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.
ReTweeting myself:
–I saw a sign at Holy Foods for “troll-caught albacore.” From under a bridge, I guess.
–If ever a movie cried out for a cocktail to be invented by desperate flacks, it’s “True Grit.” Not “Black Swan,” for Peter Martins’ DWI sake.
–And this really is a superb take by the Daily Show on the San Francisco ban on Happy Meals.
The WSJournal’s take on the quintupling of onion prices in India was typically clueless. The worry was not that the poor can no longer afford an essential ingredient; it was all about the political fallout. As the hed put it, complete with typo: “Indian’s Onions Make Politicians Cry.” And one sentence actually read: “The government has responded as if it were a national emergency.” Onions aren’t exactly freedom fries. As always when food is involved in the Murdoch Crier, though, more questions were raised than answered. The last graf says a Delhi restaurateur is substituting cheaper radishes for onions. If that’s possible, it should be a separate story.
I’m way behind on my book readin’, but a couple of enticing reviews of the new Mastering the Art of Lost Correspondence did finally entice me to pick up my copy. Flipping through quickly, intending to go back and revel at leisure, I was amazed at what first caught my eye. One caption had “traveling in Province,” and another mentioned Curonsky. With so many trained wordsmiths out there, desperate for work for any fee, why would the publisher not run this past one last set of cheap eyes? Or, given the cult of the Child, solicit volunteers?
But the one letter I randomly read almost compensated — Julia ranting in 1953 about our hometown paper: “Such a horrible report of a priest’s speech, supporting McCarthy. The way they say it’s only the left-wingers who are against him. I really read those things and scream from the stomach.” Which sorta describes how the sane feel these days plowing through gushing coverage of today’s wingnuts who think tea comes only in a bag. So to speak.
As I Tweeted on reading about the Minneapolis freelancer who shocked, shocked his editors by asking for freebies in rating bars: Old media apparently expects contributors to turn water into wine. “Zero budget” is kinda limited when it comes to palate experiences. Even funnier, the note to restaurateurs almost exonerated him. There’s a big difference between asking for “complementary” and “complimentary.”
For the same reason, I do like to see how the tables are turning with restaurant guides in the city. Given a choice between the Maroons, with their ballots more like life lists than scientific surveys, and the inflated tire guy, what self-respecting chef wouldn’t go for the professionals? They spend the money to do it right. And for all the alleged change of heart, I still remember Michelin’s debut awards ceremony. Some pretty tough guys were rather weepy that night. . .