Any restaurant review in Harlem really should acknowledge that “the neighborhood” is not what the cliché would have you think. But if you arrive at the next hot spot by commuter car rather than A train or shank’s mare, of course you’ll mourn for all the church ladies shut out of the fried guinea hen.
Archive for the ‘hacktastic’ Category
I almost dropped my SBT slice at Freddy & Peppers on coming across a Laurel for the restaurant reviewer who can’t talk and eat soup. So she’s a heroine for “being immune to Internet hysteria.” Maybe what the judges were really praising is how quickly and voraciously she took to old-media fame whoring. (Also left unexamined: Where Anderson Cooper now gets his scoops and publishers now find their new authors — on that vile series of tubes.) I’m slow, but maybe I’m starting to get it. Anyone/thing print-positive must be deified.
This is turning out to be the lyingest campaign ever, so I shouldn’t be surprised readers were informed that a woman who owns and rides $100,000 horses, and whose husband is worth a quarter of a billion, makes meatloaf. And it’s his favorite! Back in the age of the Fairness Doctrine all the other candidates’ wives would have been able to showcase their bogus recipes, too. I’m sure Mrs. Gingrich III makes a mean tuna casserole. But even she doesn’t bake it in two ovens.