold sway over public opinion and the time-tested concept known as "the truth" fears to dwell, it's PR. I'm sure getting your feet wet with a little media training is an important facet of the Cynicism Inoculation Program that is part and parcel of becoming a model in your mid-twenties, but it would be just as easy if they had substituted this entire week of training with a three-by-five index card Sharpied with the words, "Suffering from exhaustion and dehydration."