Chivalry is not dead: Guy in “unisex” bathroom line at @paowallanyc offered to let me go first. I said no, he’d be quicker. Him: “You assume.” // Chef loses control of a business with his name and it’s just stenographed. Only the Who is answered; the four other Ws go missing. // Parody getting tougher: Consort brought home a menu from Santa Fe from a place serving “artisanal American dim sum.” Not sustainable? // Today in I Heart NY: Told the egg lady at the Tucker Square Greenmarket I had just enough cash left for a dozen & she said I could pay her tomorrow on Columbus if I wanted to keep shopping. // Something about scooping out a litter box every a.m. makes you see fud photos kinda . . . differently.
Archive for the ‘twittchy’ Category
Tumors or cauliflower? And which ones are malignant? // If the menu says Tuscan kale, those leaves had better be crinkly. // Two levels of no-copy-editors-left: Mr. Meyer is not “the chef behind Shake Shack.” // You know what tomatoes are really good in winter? Canned. // Hand pies always sound kinda dirty. // If someone walks into your place and asks “Are you making kimchi?” you’d better hope you are. // Mystery of winemaking: Why Americans would waste vines and time on insipid pinot grigio. #ohiknow // Finally baked a four-month-old buttercup squash. And it tastes grass-fed. Not in a good way, either. // And: We live in the age of $11 carrot appetizers . . .
The most dispiriting cuisine is Sysco-to-table. And you can always tell by the lobster ravioli on the menu. // Now this is an ad (although I wonder what the wingnuts in the trailers who face retirement living on cat food will make of it). // One of those nights to ponder how much better the fud world would be if Chef 1-2-3 had not turned down the gig. #everythingmonster // New rule on booking guests to discuss farmers’ markets: Ask when last s/he went to one. #seasonschange // The biggest file in my crammed office has to be meaningless menus (I have clung to). // Pretty clear that most Americans who say “looks like Calcutta” have never eaten in Kolkata. // Prosecco is the best sparkling water. // A Communion-size pour of rosé should at least come in a spotless glass. // Given that someone once actually died at a boozy event, maybe not reach for a “how to survive” hed? // Consort brought home the first edible Clif bar ever, a freebie handed out in what was once known as Needle Park. Coat a Payday Bar in chocolate and you’re talking brown power. // Why in holy hell would you put cannellini beans in potato salad? For the after-effects? // Do they have National Daiquiri Day in Cuba, or are they spared lobbyists? // Can’t say it enough: An egg is not a chicken. // And it’s probably good thing the media mob never heard AA Gill killed a baboon. . .
If cats had a cocktail, it would be called the Hurlicane. // New rule should not even have to be stated: You cannot go into resto PR unless you know it’s not spelled prefix or pre fixe or price-fixed. // No such thing as an expert in vegan diets. // Even Eve’s stomach had to knot up at the thought of cider-flavored vodka. Drink Calvados, FFS. // Anyone covering inequality should know the price of a lemon. // Can’t count how many people who got paid to trick pinot grigio out for Cinco de Mayo. All need better meds, tho. // 30 years on from Pierre Franey and now you tell us fish is scary? // What kind of asshole insults a customer waiting to pay? A rent-a-cop asshole working for Eataly. // Rillettes are the hot dogs of high-end food — the toasts (buns) never match the meat/fish. // And you never want to look at a slider at a party and want to call @billmarler.
Sorry, no ingredient should ever be described as a chef’s wet dream. // Remember when Guy Fieri in Times Square just shut down in shame when shamed? Yeah. Me, too. #ayernacido // So where are the stories on asp broth? This spring I have tossed out enough spear bottoms to make gallons. // Every spring I joke about starting a contest just so I can collect all the entry fees. I’d clean up faster than a foundation. Award for most crowded: MFK category. // Can’t say this enough: There is no N in restaurateur. // Wonder how much the movie theater pays the guy who sold me the $6.50 sachet of movie popcorn the other night. // Shouldn’t icebox cake come into the 21st century? And be frig cake? (Or would that trigger porn detectors?)
I’m not sure saying someone is “in good spirits” is so wise as a rehab update. // Poundcake is a P word, like potpie. As in, one word. // Is “butcher’s bone broth” made from a butcher’s femur? // Mock hollandaise mocks back. // I have to hand it to the toilet advertiser who approved the “after-dinner ware” hed. // “Grocerant” is language abuse. Unless you’re talking insects in the salad aisle. // More heds like this, pls: “Jail time in salmonella case.” // Time to drink the hemlock: They’re talking kale cocktails. // The Cruz Control I spotted on a Phila cocktail menu really should be made with rum, not tequila. // When you resort to “Say Cheese” as a hed, you’ve officially reached the limits of your imagination.
Ideal implement for cracking Turkish pistachios? MOMA letter opener. // I’m enjoying imagining the Sysco truck traveling the back roads, searching in vain for a resto not supplied locally. // In Pierre Franey we can always trust. // Food photos should never look like an unscooped litter box. Unless you want to be video’d. // Pope sez he wishes he could go out and eat pizza. Fud world wishes it could trash him for doing it wrong. // Kinda shitty for a new Californian to say the magic ingredient in a pasta dish is water when the state has only a year’s supply left . . . // And NYC chefs really need to start smoking butter.
Just learned the best word ever for kids: crotchfruit. ($Palin’s, of course.) // Behind paywall, but WSJ has a good story on Citymeals helping olds with their teeth. Can’t chew, can’t be nourished. // To the point where it’s only noteworthy when Marcus is not in the WSJ. // Whose bright idea was supersizing spice jars? // Surimi is not food. // You cap the K before lime because Key is a place. // Things that are one word: Potpie. Snickerdoodles. // Ridiculousness of the day: “amateur chef.” // New rule: If you have to sniff it, maybe you shouldn’t eat it.
Big week: You can finally throw out the barely touched fresh cranberry sauce from last Thanksgiving. // Wonder if the people at the high-minded farm-reformation forum who are arguing for eating insects pitch their King Arthur flour when it hatches. . . // Pro-tip: Always use 1900 as your birthdate on entering liquor sites. Makes ‘em drink more. // Your wine should never cost more than your turkey. // Note to flacks: If your client is charging for the food, it’s not aperitivo. // Pumpkin in chili is one of the best ideas ever. In anything chocolate? Squanto would retch. // Even ghostwriters have ghostwriters. // It figures a fatal outbreak of listeria would be linked to a company called Wholesome Soy Products. // Probably not a good thing when you can’t tell whether the splotches on the menu are design or grease spots. // Gluten-free gelatin is in the house. Hope no one sensitive learns what it really contains. . . // Tagine = failure?
I’m so old I remember when people complained that soda was cheaper than water. . . // Language debasement continues: “Culinary nutritionist”? The fuck! // Best lemon-tart filling advice ever: “Beat it like it owes you money.” // Spritz or sponsored? You decide. // “Senza Expense Account” would be a helluva wine blog. // Hate it when I cut into an expensive cheese and think I could mop the floor with it. // Trying to figure out why there would be an expiry date on a box of sugar. // Culinary is a long-winded way of saying food. // I can be the food shrink for the holidays: Throw out all the hysterical “advice.” Just marinate your guests. // Two more in head-scratching: a burger described as a delicacy and a tarte Tatin as a confection. // When guests say “I don’t want to make you have to cook,” I hear: “Please fucking don’t.” // Outlaw superlatives and you put fud magazine cover-line writers out of biz. // Was a dentist what invented Halloween, no? // If you love something you should spell it right — it’s La Lunchonette for a very good reason.
Great thing about cooking/baking: No matter how long you do it, you can still fuck up. // Lunches do eat up a day. // Funny how there are so many classes on how to become a food writer. (Pro tip: Type.) Almost none that teach how to make a living by eating. // It’s not lard but the lard comeback story that’s having a comeback. // Hope Ten Speed has hired more monitors for the slush pile — good piece on publisher via @Soumak. //Shouldn’t all chefs be described as hot, unless they’re using microwaves? // Hate it when I flip through a cookbook and hear trees weeping . . . // And w hen do you really know how to cook? When you can do it without a recipe.
Even I sometimes forget ears are different from cobs. // Some cookbooks should be titled “Shoulda Started Yesterday.” // “Nose-to-tail tamales” unfortunately made me conjure pig snout on pig poophole. // 50 shades of Francis Mallmann: “Weeping Lamb” on facing page from “Leg of Lamb on Strings.”// I always hear chiffonade and think chifforobe. // Every time I have a conversation with a farmer this time of year, I have new appreciation of the term “punch-drunk.” // Got my first VD pitch. And we haven’t even gotten to turkey panic. Why not go straight to Return-of-Jeebus chocolate? // Just got another pitch that makes me wonder why no one has declared National Toilet Paper Day. How many lobbyists does it take to proclaim the obvious?
Corn maze always sounds redundant. // I passed a place called “Papa Kebab.” Dad on a stick? // Somebody puked in the Sunday magazine. // Dog “manure”? The streets of Paris must be very well-fertilized. // 2nd-grader in me had to laugh at Photoville: figures someone would cut the cheese in the Leiden exhibit. // If you’re willing to spend 10 bucks on an apple crisp mix, someone needs to take your credit cards away. // After hours of “audience is all,” 2 convos tonight on why NYT recipe database is arrogantly doomed: No interactivity. // Nothing like dinner next to first-daters to remind you it gets better if you aren’t a jackass on initial eating experience. // Not sure karaoke should pop up in a farm-to-table search. Unless lowing is involved. // And if a chef really wants to make “the best smoked salmon,” why start with farmed fish?
“Obligatory Caesar” is redundant. // NYT should put corrections behind a paywall. And run more of ’em. Who wouldn’t pony up to see #Pelacciothirdfromleft? // Scarier than “melts” in cat food? “Single-cell protein.” Coming soon to a label near you. . . // The special K is karma as an editor learns you are not the boss of you. // Phrase I never expected to hear in a Key Food: grass-fed. But I suspect they’ll soon learn to lock up the Urbani. // Hope I was hallucinating. Thought I saw a young guy with Halloween Peeps at Chelsea Fairway. . . // “WTF is that?” should never be your first reaction to a fud foto. // 50 lashes with a salmonella-infected turkey gorgle for anyone sending out Thanksgiving releases right now. // Might not be the best time to boast that TOTG’s chef is a headliner at your event. . . // DQ patrons have $ to cyber-steal? // If bacon needs a national day, water must be dying of attention-thirst. // Saw a coat hanger symbol on a door in a restaurant. Thought it was the ladies’ room. // And: My mise will never be en place.
Never buy the green salsa. // One of those weeks to remember you can die at TOTC and everyone will just move on. #countmeamongthegutless // More gracious women than I will not point out that there was some serious “you didn’t build that” warranted in the fud world lately. // Scoured BizDay looking for its story on the French effort to regulate restaurant food claims. Guess you don’t need three to make a trend now. // Saw “curated” and “crafted” used in the worst way possible: to advertise condos. // “Italian Grandma Salad”? I’m not sure sure about the main ingredient. . . // Always hope the sad souls flogging booze get to tipple before typing. // Just a suggestion, but any Thanksgiving release from here on out should come with a shot of hemlock. // Constantly amazed by NY burger lists that rank feedlot beef so high. #nomadcowinthegrass // Knew nothing about German bread last week. Now learning left and right down to the museum. // “Prochetta,” “prociutto,” “zuccini” and “vinegrette.” In just one release. // Message from Crab Weekend: Sunday Styles pages make the best absorbent for the yellow gunk and picked-clean shells. // Drollest note from an email from a friend advising a neighbor on how to bait an electronic mousetrap: “The peanut butter does not have to be organic.” // Got two $25 gift cards in the mail for one resto. Decided neither was worth subway fare for what Biff described as “if clowns had a cuisine.” (Dream on, Hairy Anus. No one as creative.)