gastropoda

One of the many old gray legends is how an idiot on the Op-Ed desk once declined an Elie Wiesel piece on the ground that “we don’t need to hear any more about the Holocaust.” He wound up quaffing on the side, so I kinda doubt the editor who got suckered into the indictment of “free-range” pigs is going to suffer anywhere near the ignominy he/she deserves. But I at least hope in his sty of sties he/she does wonder how a piece so contradictory of all things reasonable ever saw print. Given that even the bureaucrats, not to mention the Big O, have already dropped the S word when they talk about flu, the factory farms that create such ecological havoc still rule the roost (not a mixed metaphor when you remember bird flu). But really, why would any legitimate publication ever have printed a rant damning pigs raised the way nature intended them to be? Rather than snidely blogging about a blogger code of ethics, the Chilean Payback Journal might want to take a look at its own rules. Otherwise, next we’ll be reading that industrial spinach is safer than locally grown because the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out of real earth.

You know you’re old when you open up an elaborately packaged package to find a vial of scented salt and can only conjure Dick Morris sucking hooker toes. Is there enough lavender to blow that guy off the national stage and let a new chef reclaim the restaurant’s reputation? Half a pound of butter at a time?

“Journalists” trying to cover the Twitter phenom remind me of the first typosaurs exploring the internets. They need to come back with a story fast, and so they look for the honking neon signs. And miss the story altogether. Sometimes the news is in the food. And sometimes it’s in the brain droppings. I guess I should only be amazed they weren’t snowed by the big snowman who managed all of six Tweets before melting. Meet the old media, same as the old media.

Obviously I’m too taken just with my ability to take photos and type, too, or I would be plunging ahead into the great mashup world of multimedia to make Streep slumgullion. What I wouldn’t give to see Meryl the unmistakable in one crazy clip melding her patently obvious “warbling” Julia voice with her absurd housewife in Iowa kitchen, her “me talk pretty today” role in “Sophie’s Choice,” her dingo howl, her Irish faux brogue, her whatever. Team her up with Ms. Saccharine and we’re sure to feel bad about the Dreck.

This was the ad that went all around the Internets: “Desperately seeking all-around butt girl. Will pay in connections.” Of course, it wasn’t put quite that way, but anyone looking to hitch a wagon to that particular New Drivelist star should know at least one very smart editor rates her “the worst.” With luck, though, she’ll be signed as the “real” writer on the Depression cookbook that has just been signed. Because something tells me that even when we are all cooking only off apple carts, we are not going to want to consult recipes from the bad old days, not when we live in this brave new wondrous world of multi-culti kitchens. Boil unsorted lentils or wrap up a burrito? You be the decider.

I keep thinking ads are the weakest link in the media meltdown — what is a commercial but a middleman in a world where No. 1 people aren’t buying and No. 2 we don’t need no stinking hired minds to tell us what to buy if we were; we have the Internets for that [insert question mark somewhere here]. But then I’ll wind up on Menupages and see ads at their most effective. Call up a menu and get a Tyson Foods “is it stew or is it Fido fare?” banner and you’re certain to proceed straight to either restaurant or takeout. Even better, call up a menu and get Weight Watchers and you are going to order twice as much. Long may they run.

Speaking of ads, I don’t blame Target for one with cascading food products opposite a full-page spread in the Daily News. But I do wonder WTF the editors were thinking, letting milk and a ham sandwich and a box of cereal float like a photo alongside a story headlined “Iraq ambush kills two G.I.s” What will you tell the children? Nut-and, honey?

I gotta start saving my best lines for my real life here rather than squandering them on Twitter. But I can’t say often enough that if I had to drink only Long Island wines I would have to stop drinking. Not that they’re bad — judging by the sauvignon blancs and rosés I tried at the latest tasting, they are vastly improved from the sweet old days of only chardonnay and merlot out on that spit o’ rich land. But they just are, and have to be, too expensive for what they are. I was glad I trekked to give them another try, though, if only because I saw two things vaut the voyage: A freelance wine writer asking for a wine editor’s autograph (subtle, huh?), and a Japanese taster picking up tasty tidbits provided as palate cleansers and putting them back down again as if swine flu were no problema. Thank the wine allahs for truffle oil. I hope it was strong enough to ward off any germs.

Glad to see Panchito is finally exerting some investigative muscle, now that the evil dunce who gave him his nickname has been such a global wrecking ball. Now he wonders if charging for bread might be the Weapon of Mass Profit restaurants need. Leave aside the idiocy of commenters saying Mexican joints give you free chips and salsa (the surest sign of an ambitious kitchen is a charge for cheap fill-ups). I would settle for maybe half of all restaurants actually delivering on the promise of bread plate and butter. I can’t count the number of times our table has been cleared of dirty dishes and silverware along with those untouched accouterments [look it up]. Then again, training staff is probably much more expensive than wasting unserved bread and butter. And a guy who is paid so well a 5 percent salary cut will probably amount to far more than a busboy’s annual wages might not be the best advocate for adding extra charges in a time of belt-tightening. Or as his “The Malls Are Flatlined” compatriot would put it: Chew. On. This.