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. . .
I’m starting to worry about myself. First a Holy Foods moves in a few short blocks from my kitchen and I’m not just shopping there but pimping it (maybe locating next to the projects caused a reality check, because the value emphasis is huge). Now I’ve been to the Seconda Venuta and am here to say IWGB. The occasion was the Epicurious anniversary soiree — 15 years, which is 9,000 in internet time — and I’m not just saying this just because they pay me, but it was the perfect place and quite a party. The agnolotti were probably better than I’ve ever eaten in Italy, probably because of the sauce, heavy on the burro. We did get the requisite “do you have any allergies/issues” warning from the waitstaff, which, once again, made me wonder if this country has lost its mind. (Nation of whiners — eat, already.) The place itself was jammed when I got there and still busy at 10:30, when I didn’t have much time to look around. Two things in particular made my evening: Molto’s wonderful dad came over to say hi (oh, we go way back). And a courageous reporter came over to tell me she was responsible for the recent entertainment some sloppy food coverage provided. As I told her, I Tweet because I care. Also, too, because things like sitting on “banquets” eating “diced ginger mushrooms” drive me almost nuts enough to forgive cannelloni beans in the competition.
Lately I find myself walking by a certain restaurant on Columbus as often as I can just to check out the goofs on the specials chalkboard on the sidewalk, especially the spelling du jour of “meuniere.” Once it was “muñyer;” another day whoever scrawls apparently gave up and settled for “scallops muni.” The silliest part is that it’s not a French joint. Write Italian, damn it! Still, the confusion is not as embarrassing as a newish faux-retro diner’s overdesigned printed menu, which promises stuff “hot off the girdle.” Should I assume all drinks come fresh from the bra?
All my good stuff gets Twittered away, but I’ll repeat that I was amazed at the e-release I got using culinary as a noun. The stupid word should be banned even as an adjective. And I didn’t Tweet this but have thought about it ever since wasting good credit on lunch at an old favorite: You will never get great fries in an empty restaurant.
Language was a real barrier. Almost no one spoke English, including cabdrivers and waiters. Luckily, the amazing Attaturk made everyone switch from Arabic letters when he force-birthed the republic in 1923, so at least it was relatively easy to decipher signs (the only two words I was sure of after seven days, though, were Bay and Bayan on WCs). And so I shouldn’t laugh that I spotted a hip Mexican restaurant with a sign outside promising “Borderline Cuisine.” Talk about truth in branding.
Because not everyone speaks Twitter, I’ll translate another recycled one. At the Greenmarket on Union Square Saturday, I pointed out a white-haired guy in a sport coat to my consort and said he was an old NYTimes copy editor. “Retired?” Bob asked. And I said: “Aren’t they all?” Next morning I had more evidence, in the obit for the founder of Oldways, which described olive oil as “the principle source of fat” in the Mediterranean diet. This was after a story that lowercased Buffalo wings (when bison fly?). And in one column I found a sentence ending in a preposition, plus “the couple is . . . and have,” not to mention “presumptive” for “presumptuous.” The only consolation is knowing a certain head is also exploding every morning over in the Jersey town where the elite retreat.
Glitch of the week: My Biggest Fan was described somewhere as “a former heroine user.” Guess that means he’s treating superwomen more respectfully these days? And in other silliness, I had to go and notice part of the URL for the public editor at the hometown paper is “pubed.” Given how much they resent him, tell me that’s an accident. . .
With all those buyouts, though, I really do wonder if any copy editors are left down at the glass house of hubris. Not only is Drew described as a chef, but his Sunday special is lowercased as buffalo wings. What state are we in? Good Enough to Eat is called a sandwich shop. Sentences that would not hold up to diagramming wind up in the restaurant review. Then again, maybe the bought-out ones are now writing restaurant menus. My writeme inbox was graced with one mentioning “butter filet of beef” and “farmed Vermont goat cheese,” not to mention “creme fraiche light as a feather.” The killer, though, was “pan flashed” duck. Which I could only assume was the skillet exposing itself to the breast.
Maybe it’s because I grew up with dead deer hanging in the garage to be butchered every fall, but the one lying across my hometown paper the day before turkey struck me as the print equivalent of the annoying PETA “grace.” I guess this is what you’re reduced to when you blow your trimmings wad so close to Halloween. Coulda been worse, though: Imagine Rudolph bleeding out the red nose on December 23. But then I guess the latest wave of buyouts has many staffers in the offices they can’t afford feeling a bit addled (and not in the Middle English way). They’re clarifying brussels sprouts and still can’t get poundcake and potpie right. And what was with the story celebrating the manly man catching his tuna, running so close behind all the end-of-fish hoo-hah? Has everyone married a cousin down there?
More and more, I’m wondering if I’m getting too old for this business. I saw endless references to Le Fooding and just could not give a frying fuck. Vendy Awards? I kinda like food served from establishments with running water in real bathroom sinks. My disinterest in the professional sports of television food is pretty well-documented. And when I read that lamb is the new pork, I felt so bored I went back to torment myself by reading a very un-Timesian piece on how the mayor eats. (If his diet sucks and he’s a hypocrite, stalkers, why run a recipe for his favorite dish?) But then that got my juices flowing again, imagining the antithesis of a pinhead exploding over in Jersey on spotting all the errors. Salt shaker? You could look it up. JG Melon? Publisher’s son got the periods placed right in a front-page story five days earlier. Bronzini? Really, when a wingnut does Italian more correctly, you have a problem. Unless that Staten Island restaurant actually cooks a painter’s whole family.
Typo of the week, from the hole in my computer where all my time goes: Fries cooked in “dick” fat. If only the Twitterer had meant Cheney. That would be the ultimate freedom/French revenge.
If I thought $5 a month would help the hometown paper rehire a few copy editors, I might take its plan to herd the cows back into the barn more seriously. If it’s not egg yoke one day it’s Bunyonesque another — both in ledes. (I shouldn’t say anything about bedbugs being one word, though.) I now find myself reading any food story outside the food pages with particular fascination. And my reward: Wondering what in the hell “confectionery powder” might be on a beignet with “French pressed coffee.” Jeebus, you’d almost think Google was charging for information.