gastropoda

The produce show held in the very “Brazil” setting of the Hilton in Midtown is one of my new favorite events, not least because every time someone at a booth asks me Where you from? and I say I’m a writer, he/she just responds Oh and turns away. Those guys are very definitely there to sell their stuff, not their stories. So I can walk around and stock up on promo pens for the year, taste a few things, take a few photos and generally work in peace. And, in the process, learn that tofu is produce. That Tofurky is even viler than you could ever imagine, let alone describe. That Dustin Hoffman’s character really did miss the megaboat with plastics (individual potatoes and sweet potatoes are inevitably wrapped in it, and now even those synthetic baby carrots are being packaged in individual bagettes, like raisins). That the pros who are slicing and dicing vegetables for nukable sides have even worse knife skills than I do. That the cucumber world is definitely dominated by guys (even the Santa suit I saw was occupied by a zaftig woman). And I absorb all that while wondering why all Vinnies either look or sound alike. And whether I really overheard a cantaloupe promoter, demo-ing three varieties, saying “the Sharon Tates don’t last. . .”

I wrote this over to the Twitter, but it’s amusing to see stories touting the accessibility of Eleven Madison Park’s cookbook that all run the same recipe: the granola. And I did not write this, but the macaron trend is officially past its sell-by date when Sur La Table is hawking ornaments shaped like them. Which would, however, be less cheesy on your pagan tree than the “chef” ornaments in the form of jacketed pigs. Even more WTF was the slinger in the Sunday papers emblazoned “give thanks this Veterans Day — receive these valuable coupons,” for the likes of Hormel and Hungry Man and Duncan Hines. Why not just say: “Support the troops: Buy processed crap”?

ReTweet 3: Why in the name of crap would you want to make your own Velveeta? Spam I could see — it’s apparently the next best thing to the most-written-about “sandwich.” But this recipe would cost more than what the cheese substitute was invented to replace. And when you’re all done you have . . . orange grease. Or solid Olestra.

In a similar artery, my favorite “Food Day” newspaper blog post (it had goddamn better not have been an actual story) was the one offering gruesome recipes from some organization fronting for a dairy marketing group. Nearly every suggestion for healthful, wondrous shit for dinner included cheese/butter/cream/cheese. To which, being Mrs. Sprat, I would have no objection. But can’t newspapers just pull back the curtain and show who’s manipulating minds?

Short answer, given the news on the latest attempt to make nutrition labels easier to understand: No. As long as avocados and pistachios and spinach and other foods straight from the tree/field are not what most Americans are presumed to consume, the subterfuge can continue in the guise of elucidation. Whatever the “Institute of Medicine” might be has the bright idea of giving processed crap labels like the Energy Star ratings, but of course they would only apply to processed crap, which is where all the money is in food. The real answer would be to educate consumers from kindergarten on, to train them to think, but that’s not going to happen in what’s left of my lifetime, although it did back in the last century. One of the best classes my small high school required was General Business, in which we learned everything from how to make change and balance a checkbook to how to analyze the propaganda catapulted at us in advertisements. One assignment required reporting on a single ad on what it both revealed and hid, and I remember one of my choices was the then-new Pop Tarts, which even my relatively poor family had started eating. As I recall, the ads told you nothing except “eat me, be happy!” Imagine that exercise in a school where the vending machines are loaded and the corporate insignias are on everything and you raise money for uniforms by selling . . . processed crap. As always, my big fear is reincarnation.

Finally, my goal is to either get back on Sunday track or start posting every a.m. Because too many objects start to look smaller in my rear-view mirror as time fades away. Like the phenomenon formerly known as Mr. Cutlets’ contrarian take on the demise of Friendly’s and other mediocre ubiquities (ubiquitous mediocrities?) He contends that their going under in a country that was sold urine as trickle-down is a bad thing. I would say this will open up the restaurant world to entrepreneurs again. My new mantra is that food is the future. The last few decades of what I call semi-food, delivered in tractor-trailers everywhere, wiped out the places that dominated the landscape back when the Sterns hit the road, when I lived in Nebraska and Iowa. Too often since St. Ronnie of Alzheimer’s my consort and I would land in some little town late at night and be told by the motelier or B&Bkeeper the only option for dinner was: “There’s a Friendly’s out on the highway.” Real “eateries” once thrived. And could again since Americans are now so conditioned to eating in the mid-level between Taco Bell and “fine dining” that chefs who focus on serving good food at a good price should do well once the marked-up, underpriced processed crap is taken off the table. Of course, it may mean one chain in particular has to go under to show how easy the transformation would be: Pasta costs pennies; any mom & pop can make it here. Any downside to losing Olive Garden?

I hate getting suckered into promotions of processed crap, too, but I was mildly entertained by the notion of taco shells made out of ground-up Doritos. Could there be a better metaphor for America today? And it made me wonder why there are no mashed potatoes made out of ground-up chips. Until I realized we already have those. Many Americans will be serving just that wet-and-eat crap on Thanksgiving.

I’ve written too often about how fascinated I am by the slingers in the weekend papers with those coupons for the most bizarre processed crap. But lately they seem to be glaring evidence of what’s always left out of the unceasing hectoring over fast food versus home cooking: All the junk in the supermarket. Someone’s gotta be buying the boundless frozen Macaroni Grill “lasagnas” and instant potato gratins and “pizza stuffers” and egg-and-sausage biscuits. And it’s really no better than McDeath, which always gets the blame for the great American bloat. Technically, popping open a tube of crescent rolls and wrapping them around hot dogs and processed cheese “food” is home cooking, or at least fixing food. But junk is still junk. And the ads in the food magazines definitely promote it (although even that is better than 92 pages of lawyer listings). How is anyone supposed to get in and out of the supermarket with only canned beans and a bag of rice without being tempted by three days’ worth of calories in a single freezer box? Are you supposed to avoid the near occasion of sin and shop only in farmers’ markets? And I really would like to see a study showing just how the Wall-Eization of America correlates with the introduction of the microwave. Once upon a time you had to wait 45 minutes for instant gratification of the pizza or enchilada variety. Now you can gorge in seconds. And take comfort in knowing obesity is the last taboo. Only your doctor can call you fat.

Which leads me to the most ridiculous brouhaha since, well, the last time food idjits got taken. What fascinated me less than the fact that a bunch of dolts were duped with processed lasagne was how the story progressed, from blogs to the hometown paper and back to blogs again. You’d think no one knew how to get out and report these days. And everyone who jumped up to attack the flacks who did the duping seems to forget that old story, possibly apocryphal, about Winston Churchill asking a woman if she would sleep with him for a million dollars. When she said yes, he asked about doing so for five. She indignantly responded: “What do you think I am?” And he said: “Ma’am, we’ve already established what you are. Now we’re just negotiating the price.” Cynic that I am, I did a little noodling on the Google and turned up no end of bloghos who happily touted that garbage for nothing more than a free sample. The outraged should be glad they got a couple of drinks and a reason to put on their “rig” and get out and mingle. Besides, didn’t Panchito just say this kind of chemicals-and-additive carping is all about class? I’m sure ConAgra just wants to make sure the poors have fud.

Before Al Gore gave us access to all information all the time online, I used to keep a file of clippings on shootings in fast-food joints. I had editors who wanted features on the dangers of that processed crap, and I liked having documentation that some nut with genitalia issues can always do a lot more immediate damage by exercising his Second Amendment right to blast away with an imported Glock simply because his sauce wasn’t special enough. And so I’ll just reTweet myself from the latest slaughter and say the biggest reason for eating well is very basic: You do not want your last meal to be in an IHOP.

Chipotle’s Willie Nelson video is “Our Daily Bread” condensed to mere minutes. But it’s funny how one short is worth a thousand Egopedist textings.

And I guess I have to wade into the melted butter even though my biggest fan (not in the Loudon sense) has defended himself well, and one of the best food bloggers out there crafted a verbal-Astaire response as well. I’ll just say what I did all those years ago when a guy whose strongest credential was having eaten at the McDonald’s near the Spanish Steps was first anointed to pass judgment on an art form that probably means more to the city’s bottom line than even theater: WTF were the bosses thinking? Eric Alterman had a good warning that the worst Chimp enabler ever should “stay the heck away from politics,” but letting him back anywhere near food has just been proven equally embarrassing. What the AA is selling is not cuisine for the noble heartlanders. It’s processed crap, tarted up. (Whored down?) I got an email within hours from a friend in Philadelphia who is not even in the food world saying he spotted at least four egregious overstatements, and of course anyone sentient is still waiting for the correction on whether Les Halles is a very busy bestselling writer/television star’s restaurant 10 years on. Mostly, though, the drivel illustrated how far removed your average op-ed writer is from the red states they all claim to celebrate. The rubes aren’t rubes eating from Applebee’s salad bars. They must understand Liberace is not Fannie Farmer.

I didn’t read it, but I did see a widely disseminated link to a piece on “what not to eat at chain restaurants.” And I’ll admit I’m a total food snob, but I just had to wonder how cretinous Americans have become. Or how out of touch journalists are. People don’t go to the Cheesecake Factory because they want to eat well. They’re thoroughly programmed Americans: They wanna shovel. The whole silly story could be summed up with another budget line, cutting expenses for whichever section assigned the piece: Don’t eat at chain restaurants. Just say no to shit.

And in other nonsense, I wonder if the link-baiters who compile lists of kid-friendly restaurants understand the unintended consequences. I see something like that and make a mental note in ALL CAPS to stay the hell away.

This has to be the most ridiculous product even in a supermarket world that still sells Hamburger Helper when beef is shit-cheap: Tortilla Stuffers. Aren’t those burritos?

And speaking of earth off its axis, I was appalled to come across an ad in a Working Mother that accidentally landed on our doormat. While the Very Serious People are ranting about the risk to future generations from the deficit, the nextest generation is being targeted with Lunchables, easily the most wastefully packaged processed crap in the history of plastic fud. Now, the copywriters boast, they contain “fresh fruit,” in the form of pineapple chunks in sugar water. I’m so old I remember peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in wax paper in a brown bag refolded and used over and over. Now kids generate a 1950s family of nine’s trash in a single “lunch.” But I understand cooking is just so much more difficult these days . . .

Over at my Dr. Jekyll outlet, I’ve already commented on the idiocy of a cake mix company trying to re-target its crap to Food Network followers it thinks might be willing to put in two and a half hours on a dessert from a box. But in retrospect Ms. Hyde started dwelling more on the apparent naiveté of the reporter who brought the marketing campaign into the Timeslight. His last graf noted that Duncan Hines “began attaching his name to food products.” Licensing/franchising, you mean? I believe that’s called selling out.