Dr. Vino over to the Twitter passed along the best oops in a long time: an invite to a lunch showcasing Burgundy “appalachians.” I thought it meant to hint at hiking a certain trail, but he topped me with the potential of a reality show: “The Burgundy Hillbillies.”
My favorite restaurant typo lately: “Curside” service (Willard would not allow). And the stories about how Apple executives met in swankola restaurants to try to destroy competition on e-books made me think the wrong way of spelling one term might actually be right: price-fixed. Also, too, and kind of unrelated, this FB update almost works as a short story: “Claiborne memoir bought in Fort Erie for $4 bears a raised seal, ‘From the library of Felipe Rojas-Lombardi’.” So much food history, so little remembrance . . .
The other upshot of this was the flurryette of emails I got over to the Facebook. One brought up the most “galling” part of the original piece, to which I had to respond that I, too, know better about she who farts in public (or so her friend told me). There be elves in that smoke-filled townhouse.
Some recycling here: In one day I saw “enterance” and “osco bucco” and also Rocco’s food truck, and that last is the fork stuck in that trend: It’s done. Also in my travels around this little island I came across a mention of a “pea soup floater” and would not want to find that even in the litter box. I also see we can just skip Lent — the Easter candy has arrived. I was mostly amused while others were outraged that a nobody made the front page for losing her teevee gig over plagiarized recipes. It’s full circle for Ms. Perfect, from perp to victim. And finally: “Taste bud map of Italy” sounds like a boot in your mouth.
Math was never my strong suit, not least because I barely got out of high school thanks to geometry fail, but even I know one missing letter will spoil the whole message. So whenever I read about the “Buffet rule” for taxes, I envision all 330 million Americans bellying up to the bacteria bar with their accountants — free (cold) cuts for all.
Idle thoughts: I’m guessing Holy Foods bagels are not really “hearth-baked.” Red Waddle would actually be a better name for a heritage breed (especially if we’re talking mandrills). Plus it turns out “a new way to eat a burger” is not with your toes; it involves trying to turn beans into a Reuben sandwich and confusing the headline writer, not to mention the reader. And please alert the Page One editors: A hero may be just a sandwich, but it isn’t made with a bun.
RTing & TweetLongering my note to those sorry flacks who have to compose eye-catching subject lines for e-blasts: Mouth-watering always makes me think of dogs drooling. Are they part of the 12 days of xmas? After geese a-humping?
The National Day of Food is coming, and the flacks are getting desperate. Some of these pitches must be parody. We’re really to be convinced that readers would pass up roast turkey for turkey “cupcakes,” frosted with mashed potatoes and garnished with raisins and cranberries? Trust me: This is no time for novelty. I read that and could only remember one of my favorite Maurizio Cattelan pieces. And the squirrel blowing its brains out in the kitchen could be either the pitchee or the poor soul who had to type that.
I also have to Tweet Longer on the premature exultation that makes this time of year so miserable for a food writer. Bad enough I’m inundated with xmas flackery before we’re even at Gobbler Hysteria Day. But I’m already getting e-releases for VD. Shouldn’t there be a mandated period of candy corn digestion before we have to start going all dark chocolate?
Speaking of infamous, I do not think that word is what was meant in the release for a new cookbook. Unless the author is a member of the Borgia “foodie family.”
Last copy editor out, turn off the spell check: Head cheese means a boss in Wisconsin. Headcheese is American charcuterie. Faro is a lighthouse, farro a grain. And when did eggplant parm go so ’giana?
The food world is gearing up for its annual orgy of self-congratulation, but I guess I’m about as likely to find a Peeps shelter as refuge from the endless dithering about restaurants/books/chefs whose names don’t even ring a dinner bell for me. So I’ll volunteer that changing the location of the announcement of your nominees makes about as much sense as dancing about charcuterie. And that another list of nominees should never have gone out with so many misspellings at a time when copy editors and proofreaders and better are in huger supply than busboys. Coleman? Daries? McMeel? Randon House? Pilgramage? All that spewed, though, I will admit that the idea of a People’s Choice award is smart. It would save the stupid Oscars. And it could be a baby step toward Dancing With the Chefs’ Ghostwriters.
And apparently “hand-prepared” will not be the last word in food language abuse. Or even “kettle-cooked,” to appeal to the real lizard brains. What I just saw was “hand-craved.” Hungry fingers need turkey.