Food flurry. Mia knocks her container of salt into the sand. She annoys me later, so I'm happy about this until I realize she's probably allowed to go back for more. Cliff bitches about sand getting everywhere. Marcel and Mia jockey for space on their fire pit. From what we see, it looks like Marcel puts his skillet down and Mia just moves it completely out of the way, so she can put hers down in its place. Mia says something about it being her "area." "Dude, that's where my pan was. I put my pan down," Marcel says. "I'm gonna move it," Mia tells him, "I'm just letting you know." Well, isn't that NICE of you? Marcel tells us he wasn't sweating Mia and her musical skillets. Mia reminds us, "I cook for cowboys and I'm a professional barbecue-ologist." Like that's a real thing. Michael suddenly realizes he's forgotten his eggs. He pronounces them "aiggs." Dude's a mess. Frank smarms to us, "Mike's like my dumb little brother. I'm actually shocked Mike's gotten this far. Actually, I'm shocked Mike even got to Los Angeles." He giggles raspily. Michael shreds his chicken and hopelessly asks, "Can anyone spare an aigg? Anyone got any aiggs?" Betty feels bad for him and hands over some eggs, telling us, "Because that's what happens in a kitchen, it's a team effort." Hey, Bitchy? Where was that team effort last week when you blamed Marcel's team effort for your bombed out brÃ»lÃ©es? Son of Sam and Cliff hand over a few aiggs as well. Michael's stoked and announces, "Versatility, baby." I do not think that word means what you think it means.
With twenty minutes remaining, Frank's plan of quiches isn't going well. "Ideally, to pull of a quiche, I would need an oven," Frank tells us. And that's where Frank's a wank. You pretty much can make quiches only in an oven. So, why the HELL would you choose to make something that was so dependant on a very specific appliance when you were told ahead of time that there was no telling what sort of appliances they would have? Remember Candice's microwaved quiche disaster? Frank has to rethink his shit. Just make a frittata. Seagulls swoop in and start pecking at Frank's ruined crust. "THE SEAGULLS! THE SEAGULLS!" Betty bawls out. SHUT UP!
Elia tells us she's making a waffle concoction with syrup, melted cheese, fried egg, honey, and olive oil. "It tastes really good," she assures the cameras. Mia tells us, "Surfers, you know, they love the ocean, they love seafood, so I think that I chose a winner with the crab cakes Benedict and the mango cream sauce." Do surfers really love seafood? I mean, they smell their fair share of dead fish, and I wouldn't think rotting gills gets all the gastric juices flowing. Plus, surfers pee in the water. She fries crab cakes in a cast iron skillet. Son of Sam glowers and mixes his eggs with a wooden spoon. Throwing air-quotes all over the place, Sam tells us had an idea to do a "Green Eggs and Ham" because he's Sam I Am. Sam I Am a serial killer. Unfortunately, the "green" was a basil pesto that, when added to the eggs, turned them sort of grey. Son of Sam tells us he improvised, changed the name, and went with scrambled eggs, toad-in-a-hole style.