Joshua David Stein is back briefly to talk about Bravo's Top Chef whose final episode aired last night. Not wanting to spoil what we all have been waiting for somewhat apprehensively since March 12, I promise not to spoil the 'Top Chef' finale until after the jump. Truth be told, however, it's hard to spoil something that's already rotten.

That might be a little unkind. The finale wasn't completely rotten and the winner of Season 4, Stephanie, certainly deserved to win. She is a great chef and, if Bravo's editors haven't diced her personality beyond recognition, a nice person too. The winner was clear last night. Sadly, new father Richard pulled a Casey last night and choked. It happens. Even when aspyhxiating, Richard was a joy to watch. He was genuine, curious and down-to-earth. However since it seems Bravo was adamant that a female win Top Chef, one wonders if even if he had been on point whether he would have prevailed.

Lisa, well, Lisa. Lisa Lisa Lisa. Goo goo kachoo. What's there to say? Her persistent larval anomie and her glee in broadcasting her meanness to others was epic. In fact, her consistency deserves some respect. She's gone now, Lisa is. And, إن شاء الله we'll never have to see or hear from her again. She'll disappear deflated from our consciousness, a villain no longer. When she passes us on the street, exhausted and bitter after a day in the kitchen of the failed Mai House, we'll feel a vague gurgle of hatred though we won't be able to recognize its source. Old villains don't die, they fade away. The same could be said for reality television series.

Far from the rage or joy I felt after the finales of seasons 2 and 3 (in that order), when the television blinkered off last night, I was just kind of left let down. The producers of Season 4 have played so fast and loose and brutally with the viewers' emotions, so manipulated our loves and hates, maneuvered so cynically to whisk up drama, and rammed Glaad products and Evian so strongly down our throats that unless Lisa met her untimely end after getting tangled in a Force Flex bag gradually being pumped up with Evian or won, the finale was inevitably going to be anticlimactic. By last night, I'd felt enough in Season 4. Like a dropped transmission, the producers could use as much slow motion and jump cuts as they wanted, but I just couldn't get it in gear. No amount of shots of Padma's loopy mug slurring "It's deshilishsush," or genuine celebrity chefs like kooky Dan Barber nor even the travesty of putting Tim Zagat whose restaurant reviews consist entirely of opinions not his own, on the judging panel could muster up a minyan of feeling.

Watching Season II, I mistook the chefs for real people and had no disbelief to suspend. Watching Season III, I noticed the strings holding up the marionettes but rather liked watching them herky jerk around. But watching Season IV, the house lights were on and the mystery dissipated. It's like a third marriage. All right already. We get it.

Congratulations to Stephanie, shrug. Richard, good luck with the baby. Lisa, rot in hell. Padma, I emailed you so you have my number. Call me if you want to go to Shake Shack or something. I'm saying goodbye to all this. Or at least until Season V.