Random phrases stuck in my cranial sieve: Ghostwriters in the meat. If you feed them, they will blog. The Freaking section. Shafer for sheriff. And, in honor of the report finding the underfinanced, overextended FDA could not find shit in spinach if you handed it to it in a bag: Take the sushi. Leave the Chinese dumplings.
If I were the cynical type, I would wonder about the latest flavor of an overly packaged breath mint. In “Juno,” the thoroughly repugnant accidental sperm donor is addicted to the orange, and now the beneficiary of the product placement comes in “Cherry Passion.” This is all teenage virgins need when the only government-sanctioned birth control is denial. Next thing you know SunnyD will be advertising on Clearblue Easy.
With the economy in a low-flow toilet, it’s a little scary to realize advertising is the new housing. Everything seems to be premised on ad dollars anymore, but if there’s no money, who is going to buy what they’re selling? And what does this have to do with the price of food? Things have gotten so bad that twice in two days I spotted huge ads on the tops of pizza boxes — for H&R Block at Freddie & Pepper’s during an emergency refueling and for Tekserve on a delivery on its way up in our elevator. A real Madison Avenue genius would be coming up with apple ads, and not for the computer stuff but to be emblazoned on the fruit soon to be sold on every corner. . . .
My consort and I once ate dinner at a Lower East Side restaurant where the chef was huge, the main courses were gargantuan and the salad was ridiculously dainty. When I spotted the perpetrator, I understood instantly: She had no idea what a normal appetite might be. And guess where she’s consulting today? For a newish service that delivers “diet” meals. I suppose the One Fat Lady was otherwise occupied.
Here’s a budding trend ripe for nipping: The tip jar at Amy’s Bread in the Village is now labeled the “karma cup.” If there are countinghouses in the afterlife, I’m taking another look at reincarnation. But even that Bush-era innovation is not as fucked up as the Chowhound “reviews” posted a couple of doors away on the Murray’s Cheese window. Not only can any establishment cherry-pick favorable ones, but the potential for fraud is unprecedented (check out the first alleged everyman’s swoon over at menupages for a new place with an unfortunate name off Columbus). The one venue where autofellation is actually possible, after all, is the internets. But I guess the faux touts could be dumber: They could have come from Zagat.
Far-flung corners of the food blogosphere have been in a tizzy over the revelation that Jed Huckabee chose the Olive Garden as his dining destination in America’s premier food city. (It says everything that the reporter refused him his first choice, T.G.I.Friday’s — who says the media are not a class apart?) I see it as the most entertaining sign yet that “I Didn’t Inhale Oxford” is gaining traction. After all, a dry drunk was elected as the guy America most wanted to share a beer with. A former fatty who doesn’t know from Per Se may be just the ticket for the cretin crowd.
Literary agents always natter on about wannabe authors needing a “platform” to sell a book proposal. And the shakiest one I’ve come across in a long while is a husband who reviews cookbooks for one of the last newspaper sections standing. The premise is ridiculous, that “home cooks dismiss (steak) as ‘eating out’ food” — someone has to be buying all those scary-cheap slabs of beef in the Food Shitty near me. But the more revealing evidence of how bogus this project looks is the photo in the catalog of what appears to be flank steak (because brisket isn’t a steak, no?) cut straight down like a loaf of bread. My teeth got tired just thinking of chewing a slice. And those exotic lotus roots in another photo definitely send the message that steak, as an entree, is the other cheap meat. I’ve never heard of an author being asked, “Who’s your hubby?” but maybe he actually has the power to make other editors fall in line online. Didn’t it work for Shirley Lord?
Judging by the dustup over a piece by a Murdoch refugee granted asylum at the Taj Sulzberger, bumper stickers on nutrition nazis’ cars should read: Figures lie and liars figure. The dutiful regurgitation of a “study” finding that “healthy eating really does cost more” prompted literally hundreds of comments, some of which actually made sense. A smarter lede would have laid out the truth that “empty calories cost less,” which is no accident given a Congress in thrall to Big Food lobbyists rather than sensitive to small-scale growers. It’s the same kind of sleight of word that made a Coke seem a better nutritional investment than a small cup of Haagen-Dazs at the height of the low-fat insanity, when crazy studies were flying by wildly. The most amusing part was when the verbal scrum turned into an ode to lentils, which Ms. 401K angrily insisted “no one could eat every day.” Tell that to nearly a billion Indians. . . .
At lunch the other day with a food editor friend in from far, far out of town, the conversation naturally turned to mohels (something to do with a rabbi much in demand for his Thanksgiving turkey-carving skills). I had never heard that word but said I was thrilled to learn it because I had been thinking about a little flack who fancies himself a prick but is really only a bris bit. And, wonder of wonders, she immediately knew who I was talking about. If only the memorability quotient were as high with his clients.
I didn’t read the whole book, only a magazine excerpt that was more than enough, but I had to agree with my more conscientious comrade in cynicism about the food world memoir now getting latex glove treatment by countless reviewers. I’ve been on both sides of the desk for decades now, and the awful truth is that even extraordinarily brilliant editors do not always make even halfway-scintillating writers. Words like cozy that would be slashed from lazy writers’ copy tend to get overused, just for starters. But it’s fascinating to watch everyone fall in line with unqualified accolades. It’s a big house. Who wants to get shut out?
In other lapses down by the Taj Sulzberger, a restaurant critic of all people seems to be unaware that shit can happen in a year (or less) in the notoriously volatile world of food. A roundup of chefs’ favorites included one that I seriously doubt is still even in the guy’s mental GPS, a full 14 months after he mentioned it. A certain blog may still be getting kickbacks one way or another, but, as I’ve said, Elvis has left the wine bar.
I got a very small laugh out of Irving Mill proudly listing the redundancy of an “organic egg omelette” on its lunch menu (can you make an omelet without breaking shells?) But neither my consort nor I was amused by the $4.49 travesty we tried from the cathedral at Columbus Circle; this alleged bread was all adjectives and no satisfaction. Ten organic ingredients plus filtered water were followed by “dough conditioners,” and they all added up to nasty gumminess. Usually we let a bad bread die a slow death over a few days out of guilt; this one went straight in the trash. And it made me appreciate the fact that Ray Sokolov, in his report on Google cafeterias, coined a pretty good one with “Wholier-Than-Thou.” PC is becoming a terrible rating for food.
Call me gullible, but every word in the NYT tale of the power people in Washington suddenly shopping at Costco struck me as a lie, including “and” and “Quinn.” Certainly Richard (WMD) Perle has proven his scummy self is a source to be totally trusted. Even if the nonsense were gospel, though, it is impossible to believe anyone so dependent on the public trough and so insulated from the miseries descending on the rest of the country actually feels any pain. The more likely explanation for any trawling for bargains is the one from which said miseries all spring: greed. With luck the cheap salmon and mystery meat will do them all in.
Speaking of not-so-hidden meanings in food photography, it’s just too bad there isn’t a bagnewsnotes for this world. The guy would have an ethanol field day with the former Mme. Rushdie’s new book. She’s using her mouth on the cover, in the first shot inside and of course on an ice cream cone and later a drumstick, while another full-page picture shows her with a bowl positioned over stylistically parted legs and still another has her holding a shrimp as familiarly as a Weinstein’s. Unfortunately, all this model cookery makes too many of the straight-on food photos look like Technicolor yawns backstage at Bryant Park. Reality is not the only bitch.
I don’t know what the actual restaurant count is in New York City anymore, but 15,000 has always been a pretty good ballpark. Which only makes me wonder why a certain pricey little Village cafe inevitably turns up on Grub Street at least once a month whenever the reservation game is played. And also why it is now savvy enough to consistently claim it is “fully booked” to appear hot even when empty. Admittedly, it once was fabulous. But Elvis left the wine bar a long time ago. . . .