gastropoda

This year Enron on 12th Street should dole out a special award, for most shameless self-promotion in catering to the papal piehole. The spirit-moved one might win for sheer volume; every day the self-congratulation masked as “Benny loves me, this I know” was ramped up worse. But the “devoted”  guy down in DC may have beat her by placing his own piece in the Post recounting all the ways he had brought Prada-red coals to Newcastle — plates specially made in Italy, food just the way the Vatican chef does it. Not only was it silly, it was unseemly. The Pope is not exactly Britney (although, as Bill Maher pointed out, they both have underwear issues). I just wonder which restaurateur got the autographed head shot to hang in the window.

For all my disdain for Enron on 12th Street, I have to say I am impressed that reviewers for the cookbook competition are held to a higher standard than those at a couple of food portals I could name: You wanna say a recipe collection is good or bad, you gotta try at least two recipes. These two have already decided they like the look of the new Citizen Cake cookbook, without ever dusting up the kitchen with flour and cocoa powder, and happily recommend that readers run out and plunk down $35 (oh, wait, that detail is not disclosed). Right now I’m reveling in Kingsley Amis’ “On Drink,” and his take on wine writing applies just as acerbically to cookbook “reviewing:” “You can commit to memory everything Lichine has to say about Gevrey-Chambertin and still have no idea whether you would like the wine. Reading must be combined with as much drinking experience as pocket and liver will allow.” So is it worth trying those chocolate chip cookies I was going to start with before considering the weird shit?