gastropoda

After reading cyber-commentary on the “Fancy” Food Show, I’m going to revise my notion that anyone trying to cover it is like a blind person describing an elephant. This year it seems the blind took the elephant on a honeymoon to Niagara Falls. Dicks are the New! Big! Thing! Really, you could substitute anything for herbs there and build a report around it (especially with Bangin’ Blueberry “pesto”). What I noticed was that the last day is the best day; the usually hyper pushers in the booths are too fried and stupefied to harass the hell out of you when they see a press badge. Ask what a coolly packaged drink called Twelve is and the beaten woman pouring it will just say: “Twelve.”

Aside from grits in a tube, the things that jumped out at me were seasoned skewers (much easier than buying grillable chicken with flavor) and energy bars for pregnant women (Baby Needs Chocolate? Right. Baby Probably Also Could Use a Stiff Drink Now and Then). The first booth I stopped at was showcasing GOP and Democratic cookies, and when I asked what the difference was, the sheepish vendor could have been describing the general election: Nothing but the package. I decided not to taste until I saw either something new or something weird and went through two whole long aisles before succumbing to Smoky Mango Barbecue Sauce (which was just as awful as it sounds; all it needed was white chocolate).

Other random thoughts: Crab can be really scary (especially when a bite of dip will send you straight to Paula Deen chemical dressing to erase the taste). Cheese will absorb anything: pickles, olives, Thai curry. But the three scariest words on a cheese label are “no refrigeration needed.” Then again, someone thinks the world needs pasta in the shape of the Star of David. And pumpkin pie fudge, too. Bad riesling makes worse ice cream. (Champagne, however, was made to be sorbet.) “Quality is not an option” is a very strange slogan. And could chocolate possibly benefit from being stone-ground? Stone-washed I could see. . .

Given that it was the last day, the celebrities on so many labels were mostly not to be seen, aside from the suspiciously thin orange-freckled arms on a bag of mixed grated cheeses coming soon to supermarkets everywhere. But one ubiquitous big name I did spot signing autographs made me realize a plastic surgeon is not the best friend a famous face can have. Photoshop is much, much kinder.

Might be time for another story on chefs’ blogs now that I have seen my first shlog. I can’t imagine what reason but huckstering there would be for the “so French” Eric Ripert of Andorra to be devoting “his” first two posts to cooking in a toaster oven. By now I should know you can’t believe everything you see on the internets, though. One of the most persistent search strings for Gastropoda is “Bobby Flay bad-mouthing Hellmann’s.” With Rachaelesque rumors like that going around, he should be very careful about his neckwear.

Speaking of the guy in the dress, this recovering Catholic noticed Molto’s partners certainly did a tap dance in basking in publicity while “protecting papal privacy,” with stories published on both the menus and the family wines. Only hints were given of the former, but they did include a mention of the Istrian chef using “local, seasonal vegetables.” I went to Union Square the day of one dinner and came home thrilled to have bought ramps and spinach. If she found asparagus, favas and baby string beans, that’s a miracle bigger than loaves and fishes.

Now that Molto Ego is history at the Food Network, maybe Comedy Central could take him on. Judging by my email inbox, chortling was heard far and wide and hearty after his crack in a very well-done NYT piece that he was off the air because “they don’t need someone who uses polysyllabic words from other languages.” Hmm. I thought crudo was two syllables. Lardo, ditto. And I kinda doubt the problem was using “panino” for “sammy.” Then again, dissing former employers for “going after the Wal-Mart crowd” sounds like the pot calling the Dutch oven orange for a guy whose Nascar cookbook is currently sold out at the big box online. To keep his dignity, he should have just offered to drink a glass of olive oil while showing some cleavage — the promotional airsickness bags that would then be needed could be dispensed instead of three-syllable lasagne at 35,000 feet.

Copy editors’ eyes must be on the stock tables lately, because some pretty amusing oopses have been seeping into print. The NYPost ran recipes side by side calling for egg yokes. The NYObserver identified the photographer who created “My Last Supper” as Meanie (which was especially ironic given what a lovefest with chefs her book party was). The home of the Human Scratch N Match ran a photo of a food book recommended by none of the experts in the accompanying story (one of whom, incidentally, happened to be a restaurateur whose favorites were “written” by celebrities who had had him on their teevee shows). The infallible NYTimes described lattice tops being rolled out for pumpkin pies. The Washpost recipe for Anzac “cookies” (rightfully, biscuits) said they could be stored up to five days — this for a treat designed to be durable enough to be baked and shipped to soldiers and still survive nuclear winter.

And then there was the story in the WSJournal comparing apples and olives — a recipe from Molto for a sausage-stuffed pork loin and a recipe from Thomas Keller for veal breast with polenta cakes, glazed vegetables and sweet garlic — to see which might be less nutritionally dense than a Big Mac. Anyone with rudimentary knowledge of what lurks inside ingredients could tell the caloric deck was pretty much stacked against the fatty cow and assorted accouterments. But the real asleep-at-the-send-button was the description of “the Falstaffian redhead” as “not-quite fat.” Does he have to ride around in a golf cart to qualify? Or is it just that America has defined adiposity downward?

Everyone seems to be mocking Molto for donning silly Santa headgear on the cover of a magazine dubbed Brain Dead by one of our friends who used to work there. I just want to report that I actually saw a woman reading the sucker on the subway, probably the first time that rag has ever been spotted off a newsstand on this island. Obviously it got its money’s worth, but as I pushed out through the turnstile, Roxanne and the red light were echoing in my head. Or was that the red hat?

The elves at Sur La Table must be getting into the eggnog — the celebrity gift sets put together this year to separate fools from money are as mismatched as rum and tonic. Ina’s includes a brownie mix and a mixer to beat the hell out of the batter, while Molto’s actually packages restrained Francaise salt and olive oil with his blustery Italiano cookbook. Yummo’s comes with a crappy knife rather than the can opener “her” approach would require, but I guess the recipient could always use it to kill him/herself on opening this autographed lump of coal.

Guess the bosomy one must not be working out so well as the human Scratch N Match. Her new employer has taken a turn toward testosterone with its “sexiest chefs” contest, and whatever the candidates got for their souls, it cannot be enough to compensate for being labeled “culinary cuties” or “diamond in the roughage” (did one of them shit a gem?) Even Careme, who did everything but jump naked out of a vol-au-vent in his time, must be cringing in his marzipan grave over the hoops chefs have to backflip through for celebrity anymore. Judging by the stud-wannabe photos, next the paper will be making them whip out their salumi to see which one inches circulation up. Maybe Molto can blog it.

This is insult to injury: The space on Columbus long occupied by @SQC now has a big sign announcing what is going in there and in what once was the Silver Palate next door, too. And it’s a Crocs store. A whole huge store selling those hideous shoes. Of course the day after we spotted it, and after my consort wondered how there could be more profit in footwear than food, the papers were full of the news that sales are down, inventories are up and the stock is heading for the toilet. With luck, the stoves are only in storage; maybe they could be back in action soon on a street that could use a few good restaurants far more than an invasion of the Molto clodhoppers.

Clearly I’m spending way too much time online if I spotted a request from a mother for advice on how to dress her 3-year-old daughter, by request, as Molto for Halloween. That kid doesn’t need a costume. She needs a therapist. But I shouldn’t be mean to the orangeman — he’s putting candy in the right aspirant’s bag, unlike another annoyance who is backing that 365-day-a-year Halloween character who is known as Ghouliani in blogville. No wonder people shun his restaurant. Who wants to eat with a tiara shining in their eyes?

Molto Ego makes it sound as if prosciutto producers go all medieval on hogs’ asses. According to a post in that medium he once condemned, the hams are “hanged.” I hope they at least get a fair trial first.

I don’t know why I never noticed this, after 24 years in the business, but something about the idiocy piling up on the series of tubes flashed it into my brain in neon. Food spelled backward is the best reversal since god and dog. And jeebus, does it fit some of the overextended pap producers I read these days (one thanks to this BS detector). Too bad Andy Warhol is not around to reassure us everyone will be blogging for only 15 minutes.

Maybe if Panchito had not been so distracted by towel snaps on the butt we would not have had to wait all these years for Vicente Fox to reveal that the Chimp is afraid of horsies, and the world might have been spared a fraudulent Cowboy in Chief. The detail is not surprising, but just imagine how far Molto Ego would have gotten if anyone thought he was scared of pigs.

The most amusing development since the orgy at Bistro du Vent has to be the news that Molto, after famously dissing bloggers, has become one. Guess it’s true, what he says: Bloggers live by different rules.

The biggest laugh lately was the chef suing Gordon Ramsay because what was shown on his reality show wasn’t real. The second-biggest was the lede W buried in its feature on Gwyneth Paltrow: She’s going to be Molto’s co-host for a series on cooking in Spain. The proud spurner of jamon did name her daughter Apple, so she must have some food cred. But this is PBS, not the Food Network. Julia must be spinning. . . .