Apparently the reason the big dogs can’t take home the gold from the Westminster of the food world has morphed. Having been present at the creation of the ban, I can say it was not about any notion of perception of a restaurant trade group. It was about whether taking awards from an organization compromised reporting on an organization that might be compromised. Whatever. The result is the same: A cost-conscious media outlet at least saves megabucks on entry fees every spring.
Archive for the ‘12th street enron’ Category
I was fortunate enough to be locked out of the Internets during all the Enron on 12th Street celebrations, for which I will be eternally grateful. Beforehand I did hear an inneresting tidbit from someone kvetching that the “journalism” categories have been clumped together to the point of even crazier unfairness: With media outlets committed to squeezing every penny out of overstretched hamsters, how many have the resources anymore to pay into the medal-making machinery built on entry fees?
As for Enron on 12th Street, I have to admire the savvy. You want the big fish in the pond, throw the net wide. Hackery should be its own reward, but a Hefty medal will do if you need to draw the circle large enough to encompass those banned from participating because, as was once decreed: It’s like the environmental reporter accepting a reward from the timber industry. Next year look for the best troll award. (Also, too, I started reading the Claiborne bio backward and was rewarded with this nugget: He passed on the “lifetime achievement” ceremony because he was “previously committed.” As in doing a supermarket demo. His nonprofessional life may have been a mess, but he could dodge it like he saw it.)
Finally, I’m trying to train myself to focus over here rather than tossing off 140-ers over to the Twitter. Meantime, here’s a mix of what I merely thought and what I actually sent:
–Feeling like such a loser. Haven’t figured out a way to cash in on Julia’s 100th birthday . . .
–Happy for everyone who was happy to walk away with bling from Enron on 12th Street. But a large part of me feels the way I do when I see some bodega regular collecting a $2 win on 4,220 lottery tickets. . .
–You name a cat “Cinnabun,” don’t expect it to be adopted. Any more than you would a pit bull named Baconator.
–Burgers in the sky? Does no one remember the Eleventh of September?
–Please tell me weaner is not a word. I got that e-release and actually hoped the photo would be of Anthony’s.
–And I see new documents on Hitler’s habits present the best argument yet for carnivorism. Because he was a vegetarian, “he farted constantly.” And kraut will definitely do that more than foie gras.
Are those the best new restaurants or are they the most easily shaken down? And can you really judge a cookbook by its filler (I mean, I’m no fan of the Goopster, but she did hire a good cook to do the important writing: the recipes — and besides, when was the last MFK Pulitzer for a Tin Chef collaborator)? And here’s one way to rake in the dough: Expand your prize categories and charge $100 for every entry — just don’t call it Lotto for bloggers.
I also had to admit to new admiration for the Top Tin among Chefs. For all the Barbaro droppings about kids as critics and cooks these days, he produced the most graphic evidence that they just do not have palates evolved enough to appreciate serious cooking. I have cleaned up similar with my own hands. Cats, of course, are another story.
My biggest fan seemed a bit miffed when I Tweeted that the Beard awards are not the Oscars of food but the Golden Globes. Apparently his great mind had run into the same gutter first. But it struck me on reading all the frothing coverage that the awards would be worth so much more if they were handed out the way the movie Oscars are, by a jury of peers. Instead, you get the industry, the dilettantes, the journalists acting like film critics from furrin countries. Nothing proved my point more than the pen wielder formerly known as Mr. Cutlets jumping into the fray with a “real” story on the awards. He nattered about the NYC winner winning more for her book than her restaurant, then segued into his butt-hurt over not winning for his “journalism.” The FlimFlammer must be so envious. Enron on 12th Street has come up with the perfect scam. Co-opt food writers and they’ll swallow whatever smoke you blow our your ass.
I had torn feelings on seeing a great outlet lose out on an award last week — on the one whisking hand I want the mastermind to rack up every honor imaginable, but on the other I know we’re talking Enron on 12th Street. It’s fool’s gold. And at least @RuthBourdain stayed the hell away from the orgy of self-congratulation, proving him/herself the Stewart/Colbert of the food world in showing “real” journalists everybody knows this is nowhere. In two sentences in the Gray Prison, I never really felt as if I had much impact on the hometown paper, but I did persuade the honchos that cooperating with this Beardshit was all wrong — and who cares if they based their decision on the idea that journalists who cover an industry should not be lauded by it? The important thing is that every year a third-rate newspaper wins is another victory for integrity. As my biggest fan asked: How’s the shrimp?
The food world is gearing up for its annual orgy of self-congratulation, but I guess I’m about as likely to find a Peeps shelter as refuge from the endless dithering about restaurants/books/chefs whose names don’t even ring a dinner bell for me. So I’ll volunteer that changing the location of the announcement of your nominees makes about as much sense as dancing about charcuterie. And that another list of nominees should never have gone out with so many misspellings at a time when copy editors and proofreaders and better are in huger supply than busboys. Coleman? Daries? McMeel? Randon House? Pilgramage? All that spewed, though, I will admit that the idea of a People’s Choice award is smart. It would save the stupid Oscars. And it could be a baby step toward Dancing With the Chefs’ Ghostwriters.
One of the awful truths of the food world is that honey really is more effective than vinegar. Some serious snakes out there know exactly how to play nice to co-opt if not defang critics. Then they can keep on with their snakiness and be assured no one will call them on it. So I got a pretty good laugh seeing how easily the allegedly riled-up counter-”foodies” were led to the Center for the Removal of Rocky Mountain Oysters. A simple ticket to the prom did the trick, and next thing you know they’re profiling a schtick that would not exist if not for the phenomenon they claim to revile. I mean, I had no idea who he even was. But he said some nice things, so he’s a good guy now. Unfortunately, I can’t be too appalled, because I realize I was hesitant to write about a contest proudly judged by someone I met once and liked. First prize was industrial chicken for a year. Second prize, I assume, was two years’ worth?
I guess there’s a video going around of another Texas chef living it up at Enron on 12th Street. I couldn’t bear to watch it, but I do hope the poor guy is not as naive as the last one who came north and believed they liked him, they really liked him. Undoubtedly there’s a Realtor on 21st Street who would happily separate another fool from his million.
Can “I Feel Bad About My Dreck” hustle that movie any harder? Or should the question be: Will there be anyone left to pay to see the thing once the free screenings are exhausted? Countless food bloggers have already been thoroughly co-opted, and food writers with bit parts are doing their swooning part in promoting it, too. But I find it rather amusing that formerly arboreal and other so-called legit media are apparently being asked to keep their reactions to themselves until the official opening (if you can believe one annoyed reporter on the other coast). And I wonder if that all started once the New Yorker got a whiff of turkey.
More proof that you can polish a turd long enough to make a zircon: Every time the latest pizza silliness came up, the number of awards from Enron on 12th Street was trotted out as evidence of the seriousness of the authority tackling the impossible. Consider the source. Friends do let friends self-delude.
I see Enron on 12th Street is throwing up another wall to protect itself from honest scrutiny. Play nice and you might win a prize!
Thanks to my NRN pal, I now know I am somebody. But I disagree on the imperative of obeying the Big Homme: I saw a number of tables sitting empty on at least one side of the room at that amazing lunch. I’ve only been to the place a few times in the 10 years that have just certifiably flown by, but the food this round really was outstanding. As intended, it made me want to head straight for Vancouver that very evening. As for the redesign, the room will always look to me like the swimming pool at San Simeon. But the graciousness on display more than made up for it. Which is why I stayed on my best behavior, even though I did freak a little when the last of my tablemates to be open-seated turned out to be the head of what I heedlessly refer to as Enron on 12th Street. Luckily, she heard only the word “freelance” when she asked what I do and pretty much paid me no mind the rest of the lunch. Nobody is sometimes a very good thing to be.
I assume someone is already at work on the script for the next big wine movie, after “Sideways” and “Bottle Shock.” This one will spin the story of the magazine that followed the Publishers Clearinghouse model: Send money, win big. What I found most fascinating is that Goliath was humbled by a non-MSM David. Mrs. Friend could have nailed this fraud to the international wall if she had been able to use the tools in the new-age arsenal, but it’s fascinating to contemplate why the truth that she couldn’t is both a good and a bad thing. It really isn’t very journalistic to report under false pretenses; there is no way the NYTimes could have or should have let her run a scam. At the same time, though, this insistence on ethics lets an awful lot of Wyle E. Beards get away. If I were the enterprising type, I’d be dreaming up a reality show with a fake restaurateur landing a gig at the Carnegie Hall for chefs. Wait. Isn’t that reality?