gastropoda

Jonathan Waxman gave the best book party since Cesare’s, and the Californian may even have done the Tuscan five better. That was about how many media types I recognized at uncrowded Barbuto, where the wine was copious and the food generous (bacon pizza, lobster tacos, good beef on skewers). I reveled long enough to try it all and also hear the rumor that Panchito is ready to bail once his memoir is published (although a parody of “Ambling Through Idiocy” would be more likely as a best-selling exit strategy), as well as speculation that all publishers need to read anymore is a couple of trend stories to buy a cookbook proposal (anyone say steak twice?) and disappointment that Saveur has sold its soul to GE Profile kitchens in order to morph into Bon Gourmet & Wine (“It’s as if Bentley was advised to start making Fords because everyone else is”). What the party organizers should hear is that culling the herd would be a great new trend in authorial fetes.

Having dutifully ordered my heritage turkey to save a breed by eating one of its own, I was feeling a little shaky on calculating that I had just spent more on one piece of the big meal than what an entire month of PT co-pays would cost me. But then I went to buy milk on Union Square and heard a vendor at the next booth telling a customer, “No, he got the seeds in the divorce.” And I realized my investment was not in vain. Clean food should have real value in a world of bacteria burgers and high-fructose everything. Having gotten a thank-you email from the purveyors, though, I also have a little warning to anyone who might be tempted to sneak off and buy a far cheaper ordinary turkey, no matter how free-range or organic or Wagyu-pampered: It’s a small wattle after all. They know if you are being bad or good. . . .