gastropoda

My consort may be too generous for his own good. He came home the other night with a food magazine for me that he had picked up in his new neighborhood, Dumbo. And it’s a nice enough magazine. But it cost $9. Nine. Dollars. For one copy. (If you tried to cook from it, you might have some trouble, too. Ingredients are routinely out of order; the recipe for duck adobo includes no duck in its ingredient list.) My cynical side suspects they con customers into buying it after picking it up thinking it is free, like the Hudson Valley magazine Keith the Garlic Guy gives out. Why else would the price be hidden inside?

Speaking of the inexplicable phenomenon, I happened to be at Union Square while she was there with throngs of cameramen and photographers for the Wednesday market. The weirdest part was that some poor young sucker had to stand there holding up a big sign warning people that just by being in her presence they were surrendering their rights; their images could be used however she chose. But the funny part was stopping for flounder at Blue Moon and hearing the stir over her being nearby and having one of the young salesguys explain to another shopper, “They’re talking about Rachael Ray. Whoever she is.”

Those who heart schadenfreude can take pleasure in the news that Mrs. Fields has filed for bankruptcy, having too greedily engulfed and devoured what my consort calls The Country’s Most Expensive Yogurt. Little Debbi once ruled her world, too, and it’s almost amusing to see what fells the mighty. Laudatory profiles used to tout her shrewdness in choosing to market the hell out of a product whose ingredients were so cheap and could be marked up so greedily. Karma’s a bitch, though. Flour, butter, eggs — these days you’re talking real money.

One acorn has apparently fallen very far from the tree. How could the dad be so smart when the son doesn’t know free-range chickens don’t live on grain? They’re not out there stretching their drumsticks. They’re running around ingesting worms and other grossness. As a James Thurber, this kid makes a good “Moose Murders.”  

As for the wannabe curmudgeon who mistook speckled for regular trout, he apparently retains an astonishing ability to have it both ways — claim bloggers are know-nothings but follow their leads; claim bloggers don’t bug him while shooting off insultingly stupid emails. As a faraway friend (south of the Mason-Dixon) commented, “It’s sad how far he’s fallen.” He did set the bar for kicking while down, though, so I just have to quote that old saying: When you find yourself in a hole, the best thing to do is stop digging. 

An email with “hell has frozen over” in the subject line could not have been a more appropriate arrival in the same week one of the more insightful reviews was published under a byline old gray ladies probably would not recognize. I guess we will not be eating well anymore. Unless we do it at places like The New French, which really struck me both times as being the closest thing New York has to Le Comptoir in Paris. We are living in interesting times with food, and an analytical mind is as good as 40 years of eating for a living. Of course, the same was true 25 years ago this year, but the coven was much nastier and more insular back then. All that said, though, I have to admit I will never forget my first day back at the NYTimes after 15 years of eating for a living on my own. I later learned that Atexian instant messages were bouncing all around the Style department wondering “Who is that?” but only one person stood up, strode over, introduced herself and welcomed me warmly. Obviously she knows there are limitless second acts in American lives. Big fist bump to her.