gastropoda

My consort and I did not go down the heritage path this year for a number of reasons, but we did buy local from our regular guy, which turned out to be a trip. We got to our neighborhood Greenmarket early to pick up our order and were told no 20- to 22-pound bird was available because “they screwed up on the farm.” Apparently the order book had gone missing, so the vendor had only dainty fowl to dispense. But he did have a couple on their way up from Union Square. And so I guess we have to atone a little because our carbon footprint was slightly larger than we’d hoped. Only in New York do you get turkey in a cab. Which sounds like a song.

So I guess I have to acknowledge the big issue, that the hometown paper’s Sunday magazine finally decided to emulate the New Yorker and devote nearly every page to fud. I tried to slog through it, but even for me it was just too much, too close to fetishizing rather than enlightening. Apparently all artisans are young hipsters too constipated to crack a grin. Every CSA experience has to reflect the same arc, from scorn to worship. (I read backward, obviously.) Self-promotion is now acceptable if you include your boss. Etc. Etc. What was most fascinating was that this should have been the fattest issue of all time. Even back when I contributed to the Food column, in those halcyon days when it was more recipes than plodding prose, I knew the only reason it existed in such a “serious” publication was to lure advertisers. This month I think skinny Relish sucked in more. Still, one commercial appeal worked: By the end, I was ready for a shot of Patron.

Too bad the backyard chicken craze was debunked before it really even took off, because I was all primed to pitch a piece railing about it, having grown up with birds so foul my dad and I would eat hot dogs before consuming one freshly whacked. Now I see people are starting to natter about raising your own bacon, which is even more insane. It’s been 32 years, but I can still smell the hog farms I had to cover as a reporter in Iowa. And the tales friends have come home with from Third World shoots would turn you off pork on the hoof, big time. (They involve latrines and snouts, if you must ask.) But if three upper-income Americans do invest in walking tenderloins, I’m sure we’ll be reading about the “trend.” The prosperous are struggling so hard to keep food on their families in this Bushwhacked economy, you know.

I gotta start saving my best lines for my real life here rather than squandering them on Twitter. But I can’t say often enough that if I had to drink only Long Island wines I would have to stop drinking. Not that they’re bad — judging by the sauvignon blancs and rosés I tried at the latest tasting, they are vastly improved from the sweet old days of only chardonnay and merlot out on that spit o’ rich land. But they just are, and have to be, too expensive for what they are. I was glad I trekked to give them another try, though, if only because I saw two things vaut the voyage: A freelance wine writer asking for a wine editor’s autograph (subtle, huh?), and a Japanese taster picking up tasty tidbits provided as palate cleansers and putting them back down again as if swine flu were no problema. Thank the wine allahs for truffle oil. I hope it was strong enough to ward off any germs.

I’ve been cheerleading for eating locally since way before ’vore was a common suffix. But even I suspect maybe the trend is cutting a little too close to the bone when a promotional 100-mile dinner starts serving lamb cheeks. Those pointy little heads cannot possibly have enough meat on them to be worth braising in overpriced New York State merlot. Chefs should be moving from head to tail. And given the trend toward macho gavage, wouldn’t “Bear Mountain oysters” be a more enticing treat?