You know the trouble with middle-aged white guys with French accents is that you can't tell them apart. I mean, I don't know these people, I can't tell you oh that's Stefane he likes milk in his coffee and won't admit he voted for Chirac unless he's really drunk on Bourgogne grand cru. So we'll leave it at this: Who knows. I do know what Matthew keeps explaining: There are three MLFs walking around! There are MLFs in the kitchen! So I guess he's horny? I don't know. I did Google it, but unless these guys are medial longitudinal fasciculus on a fantastic voyage, or a Malo-Lactic fermentation experiment, I got nothing. I throw my hands up in the air, I whip my hair back and forth, I just don't know. Regardless of how I feel, Chris is feeling confident, because he has been judged by Jacques Torres before, so he knows what's up. I've probably been judged by Jacques Torres before, but mostly because I was shoveling chocolate covered Cheerios into my mouth at an impressive rate in his shop.
The cheftestants begin the prep work for their big day and are shocked to see the big fancy chefs all start assisting them. One of them (Sebastien?) even does the dishes, which is probably a sign of the apocalypse, or would be if the dude who wrote the bible (Stefane?) had any idea what an MLF was. I mean, you can't just drop this lingo in and expect us to know what the heck you are talking about. I mean, that's totally CFU, you know? Soon it is the end of the day and the lesser chefs and the greater chefs leave the GE Monogram sponsored Top Chef kitchen.